Why: Its our annual community music festival and I was looking after the bouncy castles.
With: Me, my youngest, Thomas, and Mrs Afterwards
So not really out and about, but more top of the street at the local rugby club in support of the annual community charity music festival we put on. The van is in there somewhere, and mostly it provides a base for those of us on the site looking after the bouncy castles. It’s one hell of an event and after 8 years has raised more than £130K for charities. By the end of the day I am usually frazzled, especially this year when we had more than 800 kids to keep an eye on.
So, turns out I have cancer. How fucking great is that.
As I keep telling people though, it’s the good type though, so not to worry. It’s a bit like the good type of Aids, you know., the sort you get from a blood transfusion and not from a prison gang bang. The sort that you die with, and not from, the sort that you don’t even get your life insurance to pay out on so you can go to Vegas, because your cancer isn’t cancerous enough. The sort that you get to tell fun stories about apparently, because apparently, cancer is a laughing matter.
You know the sort.
I found out a few months ago. I’d just had my annual medical, and that includes the usual rummage around in my arse to check my prostate, and having recently hit 50 they throw in a PSA blood test to check the same. I remember coming home and telling Mrs Afterwards about how the Doc had said that should there be any issues with the PSA test I may need further tests and procedures, and then – with the sort of pleasure that made me think some chap may have recently wronged her romantically, perhaps with her sister or best friend – she explained in great detail how awful these procedures were and how they could ultimately lead to sepsis of the arse and that would be a truly awful experience.
About a week later I was out walking the dog in the snow and she left me a voicemail explaining that I needed to call back. Well you can imagine the thoughts running through my head, most of which involved her slapping my exposed ass as I was bent over a table and telling me, “Yup, you have arse sepsis sir, and all men are pigs!”
Anyway, I don’t have arse sepsis and most men are pigs, but after an MRI scan, loads more curious rummaging in my bottom (by a specialist rummager this time though) and being put into a medieval torture device – of which I will likely write about another time – and having the aforementioned specialist take a shit ton of samples from my prostate, it turns out I have a mild case of cancer.
I’m mostly ok about it I think. Told the kids, and as my wife and I predicted, the youngest worried and the eldest started to laugh. Eldest has this weird nervous laughter thing when it comes to death and misery. At least I think its that. He might just be a monster. He did recently ask if it was contagious, though it turns out he meant hereditary. This was realised too late to avoid a conversation about me shooting cancer jizz. Mrs Afterwards was horrified and then forced to introduce a rule that forbids anyone in the household from using the phrase ‘cancer jizz’. Especially over dinner.
I will be having more bloods this week to see how things are looking as the prognosis is really good and there are no plans to treat it yet, with the side effects of the treatment being wholly worse than the disease right now. So that’s a good thing.
Then again, what’s worse than arse sepsis and cancer jizz, right. Actually they sound like really shit superheroes don’t they.
Anyway, so that’s what’s been happening here. Life eh.
Why: Wanted to see how the dog fared in the van overnight as last time out he was rather restless.
With: Me, Theo and my youngest, Thomas
Usually we head to Wharfdale to watch and play rugby, but this time out it was t see best ways to manage the dog at night as he can be a bit skittish and barks at noises in the dark. Not great on a campsite.
We bundled everything into the van and headed north for about an hour to the caravan and motorhome site. They are always rather clean and tidy, good facilities and in decent spots. This one was no different, and whilst theyre a bit cookie cutter we were set up in to time.
At this point we realised we hadn’t really brought much food beyond cereal, hot dog sausages, bananas and packet noodles. Oh and I had left all the pans at home. And the bowls (apart from one old serving dish). I did somehow have 3 bottles of gin, three bottles of prosecco, and a load of cider. But no ice, mixers or garnish for a Gin and tonic…Shoddy I realise.
We popped to the shop on site and grabbed some non booze drinks, milk and ice creams to supplement the pantry and made the best of the night, warming the sausages in the serving dish and had dinner. A short walk followed and we mostly just relaxed until bed time. Failing to settle the dog in his cage in the tent I ended up bringing him into the van and he was ok, barked a few times and was a bit restless – but not a complete nightmare. Tom slept like a baby in the pop top so despite being a bit groggy in the morning it was ok for ta first night.
Next day was mostly all about hiking the local area – which is bloody gorgeous and so wonderfully English (I also neglected to bring any proper walking shoes and only had crocs and a pair of £15 trainers from a supermarket). For days after I could barely walk and have had to spend hundreds on shoes since as, as Mrs Afterwards rightly pointed out, I am a bloody idiot. Anyway, the next night the dog slept marvellously and never woke once so all very much mission acco0mplished on that front. I now know what he needs (to be knackered and to have the radio on quietly for background noise) and more dog camping can now follow.
Oh and the second night food fare was even worse. We foolishly thought we could just order takeaway, but its pretty remote there and no one delivers. I had to speed march to a roadside services in setting dark, cross country with a dead phone, and was able to forage some corned beef pasties, crisps and some close to expiring profiteroles.
I reckon that should the world go to shit when the Russians start throwing nukes soon, and I am forced to forage to survive I wont last long at all…
If youre still reading , enjoy the pics…
On and we got to play the caravan game. You put the word ‘anal’ in front of the name of caravans for hours of infantile giggles…Behold the anal challenger, vip and crusader!
Why: Its not far from here and seemed a nice day so off we went…
With: Me, Theo and Mrs afterwards
Welcome to Wuthering heights country! The Bronte waterfalls are a hop, skip and a jump from Howarth, the home of the literary legends that are the Bronte Sisters. They apparently spent many a summers day out here enjoying the goodness that is Yorkshire, and despite the rain it was a lovely morning out.
Huge hares. really, really , huge Hares. And warthogs. And bulls…
Where:The Piece Hall, Halifax, West Yorkshire, England
When: 11th February 2022
Why: Popped out to see the statues and have a coffee
With: Me and Mrs Afterwards
Halifax is known for many things. The Bank, obviously, and did you know that Percy Shaw – the inventor of the cats eye – was from Halifax. We are the home of Anne Lister, Sally Wainwright, Ed Sheeran (well Hebden Bridge apparently) and much more. One of the most fabulous things though is the Piece Hall.
“The Grade I listed Piece Hall, Halifax is a rare and precious thing, an architectural and cultural phenomenon which is absolutely unique. It is the only remaining Georgian cloth hall in the world, the sole survivor of the great eighteenth century northern cloth halls, a class of buildings which embodied the vital and dominant importance of the trade in hand woven textiles to the pre-industrial economy of the West Riding of Yorkshire, from the Middle Ages through to the early nineteenth century.”
Anyway, this week we popped down because there was a Sculpture display by Sophie Ryder which we thought we would take a gander at. It was raining, which it seems to do every day right now, but the grey skies seemed to set things off even more fabulously.
Take a look at the photos…I’m no expert in these things – I simply like what I like – and I liked her stuff a lot! If you read yesterdays post you will have seen my trip to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where she also has stuff on display.
Oh, and there was also a hot chocolate and a Sausage sandwich as well as a trip to the soap shop which were all most enjoyable too!
Wet. Very wet,. Moist, damp and soaked. Drenched. Sodden.
Where: Yorkshire sculpture park, Wakefield, West Yorkshire, England
When: 14th February 2022
Why: Been before but didn’t get to see it all so wanted to return
With: Just me and the dog, Theo
The sculpture park is a huge country park, scattered with some quite fabulous sculptures from a variety of rather famous folk, including Damien Hirst who grew up in Yorkshire. You can walk for hours and hours, taking in monstrously huge works of art, and there are indoor and outdoor exhibits to enjoy, as well as some great walled gardens.
But sometimes it just pisses down with rain and you get so wet that you spend the whole time shouting ‘stop running you bastard, you’ll pull me over’ at the dog, and you head back to the van soaked to the skin because it turns out the coat you wore is not at all waterproof.
I took some photos, but to be honest my glasses were so obscured they were somewhat of a surprise to me…
Afterwards 