Damp dog day...

Soggy, miserable day over in York. Started raining as we headed up the A1079, then we were diverted down the narrow roads that lead from Wilberfoss to Stamford Bridge due to a big road traffic incident, turning the usual 50 minute trip into a two and a half hour journey, and it hasn't stopped since. Parked, as I usually do, close to Rowntree Park but our plans to cut through the park for a quick kiddie-friendly look at the ducks, geese and swans en route to the city centre were scuppered as the park was flooded. In fact, it looked like one rather huge duck pond.

M headed off to here little shindig at the Theatre Royal, York, leaving Finn and myself to take in the delights of the very wet streets. Not sure which of us was grumpier - we were both making grumbly little noises as we moved through the crowds and battled with the plethora of golf umbrellas - and we were quickly both looking - and no doubt smelling - like damp dogs. It was certainly not the most pleasurable time I've spent in this fine city. The European market looked good, mind, and offered a fine selection of food so, naturally, I headed to McDonald's for a Big Mac and a dry off. As the photo illustrates, I think we might have been a little bit late to take full advantage of the Borders stock clearance sale, although I did find a copy of Yukio Mishima's Forbidden Colours for a knock-down fiver, which meant the day wasn't a complete washout. Ho-hum.

Yorkshire? Not me...

It is Yorkshire Day on Friday so, to get the ball rolling in the right direction, The Lord Mayor of Kingston upon Hull and the Admiral of the Humber, Councillor Elaine Garland, officially unfurled the Yorkshire Flag at a ceremony in Queens Gardens today. I was in a room with the Mayor this morning and she left her glasses behind when she headed off for her unfurling duties. So she won't have been able to tell which way up the flag should have gone (apparently, the points of the petals spell Y if you have it the right way. Somebody might want to tell East Riding of Yorkshire Council that one). The flag is being carried to York where it will arrive on Friday so those House of York bods can have fun with it on the city walls. Which is all well and good. But I prefer to think of Hull as being autonomous and not really in Yorkshire. Yorkshire surrounds us. But we are different. Or maybe that's just me being silly.

Trains and boats and frames...

So, on Sunday we were in York, at the RNLI's Presentation of Awards Ceremony held at York Racecourse. A sweaty affair given the glorious weather. It was very nice and they gave us (the theatre) a crazily disproportionate citation, a nice reception and an even nicer framed award for the fundraising that took place during On A Shout. Director turned to me and said, "It's been quite a journey, hasn't it?" And it has.

We - M and Finn and little old me - spent the evening and the whole of the sun-soaked day that followed in the city that feels like our spiritual home. We took Finn to see trains at the NRM, although it was probably all lost on him. Especially the Shinkansen he's pictured in front of.

Rottweileresque...

When two or more High Street stores gather together adding the suffix outlet to their name (eg Ted Baker Outlet, Coast Outlet, Paul Smith Outlet and, tee hee hee, The Works Outlet) then you have an Outlet. Last day in York ended in a journey to the so-called Designer Outlet. Their bizarre strapline, which stands in tall letters on the glass entrance, is 'Guilt Free Shopping' - I've never felt guilty when shopping, I tend to save that for the times when I shoplift. We purchased some of last season's odds and sods, ate in the food court and took a slow drive back along the A1079 to homesville.

Ah, The Apprentice. This year's lot are a peculiar bunch and all deserve sacking. This week it was funny to see that good Jewish boy Michael had absolutely no idea what kosher meat is. But he hung in there, as Sir Alan of Sugar likes his youthful stupidity. Also clinging on for another week was horrible Miss Piggy clone Claire Young, who I am growing to despise. This woman has little going for her, save for her tedious ability to talk endlessly. But what else should we expect from a former Club 18-30 rep? Apparently, and according to her official BBC biography, Claire is nicknamed the Rottweiler because of her ability to go after whatever she wants. I dunno about that (Kev G Brown, is that what a Rottweiler does?) but I would concede that she's a big, 'orrible bitch. After her time as a holiday rep, Claire went on to find "her niche as a Category Buying Manager, which involves ensuring the shelves of Superdrug are stocked with the right hair care products." A Category Buying Manager? Sounds more like a shelf stacker to me.

We both got some writing in while we were away although probably not as much as we should have. I am now cross-checking what I've come up with against the West End Whingers' simple questionnaire which should immediately be made mandatory for all playwrights.

Museum...

To the York Castle Museum for a fun frolic amongst old stuff. I first went to this place when I was about five and it's lost none of its magic. Finn is too young to appreciate the exhibits but he did enjoy traveling past a Victorian parlour, 1950s front room, the still glorious Victorian street scene, the prison cells and the new Sixties section whilst riding in the back carrier that the museum lent to us. So much so that he fell asleep. Then he woke up and made groovy gurgling noises.

York was much nicer to be around today - the Bank Holiday visitors had all buggered off so we managed to get riverside drinks and food in at the Pitcher & Piano and could move with ease through the streets without people falling over the buggy every other second.

Reading: Richard Benson - The Farm

River Ooze...

The first of three days in York. It was Bank Holiday Monday, of course, so it was horribly busy and the misery was compounded because, on the sunniest day of the year so far, we couldn't get a drink outside because all the pubs were full of people who only ever drink once a year. Instead, Finn sat on the banks of the River Ouse and waved at people that passed him on their river cruises, pausing just the once to turn around and pose for this nice photograph. We found out later that Paul the giraffe had managed to earn £178 busking on Whipmawhopmagate. His act is simple - he plays a motionless giraffe.

Fortified whine...

Today Finn dragged us around Helmsley Castle which, unsurprisingly, is located in Helmsley (a village popular with motorcyclists on a Bank Holiday Weekend if today was anything to go by). There was an English Heritage 'special event' taking place at the castle when we arrived - which appeared to mean that lots of people with learning difficulties had been asked to dress up in itchy medieval garments and shout a lot whilst occasionally strumming on ladels, banging 'knackers' (ie, the early forerunner of timpani) or performing in some frankly dreadful 17th Century Mummers plays. As a result of their presence the admission fee had been increased by £1. I'm of the opinion that the admission fee should have been reduced because I found their tents to be a real inconvenience but I'm sure medieval re-enactors would beg to differ. Anyway, it was all rather Monty Python and the Holy Grail and the medieval music (or possibly the smoke rising from burning medieval embers) made Finn cry. Sadly, Paul the giraffe was last seen trying to clamber his way out of a moat.