A Question Of Honour

If your girlfriend and your sister are in a fight, who are you supposed to defend?

That’s one of the many questions that went through my mind on Saturday at Houghton Tower’s orchestra and fireworks display. It was the usual affair of music and fireworks and excessive patriotism, dampened only by the dampening effect of the rain leaking through our gazebo. I made the mistake of wearing sandals, and got very cold and wet until I’d drunk a sufficient quantity of white wine that I couldn’t feel the pain any more. My mum managed to run into an ankle-high wooden post and trip over, sustaining no injuries – but when her boyfriend, Andy, ran to aid her, he tripped over the same post and broke a bone in his hand.

The night seemed shorter than usual. The band just seemed to pack up and go home, without even playing the national anthem, as they usually do to finish (we all sang “God Save The Aubergine” as loudly as we could to try to give them the hint, but all we achieved was the infuriation of some nearby flag-wavers). Nonetheless, the music and the fireworks were great.

We’re back in town now, but we’re likely to be away again towards the tail end of my week. My gran, who was taken into hospital last week, has now been diagnosed with an advanced lung cancer which has spread to her liver: nobody’s yet said how long they expect her to live, but we’re probably looking at a number of weeks that can be counted on your fingers… less, if she continues to insist that the hospital are trying to kill her and refusing medication. My mum’s going up there mid-week and we’re hoping to join her by the weekend, all other things permitting. Apologies to the Troma Night folks, again.