Passing the Baton

Morning has broken on the 1st August 2018.

A few short hours ago July departing on a jet plane, leaving us with a legacy of UK record high temperatures, England’s progression to the semi-finals of the FIFA World Cup and seemingly but unsurprisingly little progress at securing an amicable Brexit deal.

If I’d had a pound for every time in the last thirty days someone felt moved to inform me “It’s flipping boiling today, Gary” I’d have £7.60……… If you’re wondering where the 60p came from, it was a consequence of one individual informing me only 60% of the above sentence – Lazily (I thought) omitting the suffix “…. today, Gary”

I’ll remember early July 2018 as a heart-warming time. Unquestionably buoyed by a rise of euphoric tribalism, minus the darker negative undertones ordinarily associated with displaying a pride of one’s Englishness.

This newly found ‘acceptable’ patriotism a consequence of the countries pride at witnessing the heroics of an inexperienced England team. Their achievement that of  exceeding the nations expectations at the FIFA World Cup tournament in Russia.

In a decade or so of alleged questionable antics within the upper echelons of the world game, this joy enhanced further by the classy conduct of England manager Gareth Southgate.

The Watford born gaffer portraying the role of consummate ambassador for his country, winning admirers for more than just the squad’s on field contributions. The former international player shedding rare light within a global den of sporting iniquity.

The resultant elation in England spawning packed bars, rammed viewing parks and euphoria in gardens of the suburbs. It’s populous riding high on a wave of delight, courtesy of Southgate’s charges and a not insignificant amount of ale. Or in the case of excitable youngsters, sugar fuelled highs induced from mass consumption of soda drinks.

Tribalistic joy uniting the nation. A synergy created by wall to wall sunshine, the oft encountered aroma of food barbequing and a realisation England aren’t as bad at the game we invented as opined pre-tournament.

What price the odds on a forthcoming baby boom in nine months time. An era that will witness a host of new-born children bearing the names Harry, Jordan, Kieran and Gareth?….. And that’s just the girls!

July also saw my son and his fiancée agree to a deal which will hopefully, in the not too distant future, see them climb aboard the property ladder. A massive but exciting step for them both on their experiential odyssey – One that requires calm heads, stiff resolve and beer for whoever provides assistance after they take possession of the keys to the door. Especially if I’m one of them.

Last month also saw my daughter Rachel firm up plans for the remainder of her two year sojourn in the land of the maple leaf. I’d share them with you, but she won’t reveal her upcoming travel proposals after I intentionally antagonised her during a recent call.

All I know is it doesn’t involve balancing parrots on her head in Montreal (or indeed any other Canadian city). Random details I came into possession of following a deliberately  ludicrous enquiry I made on Facetime. My silliness irritating Rachel to such an extent it was a catalyst to her refusing to disclose her remaining arrangements.

So Julius’ 31 days have gone. His race run, the baton for the 2018 monthly calendar relay passed to Augustus.

What will we encounter on Augustus’ three score and one day watch? …….. More importantly for ensuring correct horological measurements, does he even own a watch?

If he does, I just hope it wasn’t purchased from ‘Frank the Watchman’ on Ainsley Scragg Main Street. An unashamed shyster who sold me a timepiece that displays incorrect horological measurements in all 24 time zones……. Only showing precision time accuracy in my wife’s hometown of Birtley, a north east outpost of England where time stands still.


Leave a Reply