Stronger, but slower

After my recent incident I'm happy to say that the past couple of months have been more 'normal'. 

Despite the setback, when I consider how I felt last summer I count myself lucky. I was getting weaker and weaker, more depressed, and without much spark. That's hopefully behind me now although it has been quite a slow process.

The next stage is getting back on the bike and it's what I've been looking forward to. My expectations have been higher than my abilities at the moment. Foolishly I thought I'd get on the bike and be not far off where I was prior to stopping riding. Oh no!

My legs are like lead especially when I hit a slope. I've got no top end at the minute. Hopefully I'll get a bit faster but at the minute it's a bit of a grind. Quite depressing when I compare my Stravas with last year, or with those of cycling friends. But if the choice is between being slower and still doing something I love then it's no choice.

But I'd like to get faster....

Not again

I was due to have a meeting with my cardiologist on Tuesday. This seemed superfluous as I was feeling great. I'd just finished my cardio rehab with a flourish - running and pushing it the hardest I'd done until then. Everything was good.

The day beforehand I started getting some chest pain. It didn't worry me unduly as I often get some mild irritation. However, it persisted after I went to bed and started getting worse. The pain became so worrying that I felt I had to call for an ambulance. It was the first time I'd done this since my first chest incident more than a year ago.

An ambulance came and took me to hospital for a check up - ECG, blood tests, chest x-ray. They're very thorough, and also very busy. I was there for nearly 12 hours.

The good news is that they didn't find anything. The worrying thing is that something happened and nobody seems to know what it might be.

One guess is that it could be the stents settling in but that's all it seems to be - a guess. It could possibly just be anxiety as there doesn't seem to be underlying weakness in my heart. The tests were all great.

Today I'm back home and it feels like nothing has happened, like it was a dream. I feel fine.

Hopefully it was just a blip brought on by something - feeling a bit under par, alcohol (not v much your honour but could it be a factor), something I ate or when I ate (I'm clutching here), the ever present anxiety? Who knows?

I had been all set to restart cycling this weekend. Maybe I still will do but there's now a slight hesitation. Should I just push through it? 

One other observation, and this can't be said enough. The care at my hospital was exemplary. Yes, I had to wait a while but they were exceptionally busy - they'd already diverted to another hospital that evening so I was lucky to get in. 

Despite this the people who dealt with me - paramedics, nurses, junior doctors, x-ray staff - were upbeat, patient and professional. I counted about a dozen people who crossed my path and no one dropped the ball. They are under huge pressure but stay on top of their game. 

Could it be better? Of course, but we should never take it for granted how good the service is.

One step forward

I'm nearing the end of my gym rehab period. This week was the fifth of six.

It hasn't been too taxing for me. I have reasonable underlying fitness and am relatively young compared to some in the class.

The sessions focus on cardio exercise - bike, treadmill, cross trainer - with some standing exercises and resistance work with weights and bands.

Perhaps I pushed it a bit harder this week but it left me slightly sore in the chest, which has upped my anxiety again. I feel like I've over exerted something despite not working at anything near what I would once have considered full gas.

The physio is keen for me to exercise outside of the class, as am I, but this has left me concerned about where I am. I mentioned intermittent chest soreness to the cardiac nurse but she seemed unconcerned as I've had three stents and seemed to think this was normal.

I've got a meeting with the cardiologist in a couple of weeks after being referred by my doctor the last time I saw him over this. I had been thinking that I'd be wasting his time but now, hooray, I have a genuine issue.

I'm being facetious, but I do swing from being wildly optimistic about my physical capabilities, to being convinced I can do very little.

The truth, as ever, is probably in the middle somewhere, but I don't know how close I am to finding out where, or what it means for me. 

In the gym

I've been nervous about exercising since 'the procedure'. Actually, since well before then as various medical people scared the bejeezus out of me. Then afterwards, things didn't seem to settle down for a bit and I was newly frit.

Chatting with a cardio nurse afterwards it is as mentioned that a cardio rehab programme might help rebuild my confidence. After a walking test - which is exactly it sounds - I was booked on to a six-week course. Today was the second one.

In some ways, I feel a bit of a fraud as the others in the group seem to have undergone more major ops, are older, or in worse shape than me (or all three).

I was chatting to one guy, who looked like an old Essex biker, early 60s, who had a double bypass and was telling me how he started 'leaking' from his chest wound on a post-op holiday flight. 

He actually looked in decent nick considering what he'd had done, and said he had been pumping weights before coming to the class, and wanted to get back to work as he was bored.

The others in the group are quite a nice bunch too. They all seem a lot less anxious about things than I am and there's an element of gallows humour about the situation.

During last week's session I took it pretty easy. Maybe a bit too much. This week the physio had me on my own and said he wanted me to work a bit harder.

We were doing a circuit of bike, walking machine, steps, and one of those ski machines, with some resistance and squats in between.

I was by no means flat out but it was the hardest I've worked for a while, and thankfully nothing went pop.

This is what made me feel slightly fraudulent. The class is quite hard to get on I'm told as there are lots of people (mainly men) with heart conditions. As I was powering away on the machines, I was wondering if the others thought I was taking the piss. Especially as I had running leggings on - honestly, they were all I could find clean. Most of my workout gear is for cycling. I haven't been to a gym in years. 

However, it has been really helpful to be in a situation where I can restart exercise and feel safe. That's definitely been worthwhile for me. Is it an appropriate use of NHS resources? I hope so. I'd quite like to have decent cardio health going forwards and exercise is an important part of that.

Having said that, I may not do all 6 weeks as I don't think I'll need them. I'm champing at the bit to get back on my bike, but sod's law I've picked up another injury.

I slipped on ice about three weeks ago and have injured my wrist. It was getting better but an exploratory gravel ride on Sunday seems to have rattled it again making it a bit painful at the moment. Maybe a road ride this weekend would be okay - not as much vibration through the wrist?

At any rate, I'm feeling good today.

Ups and downs

The past week hasn't been great. I experienced some stabbing chest pains last week, which morphed into more general soreness - like a bruise - and then became a third sort of pain that I might describe as like cramp.

That's a very inexact description and illustrates one of the problems of illness - getting across what's going on. It doesn't help that often by the time you see a clinician - as I did in Tuesday - the symptoms may have gone for a bit and you struggle to explain them. At times like this I end up being semi-apologetic, as if I'm wasting Doc's time.

It has been a bit depressing though as until a week ago I really thought I was back on the road to 'normal'. I guess it's not the most direct route.

On Monday I had been talking to an NHS trainer who left me feeling as if I was practically ready to do le Tour but by the following day I was in more despairing mode. Something doesn't feel right but is it just in my head? 

Having treatment hasn't been the panacea I thought it would be. I don't feel well but maybe this is as good as it gets going forward. 

The doc has put me forward for another cardio appointment which is hopeful. The aftercare hasn't been brilliant if I'm honest - maybe I'm expecting too much for what is quite a commonplace day procedure. 

It has really heightened my awareness of my body in a not very healthy way. Every creak or spasm or ache is a sign of imminent doom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake in the morning - I am aware how overdramatic that sounds.

It must be literally all over my face. I was out for a walk yesterday and encountered a couple of slightly oiled chaps wending their way down St John's Street from the 'Spoons.

As they passed I heard one call after me "Geezer! Geezer!" This came two or three times and despite the urge to ignore it and walk on I turned expecting to hear some nonsense.

He had what looked like genuine concern on his face. 

"Geezer. You alright mate?"

I nodded in the affirmative and gave him the thumbs up.

"You sure?"

Blimey! You tell me.

Better, not best

I've passed the four week anniversary since  my stent. Actually, it turns out I had three balloons in me during my stent procedure. That's what the cardio nurse told me during a call about a week ago during which she decoded some of the discharge notes. That was really useful as I wasn't entirely sure what had happened to me. She also gave me some guidance on dos and don'ts and answered some questions I had on certain issues (sex - if you manage two flights of stairs you're okay. Booze - stick to the 14 units limit. Exercise - listen to your body).

The last one is the most vague. I feel a lot better than I did pre-stent when I was getting tired walking to the local shop, and did turn back once. Now, there is a literal spring in my step, but I haven't done anything more strenuous and have not been on my bike for months. The nurse insisted that I shouldn't be doing nothing, which I feel I have been for a while.

The cardiologist told me that after four weeks I could return to normal activities, so that's next on the card. There is the possibility that I could do some cardio rehab courses, although I think I'll be on a waiting list for them. In all probability I'll be cycling before then but I would like the reassurance of  somebody giving me the once over to see what I can safely manage.

On one side I'm nervous, but on the other I'm champing at the bit to get on with life again. The past year has been one of missed, or untaken opportunities because I haven't felt up to doing things or convinced myself I shouldn't be doing them. Now I want to catch up.

Our fragility was brought home to me this week when I heard some awful news about a friend - one of those terrible things that brings your own experience into perspective. Relatively speaking, what has happened to me has been small potatoes. It has scared me but it has also made me think I shouldn't waste the chance it has given me. 

I've been very lucky.

A week later

I had my appointment at the Heart Centre last Thursday and was pretty anxious. Cut to the chase - it actually turned out pretty well.

The big question was how my arteries looked. One was pretty definitely furred up but after testing another two with a pressure wire (no, me neither) the cardiologist decided they weren't too bad. The good news was that meant I wouldn't need a bypass and could proceed straight to stenting.

I was also anxious about this. The procedure happens while you're awake and the mere thought of somebody poking away in there was quite triggering.

As it happened, it was relatively untraumatic. I didn't feel much at all, which for a physical coward like me was a great relief. It was completed in just over an hour.

The result was almost instantaneously noticeable. I felt less tight chested and close to euphoric in some ways. It was such a weight off my shoulders that I was getting a bit ahead of myself.

This week has been a bit of a leveller. I have felt some intermittent pressure/pain/discomfort/anxiety. I'm telling myself that's perhaps to be expected - it has only been a week and I have had a fairly major intervention. Baby steps.

I've been told that within four weeks I can get back to normal - whatever that means. 

I already feel a lot better than I did in the months leading up to the procedure, but still not best. However, I'll take this so far. 

I've waited for a while to feel better. I can wait a bit longer.

The long way down

It's disconcerting how quickly things change.

Just under a year ago I thought my health was pretty good for a man my age. A clichéd late forties rediscovery of cycling had blossomed into a love affair with all things two-wheeled in recent years  

I'd bought a decent bike and found some similarly interested guys who have turned into ride buddies. Nothing too serious - compared with some - but great fun and great for health.

Without really trying I've found my fitness levels as high as they've possibly ever been, felt unwanted pounds slip off my frame, and noticed my wellbeing improve. All while doing something I really love - getting out on my bike, pedalling the lovely lanes of Essex and Suffolk, and finding lovely parts of the surrounding area to boot.

Just under a year ago I woke in the night with a racing heart and felt something flash across my chest. My dad died of heart problems at 44 so in some ways I'd been expecting this for years.

I ended up in A&E that night where I was checked out but given the all clear and sent home. I hadn't had a heart attack, which was what I'd feared but something clearly wasn't right.

The months since have been a slow movement through the NHS system - something that is increasingly picking up pace. 

Back in May I was told that I had severe coronary artery disease and I'm now on a journey towards some sort of treatment. What that will be depends on the result of a test that is coming up in a few weeks. In the meantime I'm taking a lot of pills to manage the situation.

I'm not sure whether it's the pills, the condition, or what's in my head but it's astonishing how downhill I've gone in a few months.

The only exercise I feel confident doing is a sedate walk, and some days I don't feel that I can go very far. 

My chest feels tight, I feel anxious a lot, and generally feel crap most of the time. 

I don't sleep well and I'm constantly worried about my heart. 

I don't feel confident doing anything that raises my heart rate - and I mean anything!

I feel like I'm taking a backseat on family life as there is so much I don't feel able to do, or just don't see any point in. Joy has been sucked out of large areas of my life.

If I'd have known the change that would come over me back in December when I left A&E, I would have been completely crushed. As it is, this overall state of affairs has crept up on me somewhat, which may be a blessing in some ways.

The next couple of weeks could reveal a lot and could be the start of things getting better. That's what I should try to think but it's hard.

There's a side of me that doesn't want to get too hopeful. There may be no quick fix and what if what's being proposed doesn't work, or doesn't work as I'd hoped? 

For a glass half empty person like me, this isn't a great position to be in. (Strictly speaking, the glass is usually completely empty at the minute as I've forsworn most drinking. That'll show them!).

It's the cycling that's been one of toughest things though. As I wrote on here in one of my infrequent rambles, when you find something you love late in life you almost start to mourn it because it has an inbuilt shelf life. That shelf life is now closer than I thought.

Cycling in lockdown

Here's an interesting state of affairs. The Prime Minister of the UK, Boris Johnson is feeling some heat at the moment. Not for his maladroit handing of the pandemic or Brexit, but because he decided to go for a bike ride at the weekend.

On the face of it this is because he did so at some distance from his home - seven miles to be exact - in the Olympic Park in East London. This at a time when COVID-19 is racing through Britain and we are being urged to stay at home to limit contacts with others.

There are a few exceptions to this guidance, one of which is exercise, which you are permitted to take once a day. Of course, being Britain, it's never that simple. Guidelines talk about staying local and the government's definition of this is 'your village, town or part of a city where you live' according to British Cycling.

The issue for many cyclists is that they probably have a more expanded view of 'local' than that. Firstly, you can get quite a long way in a relatively short amount of time on a bike - it's one of the delights of cycling. You can also take yourself away to quieter country lanes where there is less pollution, fewer irate drivers  up your backside, and fewer people to bump into generally. It's therefore healthier, which is sort of the point of exercise.

But, again, nothing is that straightforward in Britain. Johnson's outing on his bike creates a problem for the rightwing, bike-hating, car-worshipping media of this country. They love Johnson's Brexity ways and his colourful turn of phrase, but can't he just ditch the bike?

To be fair to Johnson, who I have little time for, he has fought the corner for cyclists. He has ridden a bike in London for years, despite the ridicule that comes with it. He appointed a cycling Tsar to improve cycling infrastructure in the capital. His government has spoken of the importance of active travel, including cycling, since the pandemic, and has backed up this talk with funds.

However, his cheerleaders in the press - Hitchens, Littlejohn, Clarkson, Coren, the usual suspects - are casual in their abuse of people on bikes. The grumpy old men (it's always men) 'other' cyclists, relying on stereotypes about Lycra, midlife crises, more money than sense, highway code avoidance, and non-Road Tax payment (yes, I know it doesn't exist).

I've never quite understood the depth of hatred focused on bikes by some people. For a certain segment of society there is nothing more infuriating than a fitter middled-aged man (as they usually are) on a bike passing a fatter middle-aged man in a car. It's not even ridicule, which wouldn't bother me. I don't care that you think I look stupid in a contour hugging outfit. Laugh your teeth out - I'm off for a ride.

The abuse of the commentariat seems to imply that anyone on a bike is a slightly left of centre/liberal type a la Jon Snow or Jeremy Vine. Either that or a self-centred, arrogant, and abusive bell-end who things rules don't apply to them. Cycling is a shibboleth - a sign that cyclists are different from everyone else.

Or maybe right wingers just can't comprehend how anyone who has the wherewithal wouldn't just drive everywhere. Margaret Thatcher thought anyone who used public transport was a loser - similar mindset. 

There's an interesting comparison to be made here with another sport - one of the few that you can still do during lockdown. And that's angling. While we're reaching for stereotypes, I'd hazard a guess that the typical fisherman (they're mostly men, right?) is a working class, conservative with a small 'c', car driver. I'd also hazard a guess that a reason angling is still allowed is because it's a relatively easy sop to the kind of working class votes that Tories are anxious to keep in former Red Wall seats for example.

But here's a thing. I've got no beef with anglers, but my guess is that most of them don't live within walking distance of a fishing hole, so they will probably drive there, which when it comes to holier than thou screeching about the iniquities of lockdown, 'drives' some folk up the wall. Will there be outraged columns in the Mail, Times and Telegraph about how anglers are taking the piss (as there inevitably will be about cyclists - they're in the post)? What do you think?

On the issue of 'what's local?' police minister, and former Mayor Johnson sidekick, Kit Malthouse, has apparently okayed rides of 70 miles if you can do it. That's probably a bit more than I'll be doing at this stage in lockdown, but it shows he has an awareness of what a good ride is - he must have learned from his boss. There are plenty of serious cyclists who can manage those sorts of distances, and who can mend punctures and mechanicals, or find their way home if they don't.

It's worth remembering what this is about. Exercise is 'a good thing', particularly cardiovascular exercise. There were concerns during the first lockdown about people delaying contacting doctors over heart attacks and cancer - two of the biggest killers, and ones which we won't be able to wish away with a vaccine. Life has to go on, albeit within new constraints for the moment, and we have to bear in mind longer term health concerns among the population.

It would be a shame if Boris Johnson's ongoing enthusiasm for two-wheeled transport harmed the thing he loves. Think about that on your next Covid-secure pedal, and ride safely.

Not cancelled

Christmas was always going to be different for me this year - the first without my mum. As it happens, it will be different for all of us. The new variant of the coronavirus has led the government to slap restrictions on large parts of the country that were not expected. People were already facing the awkwardness and anguish of choosing what households they would be allowed to meet over the sanctioned five-day period. Now those decisions have been taken out of our hands. Some are allowed to meet no one outside of their own household. The lucky ones can meet one other household on Christmas day. I say lucky, but it's a privilege that wasn't extended to the followers of other religions this year. Muslims, Jews and others have had to have lockdown celebrations, sometimes at very short notice. We've been given a bit of notice at least. It's easier for me in that I don't care so much for Christmas. Since my dad died, I've associated it with sadness. For years it was just my mum, sister and me who were thrown together on the 25th. Mum did her best to try and make things nice, but I don't think any of our hearts were in it. I always preferred the days either side of Christmas Day when I could meet friends, get drunk and forget about things. It changed when my sister and I had families of our own. The focus on children allows those of us who are not spiritual to find a purpose in Christmas beyond providing a massive drive for the retail sector. Young kids in particular get giddy with excitement in a way that I can barely recall. It's quite intoxicating and something I shall probably miss when my two become as lackadaisical about Christmas as I am. My wife is the complete opposite of me in her regard for Yuletide. She absolutely adores it, and the pleasure she takes has softened me somewhat and helped me appreciate it a bit more. She has a large, close and loving family who enjoy a get together, especially this one. As such, she has been hit harder by the doors slamming shut on the traditional loosen your stays festive blowout. So this year it's just the four of us, with possibly a friend popping round later on Christmas Day. We will, of course, have our Zoom contacts, which will be something. An interesting aspect of the pandemic is how it has affected communication. We were all in danger of slipping into non-verbal means of staying in touch - texts, Facebook comments, enojis, thumbs up, kudos... Nobody says what they mean any more - we're too busy trying to present our best lives. Not being able to meet face to face for a good deal of the year has perhaps made us appreciate the value of talking to others. Sometimes, as I've sat through stilted Zooms, it has felt like we're relearning how to speak to each other as we're forced to interact in real time, read facial expressions and interpret body language. There's an awkwardness and frailty to our conversations that we can't hide. Everyone has shed a skin. So this Christmas isn't cancelled. It's just different. For some, that will be a good thing, while others will find it tough. Like many things this year, it will make us reassess the normal and everyday, including how we celebrate and how we show our appreciation for other. I don't think we'll be having Christmas in summer, once we've all had the jab, as some are promising. If this year has taught me anything it's that sometimes you make a decision and move on. We cant live our lives looking backwards to see what we might have done differently. Enjoy the Christmas you can, and don't mourn what you can't have.

All this

It's now more than 100 days since lockdown. We may be starting to come out of the other end, or we may simply be experiencing a lull before the next wave. It's been, and continues to be, a strange time. We know it's happening - of course we do, the impact is all around in lives suspended, routines disrupted, and anxieties rising.
And yet, in some ways it's a bit of a phoney war for us. We don't know anyone closely who has been affected. I'm thankful for that. My tank of coping is still running on low after mum passed. This part of the country has not been as hard hit as some, despite the proximity to London. Infection rates and mortality is relatively low. We seem to be on top of it, for now.
But life has changed. The restrictions on us, and warnings are likely to stay in place for a while. The internal hesitancy may last even longer. When will we feel comfortable shaking hands with people again? What about hugging, or kissing? I catch myself watching TV images of behaviour that a few months ago was unexceptional, and bridling at the riskiness of it. And I don't consider myself to be especially subdued by this pandemic. What must it be like for others? As lockdown eases, and support for the most sheltered ends, it will be tough for some people to trust society again.
It hasn't all be terrible though. Family time has been great, and although work has ebbed, the measures that the government has brought in have helped my personally - it would be churlish to say otherwise. Not everyone has been caught by the safety net, but who'd have thought a Tory government would go so far? Strange days indeed.
I've been thankful for the reduction in options in some ways. Naturally indecisive, closing off choices hasn't been terrible for me. I'm happy to be guided in a particular direction at the moment.
Everyone has experienced this their own way. In some ways I've felt slightly apart from it because my focus was elsewhere for so much of it. Losing mum has affected me in ways I didn't anticipate. I've had feelings of guilt that I wasn't there for her as much as I might have been; feelings of loss - probably more than I expected; moments of  anguish as I pondered my own mortality, and... just sadness.
I've been drinking more than I should be and telling myself that it's okay. It's a coping mechanism. And that I can stop when I like, although I wonder. Are there things I'm not addressing?
We're moving on but there's still a fog.

Goodbye

Like many people at the minute, my sister and I had to arrange a funeral in very strained circumstances. It's never an easy thing, I guess - I've never had to do it before. When my dad died, we were both quite young - I had just turned 15 and my sister was 12 - and it was out of our hands.
I've been to enough funerals though to know the form, and currently there are many restrictions in place. We couldn't use the chapel. It was a graveside service, with a limit to the number of people in attendance, which meant my sister and me, plus immediate family. We couldn't even have floral tributes as florists aren't open. No hugging to comfort each other, and at the end we would head off back to our own lockdowns again.
It doesn't sound like much of a send off, does it?
Be that as it may, the stripped down affair on the day was quite touching.
If there can be such a thing as lovely weather for a funeral, then this was it. Sunlit blue skies untroubled by anything but a few fluffy clouds.
I drove to the funeral with my eldest son, who is 12. During the drive we chatted about what to expect. The only funerals he has been to before were when he was a baby. I said that I'd probably be upset, as would his aunt, and that he might be too, and that was alright. But it was alright if he didn't feel like crying - there's no one way to feel at a funeral.
I'd asked if he would read something on the day, and he agreed. We chose a poem suggested by the celebrant - She is Gone, by David Harkins. I asked him because I thought he could do it. He's very composed for his age. I hope he didn't feel pressured to do it, and I told him that if it came to it, and he didn't feel able, then he didn't have to read it.
With little traffic on the road we arrived in the town of Leighton Buzzard with about half an hour to spare, so we sat in a lay by for a bit. No cafes for a cuppa. The we drove to the cemetery where mum was to join dad.
My sister was already there with her partner and youngest son. So was the celebrant, who I had previously spoken to on the phone. We spoke briefly and anxiously to each other, but there was little time to say much to each other before the hearse arrived carrying mum's small coffin.
We followed the car into the cemetery to the strains of The Corries' Loch Lomond playing gently in the background. James, the celebrant, was a very comforting presence and led us gently through a simple service to remember mum. I said some words, getting through it relatively well until near the end when I choked. My son was next to do his reading and I'm immensely proud that was able to carry it out - he grew that day. It was also great to have him as my support - I don't know how I would have got through it without having someone to hug.
At the end of the service, my sister distributed some floral tributes that she had made, with pictures of mum with various family members and friends, and we dropped them into the grave on her coffin.
It was over relatively quickly, and with no hugs beyond the bounds of our two little groups, we went home.
It was simple, and that's what my mum liked, so it was a fitting service for her, even if it wasn't what we'd have chosen ordinarily. In some ways, the simplicity helped us deal with the day better. I think I'd have struggled to face all the family and friends on the day - it's such an emotional tidal wave. People want to pay their respects and offer their condolences, of course they do, and as someone who is grieving, you have to accept their wishes, but every one revives the upset you feel. It's a long and trying day.
This was more manageable for both me and my sister I suspect. We've spoken to family and friends before the day, and had lots of very touching messages, and that was plenty, to be honest. We'll see these people again at some point, and we'll probably cry with some of them individually.
We'll all remember her.

Mum

My mum, Jane, passed away on Friday 20th March. It's convention at times like this to say of the deceased something like, "They would do anything for anybody," or, "They never had a bad word to say about anyone."
Anybody who says this about my mum obviously never knew her very well.
She was fiercely loyal to family and friends, but woe betide anyone who got on her wrong side. She would never forget and could harbour an Olympic sized grudge, something she's passed on to me. Thanks mum.
She was a fierce woman, and a fighter. She had to be.
The youngest daughter in a family of 12, she had to battle for attention and a place at the dining table from when she was wee.
She had to share a bedroom with her five sisters when she was young, gradually getting more room as they left to get married one by one.
As a working woman she also had to raise two children while her husband, John, had to work ever changing shift patterns that left the burden of the care on her.
When my dad died, she had to raise two troublesome and troubled teenagers who didn't appreciate how hard it was for her. They say that you don't know how challenging it is to be a parent, let alone a single parent, until you have to do it yourself. Her lessons in tough love came back to me when I became a dad, albeit tempered by my wife's more relaxed approach to parenting.
The grandchildren were her payback and the best thing my sister and I were ever able to do for her. After probably despairing that either of us would ever start a family, she had a rapid fire introduction to grandparenting with four boisterous boys in the space of six years. Be careful what you wish for.
Did she spoil them? What do you think?
Becoming a grandparent softened her a bit and gave her a new purpose. She moved to Buckingham to be nearer my sister and consequently my nephews saw a lot more of her than my two. I know that my sister is eternally grateful for her help with the boys.
She was a regular feature in their lives with presents, going on holiday with us, and knitting some beautiful items for all of them. Love in every stitch.
Two years ago everything changed when she had a cancer diagnosis. This was a big shock for us all, and the treatment was hard on her. She was incredibly brave in going through the rounds of chemotherapy that she did, but it was brutal. She withstood it with a grimace and a grin, never wanting to make a fuss about it. That was her motto - "Don't make a fuss."
The treatment gave us an extra two years with her, and I'll always be grateful for that, but they were hard won years. She was more frail and less inclined to venture outside. The woman who had always been proudly self reliant spent more and more time perched in front of the telly, her once neat and tidy little house becoming slowly more dusty. She still always looked immaculate in her personal appearance. I guess that was as much as she could manage towards the end.
We talked about getting help for her, but apart from a brief period when she was undergoing chemo, she was stubbornly resistant to the idea of anyone - apart from my wonderful sister - coming in to help her. Even at the end, when she was incredibly weak, she knew what she didn't want, and made the case forcefully.
And in the end, she was in hospital where she was looked after with great kindness by staff who were facing an overwhelming demand as the Covid 19 crisis mounted. They took the time to cajole her to try to eat, and would get a smile out of Jane.
That's my abiding memory of her - smiling and chuckling at a joke she made the last time I saw her. Inevitably it was at somebody else's expense. Oh well. you can't break the habit of a lifetime.
I suppose we have to count ourselves lucky that she passed in her sleep and without great pain. We're not so lucky that her funeral will have to take place in such a trying period. Over the past few days I've heard from lots of friends and family who would be with us on the day, in normal circumstances. But these are nothing like normal circumstances, and it will be a very small gathering at her graveside, where she will finally join my dad, the love of her life.
It's sometimes hard to think of your parents as loving things as we do. My mum was quite an emotionally guarded person, but I know that she loved life. She loved her family, she loved her friends, she loved to knit, she loved to chat, and she loved a scurrilous piece of gossip.
I read once that as your parents get older, the best thing that you can do is tell them you love them as often as you can. I hope that message got through to mum, because we loved her very much and we will all miss her enormously.

Lie in it

"Pushing through the market square,
So many mothers sighing
News had just come over,
We had five years left to cry in..."
I suspect that bookies will soon be paying out on Liverpool's first Premiership win and first top flight league win in 29 years. The Reds are currently eight points clear of their nearest contenders, Leicester, and 14 ahead of the next team, Man City.
The figures of how far the Tories are in front of Labour in election polls are less definitive - anything from a generous 6% up to a embarrassing 15% or more. For some time, there has been no talk of a Labour victory as the largest party, let alone a majority. That prize seems the Tories to lose. Having cocked up so spectacularly in 2017, it seems unlikely that they won't emerge without a majority on Friday morning.
I'd love to be proved wrong, but I'm sticking to my inkling that 2017 will prove to be the high water mark for Corbyn, if not Corbyism. The magic has been noticeably missing this time round, despite a manifesto chock full of goodies. Nobody can complain that they're not being given a meaningful choice this time round with full-fat socialism versus an anemic Tory promise of jam tomorrow if they can just finish the Brexit thingy. 
I don't know much about how things will play out over the next few years, but I will predict that this will be a Sisyphean task. We'll be stuck in a seemingly never-ending round of discussions, treaties, detail, and our two old friends dither and delay. If we ever push the boulder to the vaunted uplands they'll not be as sun-drenched as we'd imagined them, if we can actually remember what we imagined this very heaven would be like.
Of course, that's not what the Tories will say. The mop-headed lying machine will strain his 2:1 classic degree to sugarcoat this turd of a future as the best thing since sliced cake - had and eaten by him and his chums. British people will shrug and try to forget that this glorious independence day resulted in such meagre fare for them.
Brexit will prove to be a Pyrrhic victory I expect, and will still never be enough for Farage (remember him?) and his ilk. However, his guns will finally be spiked. Exhausted and confused Brits (English really) will no longer care if "they're not doing Brexit right!" Like getting to Marbella and finding the glorious brochure images of the hotel don't match the building site they encounter, they'll moan a bit and then go off to get pissed, and sing songs about the wars, World Cup, and Brexit they won. There will be a football song linking this trilogy of achievements soon enough. 
Bitter? Of course I am. I still don't see a believable upside to all of this for me and mine. There will be winners, but probably not among the 99%. It's all been so unnecessary... but, we are where we are.
And what of Labour? 
It seems inevitable that Corbyn will step down after Friday - possibly more quickly than some anticipate. He'll have presided over two electoral defeats, and while 2017 gave supporters reasons to be cheerful, this time will feel like a monstrous kick in the balls, no less so for being anticipated, unlike Cameron's surprise majority in 2015. Doesn't that seem like a lifetime ago?
It's not hard to see that Labour could spend the next two or three years being completely ineffective as a political force - insert your own joke here. There will have to be soul searching, although with the NEC and shadow cabinet stuffed full of Corbyn allies, it's hard to imagine a return to a more broad-based Labour offering. 
Maybe Corbyn was just the wrong frontman all along. His monstering has been appalling, but it goes with the territory for Labour leaders and he hasn't helped himself at times. Could someone else have done a better job? We'll never know, but someone else will have to do a better job in future. I hold no high hopes for a revival in 2024 if that's as long as we have to wait for the next election. Until then, Neil Kinnock's 'I warn you...' speech comes to mind again. 
To Johnson will fall the massive task of uniting this fractured nation. No surprise that I doubt the chilled out entertainer will be up to the task. I'm not even thinking of the precious, precious Union. He doesn't care much about that. I'm thinking of the deep, post-war France fractures that will exist in our society for a long time. 
"What side were you on daddy?"
"The right one... and don't speak to those bastards across the road!"
Five more years to think about it.
"We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that's all we've got..."

Infirm

A strange thought popped into my head a few days ago - I wish I had started cycling 10 years earlier.
It's not that I think that extra ten years would have helped me to become a better/faster/stronger cyclist, although it probably would. It's just that when you find something you enjoy at my age, there's a mental date at which you can already see when you won't be able to do it any more. I'm mourning something that hopefully is a long way off yet - that's a bit mad isn't it?
This pessimism has been exacerbated no doubt by a recurrence of a knee problem that seems to flair up every now and then. It's a swelling that prevents my leg from having its full range of flexibility, strength or stability.
Particularly galling this time is the fact that it has just popped up with no apparent reason. In the past, it has been traced to overdoing exercise, or doing exercise badly, or a twist of some sort. This time, I could feel a slight swelling and knew it was coming on, but couldn't think what the cause was.
For the past week this has resulted in me hobbling about in various states of discomfort and pain just wishing it would go away. It has trashed my bike riding plans, including one off road event last Sunday that I was really looking forward to.
At roughly the same time, I've developed an ache in my right arm which makes it feel weaker when called on to lift something. At this age, we tend to joke all the time about 'falling to bits', but it's starting to feel like that to me.
But should it?
At the weekend, I bumped into an old neighbour who I haven't seen for a couple of years since he moved from our street. During the usual exchange of pleasantries, I mentioned my leg and he spoke about problems he had before going on to reveal that he was in remission from cancer. He actually looked very well, and was incredibly positive about things, telling me he was planning a walk across Scotland as a fundraiser and celebration of his health.
Another friend has been beset with health problems recently, yet seems to take things in his stride. He is remarkably upbeat about his various ailments and impending procedures. Why can't I be more like that, rather that being so catastrophic about things?
When I was younger and dafter, I used to make declarative statements about how I would give a year of my life to be able to play guitar like folk-rock guitar hero Richard Thompson. (Obviously, if I was that bothered, I could have practised harder, got some lessons, or applied myself a bit more. However, that wouldn't have had the same grandstanding effect for my attention-seeking younger self.)
That seems fairly asinine now (In my 20s, I also used to claim that by the time I was 30 I'd have stopped drinking. I'll let you guess how well that's going.) If I was prepared to give up any portion of my life now - and I'd rather not thanks - then it would be for a slightly nobler, although in some ways, equally selfish end, such as for my family, especially my children.
Of course, even in these troubled times we live in a reasonably safe and stable society where we're not required to make heroic sacrifices. We're better placed to help those we love by doing the dull and predictable - bringing home the bacon, helping children with their homework, teaching them to be decent human beings.
That's the more important stuff, and something that my growing array of minor inconveniences hopefully won't stop me from achieving. I hope to be around for a while yet, even if it's in a less functional capacity. I'm off to the physio this afternoon.
A better bike would definitely help though.

'78 and all that

With World Cup 2018 underway, thoughts of Scots turn to other years ending in 8. France 1998 was the last time we qualified for a major tournament, and 1978 was the year of the Argentina tournament.

Champions: it could have happened!

BBC has just broadcast a documentary, Scotland 78: A Love Story, looking back at the year Scotland was the sole team to qualify from the British Isles, and when the whole country became convinced that we were all set to win the tournament. The past is indeed a different country.
As a nostalgic, you'd expect me to be delighted to return to that interesting time in our history. However, like many Scots, I still bear the scars, and I was only 11 at the time. I've been putting off watching it, until the first day of the World Cup when I cracked.
The story goes that the Scottish team came under the spell of a charismatic manager Ally MacLeod, who led the team to qualification, and then seemed to preside over a period of national hysteria where expectation built to such an extent that many were convinced that Scotland simply had to turn up in Buenos Aires on 25 June 1978 to collect the trophy.

King Kenny: celebrates scoring in 1977

Maybe I'm trying to exculpate myself from that delusion, but I can't remember being so convinced that it would be so simple. My first memory of Scotland playing was the 5-1 drubbing by England in the Home Nations championships in 1975. The elders in my village thought that would be 'Easy!' too. These were the same guys who would save their money to make the bi-annual pilgrimage to Wembley for the match against England, to routinely swamp the stadium with Lions Rampant, Saltires and tartan to the extent that we used to call it Spot the Englishman.
Practically every village in Western Scotland used to send a bus down, terrifying the locals with their numbers, their incomprehensible language and drunken antics. They'd return a few days after the game finished, skint and ruddy faced, already planning the next trip.
These jolly boys outings were obviously only partly about the football. They were largely about getting away from the everyday with your mates and getting pished... in England.

Fan-tastic: even Rod got in on the Wembley mischief

So maybe the idea of going to Argentina didn't seem as daft as it was presented in the documentary. Yes, it was over the other side of the world, but Scottish fans were used to travelling overseas - Lisbon in 1967, and the rioting Rangers fans in Barcelona in 1972 to name just two examples of Scottish cultural exchange.
One idea that wasn't really explored in the documentary was how the Scots led themselves to be hypnotised by MacLeod, because that's the narrative. I suspect that his cardinal sin was to tell people what they wanted to hear. Scots bought into that storyline wholeheartedly, as did the whole of Britain actually. There didn't seem to be a lot of critical thinking.
Of course, money was a big part of it. Although the endorsement ads look cheesy now, it was early days for that sort of thing, and both the FA and the players were probably filling their boots to an unexpected degree. Who would want to rain on the parade and say "Of course, we might not win."
I had a piece of merchandise that my dad got for me. It was a pint jug - the perfect gift for a Scottish 11 year old - which had the team badge and the signatures of all of the players on it. I was so naive that for ages I thought they had actually signed it, not realising the wonders of promotional printing.
And what a team that was. In some ways Ally MacLeod did have reason to have a level of confidence - Buchan, McQueen, Rioch. Dalglish, Jordan, Souness, Macari, Rough, Hartford, Gemmill... That wasn't a bad selection.
I watched the first match against Peru at a Scout camp in Hamilton. The leaders had set up a telly in a marquee. It must have be tiny - there were no projection screens in those days. Truth be told I can't remember much about the game apart from the overwhelming level of disappointment at the 3-1 result. Did I watch the Iran game? I doubt it.
Ditto the Holland match, although we all remember Gemmill's wonder goal, which, in convincing the most one-eyed fans that we could have won the tournament, is up there with the 1967 'real world champions' myth of Scottish football.

Super Gemmill: lest we forget (chance!)

One particularly unedifying aspect of the tournament was the treatment of Willie Johnston, who was sent home for failing a drugs test. In these days of TUEs and the number of top athletes who seem to be asthmatic, his expulsion for an over the counter hay fever remedy seems harsh, but not as harsh as the way the blazers of the FA threw him under the bus. It seems crazy that the team doctors didn't know what players were taking or have processes in place, but was in line with the general amateur nature of the overall affair - not so much different from my village's bus trips to Wembley in truth.
Scotland '78 makes the point that the whole affair, with its echoes of the Darien expedition, dented the national psyche to such an extent that the country didn't vote in sufficient numbers for independence in 1979. The fact is that there was a majority who voted yes, but the government of the day dictated that it was such an important vote that there should be a threshold - something that sticks in the craw of nationalists to this day.
Would but there have been such a threshold for Brexit - an equally important vote.
As it is Argentina in 1978 probably gave Scots a sharp lesson in the dangers of national exceptionalism - something that England has still to learn given Brexit. Scotland was changing fast, as the pictures of dreary, graffitied tenements indicate. Twelve years later, Glasgow was the Smiles Better European City of Culture. I remember visiting it around that time, years after I'd last been as a child, on one of the occasional trips to the Barras, when the tenements were being pulled down and the sight of poor people selling their belongings on the pavement made it seem like another world to an impressionable child. At this later date, the cleaned up sandstone buildings seemed magnificent, the museums were engaging and exciting, and people had a swagger.
By the Nineties Scottish pride and confidence was based on things other than our football team: history, art, architecture, the landscape, the education system, and the people. And it wasn't an unquestioning pride, as the most recent independence referendum result shows. I'd venture that people realise that as a small nation, Scotland's place in the world will be tied to other larger entities. They just can't decide which they will be.
Beside the online sledging, the level of debate about the country's future was genuinely soul searching because of that. People realised that there are no easy solutions and choices have consequences, something that again seems lost on the Brexiteers.
Maybe that's something we should thank Ally McLeod for.

Snow days

Sledging: traditional British winter activity

It's day three in the ice bound house. The snow started on Tuesday and schools across Essex, and the country, were closed the following morning. It's been like that since then. There have been the usual moans that we're a country that falls apart at the first sign of a bit of snow, and why can't we be more like Switzerland/Norway/Germany... anywhere but here.
To be fair to the school first of all, this is the first time in more than six years that bad weather has closed it. I'm sure things will be back to normal on Monday - we're expecting a bit of a thaw from tomorrow. Then this little break will be filed under cultural enrichment.
So, what have we been up to?

What we've done

Tattie soup: with sprouts

• Went sledging, obviously. That's twice in one winter my £10 purchase has been used - more than we've managed in the past five years, and we're heading out again today I hope.
• Made cakes and biscuits.
• Composed a space opera. Number one son took the opportunity to work out a rather dystopian sounding piece on his keyboard. The weather made it seem even more ominous.
• Made potato heads for World Book Day. Sadly these haven't been taken to school - don't know if Harry Potato-er and Dumbledore will make it through the weekend.
• Fed the birds.
• Made soup.
• Cleared snow from my the neighbour's steps (polishing my halo as we speak).
• Rearranged the office slightly - CDs now in the next room.
• Read books.
• Worried about global warming, but less about Trump.
• Got new cyclocross wheels on my new (to me) cross bike.

Snow tree: actually from earlier in 2018

What we haven't done

• Ridden our bikes.
• Panic bought anything.
• Made a snow man - it's the wrong kind of snow. Too powdery.
• Seen many people.
• Driven the car?
• Thought as much about Brexit.
• I haven't done much work, as I haven't had any, so I should probably add 'Worried about lack of work' to the first list.
• Been proactive.

What we could have done

• Been proactive.
• More craft activities.
• Played board games - not sure why we haven't done more of this. The kids have actually been very good at entertaining themselves (that's my get out clause anyway). Their games tend to be mind-bogglingly complex, especially if the eldest is in charge (i.e. all the time), and being a bear of little brain, it's probably best that I excuse myself.
• The 1,000-piece Minion jigsaw puzzle that the younger one won in a story writing competition last year (I'll just drop that humblebrag in there as a bit of catch up on what's been happening of late).
• Demanded that school reopens, or started up some home schooling activities :)
• We could have been out more. I gladly cleared the neighbour's steps yesterday as I was getting cabin fever.

Winterval: Abbey Fields Colchester

What have we learned

• Snow days pass very slowly.
• Being freelancers, we're lucky we didn't have to go anywhere.
• After initial mad forays into the snow, the kids are quite apathetic about it. Yesterday they didn't get out of their pyjamas.
• Not all snow is equal. The powdery stuff won't even hold a snowball. It is very beautiful however.
• That it doesn't really matter. This little three-day event will soon be a memory - hopefully a pleasant one.
• Local Budgens doesn't sell logs beyond about late February. We could have done with some of late - there's nothing like a real fire when it's cold outside.
• The house is a lot warmer than the first couple of winters we were in here, thanks to better insulation. Back then we were wearing hats in bed and waking up with cold noses.

Are we really rubbish at doing winter? Were we better at it in the past? I don't know really. Generally we have better cars, better clothing and better communications. People are by and large kind and help each other out at times like this. We sort of know what we should do, although we don't always do it - much like life generally. 

It's starting to melt.

Tracks: cat I think

The finer point

Television: on the turntable

After the initial excitement of repatriating my record collection to my house and wiring up the turntable, there was a bit of an anticlimax. Listening to a selection of discs it became apparent that they didn't sound that great. Never mind what Neil Young says, it wasn't a patch on CD quality. It sounded fuzzy, muted and just rubbish really.

The Feelies: they've reformed

I put this down to a few things: the crap quality of the vinyl that a lot of the discs were made of (the Eighties/Nineties was the end of days for vinyl and some albums and 12 inches were practically flexidiscs); the decrepitude of my equipment (sorry dad, but the Sansui and B&W speakers are past pensionable), and the ancient stylus on the turntable.
The last one was the thing that I could do something about. The stylus had never been changed - shrugs shoulders - but who changes them anyway? I can't remember any of my mates thinking it was a big deal back in the day, despite the fact that record shops and chains like Woollies and Boots usually had a cabinet of them. Most of us had crap music systems that we assumed we'd better one day, so styluses were fairly far down our priority list. I didn't even know how to change one.
However, with my little trip into the musical past, I was prepared to give it a go, otherwise there didn't seem much point having the vinyl if it couldn't be played. Can you even still buy them?

Fugazi: turned me upside down

Well, yes you can and it wasn't very hard to track down a replacement for the Sansui FR-D25 turntable. The new stylus was £18 and turned up within two days with an anti static cloth that I added to my order.
After consulting Dr YouTube to find out how to change a stylus, I was in business, and my oh my, what a difference it makes. The old stylus must have been as blunt as a very blunt thing.

Drake: mellow classic

Suddenly I get it. I'm hearing stuff on records like Surfer Rosa, Marquee Moon and Five Leaves Left that I can't remember hearing before. Perhaps there's an element of overcompensation and I'm hearing what I want to hear, but I can't deny that it's great to listen to these discs anew on the format they were recorded for. Even the crackle and blips are endearing - I've got a fair few pre-loved albums, including the aforementioned Television and Nick Drake disc, and they still sound great.
Whether there is really a sound difference, or I'm just enjoying a trip down memory lane, I don't know, and frankly I don't care. I'm not going to repurchase a lot of this stuff on CD, and listening on streaming services like Spotify or even YouTube starts to get a bit like the musical equivalent of fast food. It is flat and invariably you're listening through less that optimum equipment.

UFO: Schenker's on fire

There's also the appreciation of the album sleeves, which I'm posting to Instagram as I work my way through the collection. That £18 could be one of the best investments I've made.

The Tough of the Track

Two wheels good

My eldest has been going to a grasstrack racing group this summer, run by a great local cycling club, Colchester Rovers.
Grasstrack - I had no idea either - is exactly what it sounds like. Kids race around a grass track on fixed wheel cycles, which the club provides if you don't have one, which we don't.
It has been great fun and really plays to his competitive side, which is becoming more apparent as he gets older. In recent weeks he's been doing quite well, especially as some of the more established youngsters have been racing for longer and have a bit more track nous, as well as more gear.
There is a little league table and he's been pleased to have been near the top. On Monday night we went and I had to remind him to change out of his school kit into something more sporty. "Why? It doesn't matter," he protested, but changed anyway.
It was probably just as well, as he won two of his three races and now sits at the top of the league table. If he'd done it in school shorts, it might have looked like he was taking the Michael.
It was the nearest I've got to a real Alf Tupper moment, even if he didn't turn up eating fish and chips. He run 'em all!

Crackle and hum

I visited my mum at the weekend and after years of promising, I finally took my vinyl record collection from her garage. It has been there for about nine years, and before that, it had been in my old bedroom since 1988 when I came home from university. Soon after that, the CD age kicked in, and although I moved house fairly regularly in my post-college days, the 12 inchers stayed put.They were played very infrequently after that, locked away in a cupboard in my minuscule room. When mum moved house, I had to box them up and she was kind enough to take them with her. Although I had my own flat in Hackney by then, it wasn't huge, and I didn't have a record deck to play them. They could easily have gone the way of my huge collection of music 'inkies' - Sounds, NME and Kerrang magazines that I would buy avidly in the teens, twenties, and thirties. These were given away after I discovered that their value - huge to me - was not appreciated by anybody else.I was obsessed with music, like many people of my age. There are so many more passions and pastimes for kids these days, or so it seems. Maybe it's just that my two are a bit young to have got the bug yet. I didn't really start to get into music until I was about 12 and moved to England. 

For me, heavy metal was my entry point. Not very cool, I know, although more so now that it ever was when I was a youth. However, it opened up a peer group for me. I was even briefly in a hard rock band with some school friends - initially as timing challenged drummer, and then as singer, the job that no one ever wanted.

After that my tastes broadened quite a bit, and so did my purchasing habits. I noticed that some of the older guys who I admired didn't feel the need to stick to just the one genre, so although I didn't ditch my love of the hard stuff, it wasn't the only thing that interested me.
Albums were relatively hard to get hold of until I got my first jobs - newspaper rounds, milk rounds, cleaning jobs, and the big break, a summer holiday working in the local bread factory. I felt like a millionaire taking home nearly £200 a week (sounds a fortune, but I doubt you'd get away with doing the hours I had to, these days).
With cash in my pocket and albums at £4-5 a pop, my collection quickly built up. I'd listen to them on my dad's old separates system or a small unit in my bedroom, making mixtapes for friends and people I wanted to impress with my catholic tastes.
Our local record shop, Buzzard Records, was a chart return shop, so there was always a stack of cheap singles and 12 inchers to be had as sales guys dropped off loads of free copies to try and hype tracks into the charts. Consequently, I've got a whole subgenre of singles by no-hit wonders who nevertheless produced great little pop moments.
I was obsessed by vinyl at that time in my life. I even took my growing record collection to university with me. It seemed inconceivable that I would leave it behind. Your music collection spoke volumes about the kind of person you were, or so I thought. I remember reading somebody saying that they'd go to parties and if the person didn't have a copy of Psychocandy in their collection, then they'd leave.
I wouldn't go that far, and I do have a copy of the Jesus and Mary Chain's first album.
Anyway, I've opened up a the first carton of albums - T-Z, of course it's alphabetised. There's quite a lot of Throwing Muses and Tom Waits, a forgotten diamond by One the Juggler (hang on, that's not T-Z - my filing system has been compromised), Tracey Thorn's lovely first solo album, and a red vinyl copy of an album by former Gillan guitarist Bernie Torme, who I was obsessed with for ages (I once sat listening to the top 40 convincing myself during the countdown to the new number one, that it must actually be him, as his latest single hadn't been played. Of course, it hadn't made the top 75, nevermind the 40).
As well as the six crates of records, I brought back my dad's old Sansui record deck, which still works, although the stylus may be a bit worn. Either that, or the records are just scratched to bits. Maybe after years of listening to pristine CD quality sound, the background crackle is more obvious than it was back in the day. I think we lived through the era of crap vinyl anyway. It was noticeable when you bought an older record. The original copy of Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left I picked up from the record shop on Camden Lock bridge (what was that called?) was move satisfyingly solid than many of the records I subsequently bought new, including the Drake compilation, Heaven in a Wild Flower, that got me into him while I was at university.
At the moment, I feel like the Howard Carter of music, going through the crate and plopping stuff on to the deck. Twenty minutes of music - the length of one side of an album kids - also seems so much more civilised than the interminable tyranny of the unedited CD. We thought it was great to get more value for your money, but really it seemed to encourage a lack of editorial quality control. A side of an album passes very quickly, forcing you to refocus every 20 minutes on what to listen to next.
After a long break from the vinyl, it seems quite hip to be listening to slabs of plastic played with a needle. The vinyl revival is now a big thing, although I can't see myself being sucked back into buying it. This is a little holiday in the past.
The last vinyl record I think I bought was Oasis's (What's the Story) Morning Glory? I got it 22 years ago at a release party at Virgin Records where the band played some numbers, and I got it signed by Noel and the drummer (sorry fella, I can't remember your name). As such, it was more of an artefact, especially as I had nothing to play it on. My then girlfriend bought the CD which was what we played.
It might be in one of those unopened boxes, although I've a feeling it may have been lost when we moved house as I think I kept that particular item close for a while.
Never mind (an album I don't have on vinyl). There are still plenty of memories to dig out.