Summer is over.

View from our home for the last three weeks.
Traverse City, USA.

I write this from Gate M11, Terminal 5, Chicago O'Hare Airport. I am about to board an overnight flight to London. We've just had an excellent day in the company of Pauly, Dan, and Pauly's new girlfriend, Ashley.  Pauly and Ashley have been together for a little over four months.  In Pauly years (like dog years, where one year equals seven human years), that counts as a long term relationship.  We ended the day on the beach (I had no idea Chicago had beaches), undoubtedly the last day on a beach for some time.  


It is the end of our three and a half week trip to the US.  Good times with Greg, Carrie, Ethan and Lauren.  Mornings enjoying al fresco coffee, afternoons on the beach, evenings eating out on the deck and shooting hoops in the yard.  A couple of nights ago Carrie stepped out on to the porch and commented that 'fall was in the air'.  The last few days have indeed ended in distinctly autumnal evenings. The mornings are ever so slightly cooler and the sunlight seems subtly different.  For three and a half weeks I have worn nothing more than shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops.  Now I am back in jeans and trainers. Tomorrow we land at Heathrow, and I'll probably put a jumper on.  By Tuesday I will be back in work, in a suit.  


Holidays are finished. Autumn is on its way.  I can't help thinking that summer is over.  And that makes me feel sad.

The unmentionable ingredients

The exact moment that the Tipping Point is reached.
Anzac Day, Sydney 2008.

A number of my regular readers (I think there may be two, possibly three including Anita) noted in relation to my last post on the recipe for a successful wedding, that there seemed to be one or two details about the Charleski bash that I omitted.  Yes, I admit it, there are a few non-essential wedding ingredients which I neglected to mention.  So here goes.


First, excessive Champagne consumption. A few years ago Anita and I went to visit some some friends of ours in Spain for a weekend.  I won't reveal who they were other than to say they live in Valencia and share the same first name.  Lets call them both Alex Harris for argument's sake. We were on our way back from a week's climbing in the high granite peaks of the pyrenees and were generally smelly, tired, and looking forward to a weekend of relative luxury.  Fast forward a few hours and between the four of us we had consumed an enormous omelette, half a side of the finest Serrano ham, several bottles of hearty Rioja and almost an entire bottle of very nice single malt.  Amid the hangovers and general carnage of the following morning, Mrs Harris admitted that since they had had children they didn't really party that much, so when they did, they tended to "go for it".  I was shocked and awed in equal measure.  Is this what happens once you have children?  Well, in my case, it would seem the answer is a resounding yes.  The Charlski wedding marked our first weekend away without Lara, and we were determined to make the most of it. In my case by cracking into the pre-dinner Champagne with gusto. Which was excellent, by the way.


Second, Cigars.  You either love them, or you hate them.  I generally hate them. Even the expensive, high quality, hand-rolled-on-the-thigh-of-a-cuban-maiden types.  That is, until I've consumed enough alcohol to reach The Tipping Point (the point at which all rationality is abandoned, judgment becomes warped and previously Bad Ideas suddenly appear, with absolute certainty, to be Good Ideas). Once the Tipping Point is reached, even the fattest, longest, strongest smelling cigars seem like a fantastically good idea.  It has happened many times - my friend Phil's 18th Birthday (I bought us both fat cigars to symbolise him becoming A Man); my university freshers ball; the 1998 UBBC dinner dance (although the Cigar Incident was overshadowed by the Debagging Incident in which my friend Tom's trousers ended up hanging from a chandelier).  On each occasion I reached a point where all I wanted, more than anything in the world, was to smoke a big fat cigar.  At this point I think I need to offer an apology. Jono, I'm sorry - I appreciate that you spent a lot of money on some very expensive Monte Christo No.4 cigars and I am flattered that you shared them with me. I really did enjoy it - right up to the point that the room started spinning and I had to retire to the toilet for an extended "rest".  


Third, Raspberry Vodka shots. Bad Idea suddenly becomes Good Idea on achievement of the Tipping Point (see above). In a state of misguided generosity I think I bought twelve, which I distributed to those foolish enough to get involved. I hope you enjoyed them more than I did. 


Finally, a Person Who Is More Drunk Than Everyone Else.  Every wedding needs one. It allows you to go home, safe in the knowledge that no matter how drunk you were, you weren't as drunk as That Person.  Unless you were That Person. Which in my case, I was.  In general I would like to think that I added to, rather than detracted from the entertainment  (for the record I'm sorry if I hit anyone when I hurled my (single) birkenstock sandal across the dancefloor whilst performing my one-legged air guitar tribute to Bon Jovi). 


All I can say in my defence was that I am a father of a young baby; I don't get out much; I am out of practice.  In short, I blame it all on Lara. 

Recipe of the day: a perfect wedding

The artists formerly known as Charleski. Sydney, 2009.

Everyone loves a good wedding.  Anita and I have been to a few in the last five years. In 2007 we peaked at seven in a year (eight if I include our own).  But since then the number of invites has steadily decreased as more of our friends join the married ranks and fewer remain unmarried.  Just as it seemed that fortieth birthday parties might be the new weddings (we have been invited to our first, next spring) we got the call up to the wedding of our friends Laura and Jon (collectively, "Charleski") in late July.  Larura and Jon used to live in East Dulwich, but currently reside in Sydney, Australia. They rent a house with a view of Sydney Harbour, drive a convertible Jeep Wrangler and generally live life to the full. They don’t have any children (yet) and when we spend time with them we feel young. Spending time with Laura and Jon generally involves staying up late, eating good food, drinking copious quantities of fine wine and laughing a lot.

The Charleski wedding was a triumph and it got me thinking about the essential ingredients for a great day. On one level a wedding is nothing more than a massive – and often very expensive – party. On another level, of course, it is so much more than that. Beyond the required legal formalities there are many possible ingredients for a successful wedding, but looking back on what made Laura and Jon's day so brilliant I think only four can really be considered essential. The rest, as they say, is gravy.

First, friends. A potted history of Charleski goes something like this: Jon has been best mates with his best man Ollie, since they were eight. Ten years later Ollie met Laura at university, where they became best mates. Ollie then introduced Jon to Laura and the rest is history. So in Jon and Laura’s case we have a friendship triangle or, if you will, a friendship sandwich (with Ollie as the filling - it brings tears to the eyes in more ways than one).  If the wedding was anything to go by, both Jon and Laura seem to have a sprawling and diverse collection friends, many of whom go back to school years and beyond. Some of them have strange names – 'Catfish', 'Toph', and 'Book Guy' amongst them. A surprisingly high number seemed to be called James, although its entirely possible that I drunkenly introduced myself to the same person several times. 

Second, refreshments.  People have got to eat, after all. And they have got to drink. Often to excess.  Jon and Laura opted for a very excellent hog roast, served straight from the carcass, meat, crackling and all.  This was consumed al fresco on long open air tables in the grounds of a magnificent country house in Devon. The pig was washed down with copious quantities of high quality wine, sourced from various vineyards in France by Jon and his dad. For both Jon and his father wine has become less of a hobby and more of an obsession. Jon once told me that if he goes more than a week without buying another case of wine for his collection – his “baby” as he refers to it - he starts to get a bit twitchy.  Their choices did not disappoint, particularly the 2007 red. I should know where it was from, although the details have long since escaped me. I do know that it was lively, fruity, and very drinkable. In vast quantities. By me.

Third, disco dancing.  Thanks to Radio 4 I now know that disco originated in Paris in the mid twentieth century.  Clubs would traditionally provide live musical entertainment, often in the form of a jazz quartet.  One impoverished club owner, unable to pay live performers, opted instead to play records on a gramophone.  Libraries – Biblioteques – already existed, and now the Disc-o-teque was born.  Thankfully things have moved on since then and Jon and Laura opted for a Ceilidh followed by a friend of a friend with his decks and a laptop. I recall dancing a lot, most of it one legged, some of it spent holding my plaster-encased leg out in front of me in a rudimentary air guitar style.  At one stage I was hoisted onto an unknown reveller’s shoulders and spun around the dance floor. Jon told me afterwards he was concerned I’d end the night with two broken legs.

Last, but not least, love.  According to Andrew Lloyd Webber, it both changes everything and makes the world go round. According to the Beatles, its all you need. Whatever. Jon and Laura clearly love each other very, very much. To prove it, Jon cried during the ceremony. (For reference, man-crying at one’s own wedding is entirely acceptable. Man-crying at someone else’s wedding is not). As if to reciprocate the love, Lara cried during Ollie’s best man speech.  The Charleski love was obvious, it was there to see and there's not really much more to be said other than it was - and is - uplifting.

And there you have it - fewer ingredients than a sponge cake. When Anita and I got married, the vicar who married us, the lovely Bernard Schunneman, reminded us that very little is required for a legally binding marriage beyond a bride, a groom, someone to officiate, and a couple of witnesses. Add friends, food, wine, disco dancing and a shed load of love, and you have the recipe for a perfect wedding.  Congratulations Mr and Mrs Borowski!

A taste of freedom

Feeling free atop the First Flatiron, Colorado, USA. 

Today’s post comes to you direct from Traverse City, USA.  Behind us lie work, London and the British summer (eighteen degrees and raining when we left); ahead, 24 days of summer holiday fun in the company of Greg, Carrie and the extended Johns clan.  Freedom beckons: the freedom to do everything or nothing; to go shopping, swim in Lake Michigan, drink coffee, eat fudge, sunbathe, read a book or two.  It is the first summer holiday I can remember where I have not come away with a bag full of ropes, harnesses and climbing hardware, which in itself feels strangely liberating.

I am also, at long, long last, free from the plaster cast that has dogged my life for the past four months.  On Wednesday morning I left the plaster room at Kings Hospital minus one smelly purple samiento cast, and sporting instead a very high-tech looking removable ‘air cast’.  It has a variety of velco straps and buckles and comes complete with a pump to allow me to get that ‘just right’ fit.  Pump notwithstanding, it is not particularly comfortable, nor is it the most graceful item of footwear I’ve ever owned. But at least I can take it off, which at the moment I am doing at every opportunity.

Released from its purple incarceration, my lower left leg was something to behold.  I had a glimpse four weeks ago and things seem to have deteriorated significantly since then.  Once I had removed the thick layer of dead skin (a strangely satisfying task that took about half an hour – my heel looked like it was encased in a thick layer of parmesan cheese) I was able to gaze in wonder at a leg that is basically the same thickness from knee to ankle.  It is also strangely hairy – my left knee now looks like it is wearing a beard. And I have a clearly visible bump where the damaged tibia has grown back thicker and stronger than before.  Now I just have to learn to walk like a normal person. Early signs are encouraging – the consultant seems to think the bone has healed quite well, and my physiotherapist was surprised at the range of movement I already have in my ankle.  When asked to pull my toes back towards my shin it turned out I have about 70% of the range of range of movement of my good foot.  Since the toe-to-shin direction of flex is crucial for walking, this is, apparently a Good Thing. 

This is, annoyingly, only the start of my rehab. I’m told it will take at least three months to build the muscles in my leg back to a normal state and for the time being I’m back on the crutches (which seems like a backward step after last weekend’s crutch-free wedding dance antics - more of which in a separate post). The physio was gentle with my ankle at Wednesday’s manipulation session, although I get the impression that on my return to the UK things may soon turn brutal.  But I can take it – I have had a taste of freedom and I like it!