Mark Time

Hello, dear readers!

I think it’s fair to say that the last couple of years have been tough for all of us. Covid-19 has impacted all of our lives to one degree or another, affecting our working lives, our social lives, the clubs and meeting we might be members of, and even our access to sport.

It’s meant that, for a lot of us, the days have started to lose their distinction a little as one week melds into another with little variety or distinction. From my own point of view, as a non-working-benefits-claiming-moocher, the fallout from this might not be as severe in some cases, but it has still led to a feeling of one day being very much like another.

Not yesterday, though. Yesterday, you see, was my birthday.

No Work, All Play
For me, this is tantamount to a holy day, the most wonderful day of the year. Even in my nine-to-five days of hard(ish) working(ish), employment, it was a day I held in such special regard that I have never done a single day’s work on the tenth of August. Of course, there are those who might argue I’ve never done a full day’s work on the other 364 days either, but on my birthday I actually go out of my way not to work.

Of course, since my diagnosis of MS and the subsequent decision to give up work, the day has lost that particular distinction from the rest of the year. It’s still la special day, however. A day of food, booze, family, and friendship. A day of celebration.

A Mile And A Half
Sadly, the last eighteen months or so have seen the family and friendship side of things harder to honour. The family meal which would mark just about every family birthday has had to be sacrificed over the last round of birthdays, including my own, and the traditional running of the Headingley Mile pub crawl with my mates (11am start, last man standing rules) has had to take a back seat too. Of course, with the march of the years, people settling down, getting married, and needing to arrange childcare, the latter is probably a little harder to arrange these days anyway, but having the opportunity, well, that would still be nice.

In short, it’s been just that little bit harder to celebrate International Mark Rankin day in the way I used to. It meant yesterday’s meal out with my wife, Tina, parents, nephews, and one niece was more than welcome.

The lunch date was made possible by the relaxing of Covid restrictions, and although there were still people sorely missing due to work commitments (Hi, sis. I’ll let you two fight over that one) it still felt good, and surprisingly normal, to spend time with loved ones.

Fowl Play
We went to The Blacksmith’s Arms a local pub that serves good food and, being situated atop a hill, has a spectacular view of the Yorkshire countryside for a spot of lunch, a chinwag and a visit with the pub’s chickens (or are they hens, Tina?). The latter something the younger generation in particular found fascinating.

It was only a couple of hours of sound and colour in what has been a long and monotone year and, as I was driving, there was no alcohol (that came later) but I can’t think of many better ways to spend those couple of hours. It was good to get out. Good to catch up. Good to chat and joke and laugh. Good to experience the unbridled energy and enthusiasm of the kids and spend time with wonderful people, sharing food and space, and time, and fun.

It might have been one of the more humble celebrations of the year’s most important days when it comes to pure excess, but I think I can safely put it up there with and above all the rest.

Of course there are only three years until the next landmark, birthday. Now, that one gets celebrated big style.

Until next week.