Sir Perceval Of Pumpkins

We always leave it too late. Every single year. October 29th, October 30th, I, like Manchester’s answer to Sir Perceval, trawling fruitlessly around all of the local stores on a vain last minute pumpkin quest.

Not this time, I thought. October 28th. Not too soon for them to go rotten, not too late for them to sell out.

Leave it to me this year, dear family of mine, Halloween is safe in my hands.

(And no, it’s not that I have giant hands.)

My Son Slowly Killing Me (Holiday Update #2)

My Fitness app blew up. We had been walking that much it stopped counting my steps and went into meltdown. Sun cream was running into my eyes, stinging as they were as I squinted against the sun.

I convinced him that it was time, after hours walking around Blackpool in the heat, to head back to the B&B for a shower.

Cold shower done, it was bliss to lounge on the bed in the shade.

“Dad, can we go on the beach now with the football?”

I silently sighed in exasperation.

“Why don’t we take a break for a bit first? We don’t have to do everything at once. We’ve still got three days here.”

“Please. I want to go into the sea while you take shots at me.”

I mentioned the sun, how it might be cooler and safer in a few hours, but he broke down all my walls. So off we went, sun cream back on, into the oppressive heat. It was a million degrees.

There wasn’t much relief in the sea breeze, either, and as he waded in there a few feet I began launching the football at him beneath the sledgehammer sun.

The only thing off-putting to him were the jellyfish, they were washing up everywhere on the sand. It wasn’t enough for him to call it a day, though. Maybe he felt challenged by the two younger kids (they sounded Australian) who were scooping them up and throwing them back into the water.

And then came was Divine Intervention.

The next day was the first of the annual Blackpool Airshow, with the Red Arrows, Spitfires and all others expected to attract a further 100,000 people to the holiday resort. While we were stood there, he up to his waist in the sea, me wilting on the beach, two low-flying jets came screaming in above us. Maybe they were coming in early for tomorrow’s show, or the pilot’s were familiarising themselves with the route they were due to take.

“What are those?” he shouted in alarm, looking upwards.

“Quick!” I said, taking the opportunity, “we have to get back to the B&B. It’s the Russians!”

We returned later, just before sundown.