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Nigel Scott: The short goodbye
And then there were three.
With little in the way of fuss or ceremony we deposited our elder daughter at Clarence Dock on Saturday to begin her new life at university.
In truth there was little time for fuss or ceremony as we were told we basically had half an hour in the car park in which to unload her worldly possessions and cram as many of them as possible in to her tiny – an estate agent might call it "bijou" – new residence.
Actually the Leeds University halls of residence down by the Royal Armouries seem quite acceptable.
Emily has a bedroom-cum-study with her own loo and shower and there is a shared kitchen for her and around a half dozen other students.
Telly
Critically, around 20 paces from the front door of her flat, is a bar.
I suspect this will become a regular stopping off point equipped, as it is, with several pool tables and a big telly.
It was a strange day on Saturday and not one which Mrs S enjoyed very much.
True, she was comforted by the warm welcome we received on our arrival and by the general standard of the accommodation.
But when we left, as all parents must, our baby behind she burst into tears. "I don't want her to go," she blurted.
I tried to offer as many words of comfort as I could, chiefly pointing out that as she was only 11 miles away from Normanton Towers there was hardly an insurmountable distance between us and, no doubt, we would see plenty of her over the course of her three year degree course – especially when there was clothes washing to be done.
But it didn't seem to help all that much and she has been pretty teary all week, to be honest.
In the same way as I've tried put my illness of these last few months out of my mind I have tried to block out all those negative thoughts it is easy to have as a parent when your child flies the nest.
At the end of the day her life is now her own and as parents we can only hope that the hard work we have put in over the years in bringing up our kids "the right way" will be heeded.
Equally most of us, I'm sure, can think back and recall the numerous scrapes we got ourselves into through youthful folly and alcohol. The trick, I suppose, is to have experiences and to learn from them – and hopefully not suffer because of them.
As things stand Emily seems to have settled in well and is slowly getting to know the people around her with whom she will be sharing this great new adventure.
Hectic
She did express concern a couple of days ago that she might not be able to keep pace with the hectic nightlife of the "fresher" in the first few weeks of uni life, and she looked tired when I met her for a lunchtime coffee on Monday, but I'm sure she'll get used to the pace eventually.
Back at home, however, it seems very strange without her.
I tried to think how best to express it and it came to me as I was lying in bed the other night and had just said goodnight to our younger daughter Eleanor.
This little evening ritual reminded me of the classic 70s TV show, The Waltons.
Life at Normanton Towers is now a little bit like life was on Walton mountain when John Boy upped and, ironically, left for university.
The loving family life carried on but with one less voice to wish everyone goodnight it was never quite the same.
Time to give arrogant BBC bigwigs a wake-up call
INCREASINGLY over the last few years I have thought of the BBC, or those that run it, as arrogant.
It seems to me there is a definite degree of smugness within the organisation which we all, as taxpayers, help to bankroll.
"We're the BBC and we can do what we like" seems to be the message it broadcasts to the world, the latest manifestation of which has been the scheduling of Strictly Come Dancing against The X Factor.
You might think this a trivial point but the fact is that these are probably the two best-loved shows on telly and by sticking one in almost direct competition with the other the BBC is hardly fulfiling its public service remit.
It is time, surely, for the BBC to be given a harsh wake up call.
Obligation
Someone should remind the BBC of its obligation to those who bankroll the boozy corporate dinners of its bigwigs.
And that someone should suggest that if it doesn't toe the line then the generous supply of public money on which it relies might just start to dry up.
Such a move would surely concentrate the minds of those who appear to have long forgotten why the BBC exists in the first place.
After all, most of us out in the real world are having to scrimp, save and make difficult decisions.
Why should Auntie Beeb be spared having to do the same – especially when it treats us, the viewing public and ultimately its paymasters, with such casual disregard?
Covering old ground
THE latest telly obsession in the Scott household – we've got past our Diagnosis Murder phase, you'll probably be pleased to know – is to catch up on all the old episodes of Who Do You Think You Are? on one of the obscure satellite channels which goes by the name of Blighty.
There's quite a few to get through, which has led on more than one occasion to an evening/night devoted entirely to celebrities tracking down their family histories.
I can't help thinking that I've missed a trick somewhere during my enforced absence from work in that I should have begun tracking the history of the Scotts online.
I did have a little WDYTYA moment, though, on Sunday when Emily was playing football in Derby, the home town of my mother's side of the family, the Foulds.
Nanna and Poppa Foulds lived in a big terraced house just off the city centre which as a child I always thought had a touch of magic about it in that once inside it seemed much bigger than expected. It was a bit like a big brick Tardis if you like.
Lodgers
Spare rooms on the upper floors were rented out to lodgers who often included theatrical types and my mother tells a story of how Ronnie Corbett once helped to fix the lights when they had fused.
Above the living floors was an old attic from which, in childhood, I helped myself to a series of very old Rupert annuals which, I'm sure, would have been worth a small fortune now to a collector had I not casually discarded them many moons ago.
Anyway thanks to the miracles of Sat Nav, I tracked down 27 Crompton Street and happily posed while my dad took pictures of me outside the front door and recalled how he had tried to climb through the ground floor window one night after coming back late.
Just for a moment on Sunday I felt like one of the celebrities, although a 72-year-old father with a small camera is no substitute for a film crew and someone, no doubt on hand, to do all the research for you...and fetch you a cuppa when you need one.
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Sunday 12 February 2012
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