Missing Tales of Dame Judy Dench’s Florist

This evening, I was originally planning to go see Hugh Jackman’s Greatest Showman performance at the O2 Arena, in London. The two tickets purchased as a Christmas gift for my wife who adores the Antipodean performer; along with a one night Docklands hotel stay and the booking of return train tickets to/from the capital.

That weekend break package is still being utilised, only now my wife Karen will be accompanied by our daughter Rachel. Consequently, instead of paying homage to the affable Aussie performer, I’ll be remaining home alone in LS15.

Yours truly forgoing the trip after discovering my offspring places Hugh Jackman on the same reverential plateau her mother holds the Sydney born entertainer. A fact which if I’d have known in December, when ordering the tickets, would’ve possibly led to me securing O2 Arena access for three.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about this change of plan. After all, I don’t view missing the show as a huge sacrifice. I admire Hugh Jackman as an actor, singer and (from what I’ve seen of his interviews) a person, but don’t idolise him to the extent of my betrothed and youngest offspring.

I’m a tad disappointed I’ll miss out on the yarns Karen habitually relays during our fairly frequent sojourns by locomotive. My now absence from this odyssey robbing me of yet again hearing ‘fascinating’ tales of yore; some passed through her family for generations.  Stories like how eggcups get their name, what her dad means when utilising frontier gibberish colloquialisms like “Gitzy getten as weel, the naz!”, along with the revelation that in 1980 her old English teacher met actress Judy Dent’s florist.


In my solitude, this evening I’ll be watching the Wakefield v Leeds rugby league game on TV. A pastime that I’ll follow by binge watching the boxset of Netflix drama series The Secrets of Judy Dench’s Florist. The latter hopefully cheering me up after Leeds’ inevitable capitulation at the hands of their local rivals.

If there’s any spare time before Karen and Rach get back on Saturday evening I’ll likely enter the online entertainment domain of YouTube; my mission to once again experience Karen’s vlog of how eggcups get their name……. An entertainment fix required after missing out on that ‘treat’ during Friday’s train voyage to London.

Incidentally, I won’t just be parked in front of the gogglebox the whole time the cat’s away. On Saturday morning I’ll no doubt pen a blog, I’ve also a few garden maintenance chores to undertake if precipitation is prepared to leave Leeds and join my wife and daughter on a weekend break to England’s capital. Forecasters, though, aren’t hopeful of West Yorkshire remaining dry over the next day or so – Incidentally, that’s the weather and the county’s populous!

Other potential options to filled my time of solitude is to practise new refrains the choir of which I’m a member are in the process of learning. Songs like Rag & Bone Man’s Human, along with the more upbeat Happy by Pharrell Williams.

Deeming his dad as a miserable old so and so, on learning I’m rehearsing Happy for future performance with this group of warblers, my son mischievously questioned whether the name of the group of I’d joined was called the Ironic Choir….. The cheeky get!

At some juncture, I’ll probably read through the health diet fact sheets acquired during yesterday’s cardiac rehab tutorial……. Hopefully, I’ll maintain enough discipline not to read them while scoffing on a takeaway pizza.

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