Monday
I’m not always the best at enjoying my holidays to the full – the extra free time often seems to merely accommodate extra worry – so I’m not entirely unhappy to be back at work. At least now my anxiety levels are entirely familiar. Part of the problem of going away is the enormous amount of effort you have to put in beforehand to make sure you are even within a shout of enjoying yourself. Starting with the car rental. An experience that always seems to blight the first few days of any holiday. The first issue is what kind of car we are going to get, as I never seem to end up with the model I asked for. There’s a clause in every rental agreement that says “or similar” when you request a particular car. We always seem to end up with a similar which is invariably worse. Then there’s the insurance. At one stage this year I realised I had bought three different levels of insurance and was still none the wiser if some were duplicates or even if I was fully covered. And lastly there are the extras, which get more creative every year. This time I was told I could pay an extra £8 for the pleasure of filling up the tank before returning the car. Or if I didn’t feel like doing that I could pay £50 plus fuel for the rental agency to do it. No wonder I was a nervous wreck.
Tuesday
Our daughter got married earlier this year and is planning to move to the US in February, so we went to Minneapolis to check out where she would be living and to get to know her – and our – in-laws better. After the traumas of the car rental, we actually had an amazingly good time and look forward to returning next year. Never underestimate a city that takes its coffee seriously, has plenty of theatres and several large lakes right in the middle of it. But there were one or two bizarre moments. On a tour of Prince’s studios at Paisley Park, the guide pointed to a plastic urn sitting on a Perspex plinth and invited us all to take part in a minute’s silence to remember the performer. A silence that the guide spoke the whole way through. Even more disconcertingly, my wife thought we should be a bit hip one night and go to an indie art-deco cinema to see a film about a woman who liked doing jigsaws. My wife had misread the seating plan and booked us into the front row, an error soon rectified when it emerged there were only five of us in the 700-seat auditorium. Within 10 minutes of the start, I fell asleep – jet lag has its uses – and remained so until just before the end. To our astonishment, when I came out I was able to remember the entire plot. Explain that.
Wednesday
Something else to worry about. It turns out I am one of the 80% of the population at risk of early death from heart disease. Having filled in the online NHS questionnaire, I was informed I had a heart age of 65 – I am still 61 (just) – and that I shouldn’t count on living beyond 80. At least that’s how I interpreted the results. Though I did have concerns about some of the questions. I got a firm rebuke from the NHS website, and, I suspect, penalised a few years of life expectancy, for not knowing my cholesterol and blood pressure scores. This is what you get for trying to answer honestly. I’m happy to classify myself as a hypochondriac, but even I don’t go to the doctor once a month to update my medical records. I last had my readings done about three years ago when I was in hospital, and as the doctors didn’t seem particularly concerned I didn’t make a note of them. My loss, apparently. I was also upset that the questionnaire wasn’t in the slightest bit interested that I punished myself in the gym four times a week and was happy to lump me in with the deadbeats who took no exercise at all. So that’s it. According to the NHS, I won’t be around for much longer. It’s been nice knowing you. Most of you.
Thursday
One of David Davis’s more endearing qualities was that he always seemed quite comfortable with his limitations. He was seldom less than cheerful, well aware he wasn’t that bright and seemed happy to visit Brussels to meet Michel Barnier for the nice lunch rather than to make any real progress with the EU negotiations. The same cannot be said for the new Brexit secretary. Dominic Raab is a man who takes himself and his career very seriously and thinks rather more highly of himself than his colleagues do. A lethal combination for a man who was effectively demoted on the very day he was promoted, as Theresa May announced that she was taking over the Brexit negotiations, leaving Raab to do the photocopying and other donkey work. All of which has made him rather tetchy and brittle in his public engagements. Appearing before the European scrutiny select committee this week, he threw a mini-strop when the committee aimed its first questions at Olly Robbins, the prime minister’s personal EU negotiator. As a matter of protocol, Raab grumped, he should have been asked the first question. The committee apologised but observed it would rather talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Right at the end, Robbins and Raab were asked if they would be sending each other Christmas cards. Robbins didn’t see why not, but Raab rather thought not.
Friday
As the evenings get darker I always feel a sense of melancholy at the loss of summer; a feeling of foreboding as I prepare for autumn and winter. On the upside, the TV schedules start to pick up again as viewers spend more time indoors. Like the former home secretary Amber Rudd – though not apparently like May, another former home secretary – I’ve become hooked on Bodyguard: a programme that manages to be both annoyingly unbelievable and compulsively watchable. Vanity Fair is also shaping up well, though I’m not sure Thackeray would have altogether recognised this Becky Sharp: his portrayal was rather more cruel and damning. However, autumn TV isn’t an unmitigated blessing as it also reminds me how out of step I am with most of the rest of the country. The Great British Bake Off and Strictly Come Dancing leave me cold. I’m sure this reflects very badly on me, but I just couldn’t give less of a toss about a contestant’s emotional journey with a showstopper challenge or Ed Balls’ efforts to tango. The only reality show I really loved was The Great Pottery Throw Down. Needless to say, that’s been canned. Another reason to hate winter.
Digested week: Les propositions sont mortes
