Before you start to think this might get a bit racy for a family newspaper let me assure you that you will be able to read on in complete safety – unless, like me, you are terrified of eight-legged creatures which live in webs.

When I say "James Bond moment" I'm thinking of the film version of Dr No.

There's old, or rather at that stage young, Sean Connery lying in bed grappling with the twin evils of a Chinese super villain intent on toppling American missiles and a quickly receding hairline, when suddenly he feels something crawling across his body.

Slowly, deliberately the unseen enemy makes its way up his torso until, horror of horrors, a giant spider is revealed.

Now you can tell that camera trickery is playing its part in this scene and that the big spider is actually nowhere near the actor's frame – I wish I had been that lucky.

There I was in the boudoir of Normanton Towers, lying half awake, half asleep, when I felt something tickling my outstretched thigh.

Putting immediately out of my mind the thought that perhaps Mrs S was getting a little playful, I glanced downwards to see a black shape disappearing across, and then underneath, the white duvet cover.

With the speed of Connery/Bond I leapt from the bed. But whereas he had grabbed a slipper and manfully beaten the bedroom invader to death I merely bleated a pitiful cry of help to my sleeping partner.

"There's a spider in the bed. And it's a big one as well."

Shocked

A doubtful Mrs S was therefore shocked out of her slumber.

"Are you sure you didn't imagine it?" she asked as she dragged herself upright.

"No – it's under there."

I pointed to the scrunched up duvet.

Slowly I moved the cover and the bedroom invader was revealed. It was one of those big house spiders that seem to get very active at this time of year.

We eyed each other up momentarily before it legged it – times eight – for the relative safety of the carpet.

Say what you like about how harmless these creatures are but there's no way I am going to settle back to sleep in the knowledge that one is skulking somewhere in the bedroom.

Mrs S was therefore dispatched to fetch a glass and a sheet of card and together we successfully rounded up the monster from under my bedside cupboard and with little ceremony my ever-so-brave better half took it downstairs and dumped it outside the front door.

Normal bedroom service was therefore restored in that with little acknowledgement of each other's presence we retreated to our respective sides of the bed and fell asleep.

Now that never happened to James Bond, did it?



It's all go for the girls

THE weekend is shaping up already to be a busy one.

Our eldest, Emily, will get the keys to her new student pad as she prepares to embark on her history degree course at Leeds University while our youngest, Eleanor, is taking part in a second trial for the county netball squad having successfully passed her first trial last Sunday.

Both events are scheduled for Saturday so, as usual, Mrs S and I are likely to be finding ourselves torn in two.

Emily is planning to spend Saturday night in her new home-from-home which I'm sure is going to be a strange and possibly emotional moment for all concerned.

We've had a trial of sorts over the last week while she was away on holiday in Bulgaria which proved that for all our moaning about "ferrying here and ferrying there" (see elsewhere on this page) we'd prefer to be involved in both our daughters' lives rather than watching from the sidelines.

Eleanor, meanwhile, continues to thrive both with her netball and her dancing.

Youngest

The pleasing thing with our youngest is that she hasn't been fazed by her elder sister's successes but has enjoyed plenty of her own in different ways.

As a doting dad I continue to marvel at their talents and energy. I'd love to say it's all thanks to me but I know I'd be lying.


Sunday as it should be

IT was just a few weeks ago – and I've no idea why the subject came up – that someone asked me what they used to call that TV vet who became a star on Calendar.

I could picture him quite clearly – a mane of beautifully kept white hair, a luxuriant moustache and a Scottish accent – but his name just wouldn't come.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I came face to face with John Baxter in a little café in Saltaire village on Sunday morning.

I'd remembered his surname some time previously but the Christian name had escaped me.

And then, remarkably, in one of those great coincidences of life, there he was in front of me tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs with the gusto of a chap who, I guessed from the reflective yellow trouser bands around his ankles, had fully earned his breakfast after an early morning bike ride.

Mrs S and I are not regular visitors to Saltaire but we took the opportunity to have a stroll around Sir Titus Salt's wonderful legacy after dropping our youngest off elsewhere in Bradford for a district netball trial.

Much work seems to be going on to make what is already a beautiful location even more appealing both to locals and visitors alike – and there is always the thrill of walking around the David Hockney gallery to view the impressive collection of the great Bradfordian's works.

Leeds likes to shout about what it has got but it has got nothing to rival Saltaire – indeed few cities have.

Mr Baxter, I can report, still cuts an instantly recognisable figure unlike this humble columnist who has the benefit of anonymity in situations like these.

So it was with no interruption that Mrs S and I enjoyed a shared sausage butty with our tea and coffee, save for the gentle banter of a café regular, interrupting his perusal of the Sunday Times to instruct us on the finer points of Saltaire café life – where to sit, how to pay and the like.

This, we reflected, was how Sunday mornings should be; calm, unhurried, with a good breakfast to be enjoyed at leisure followed by a walk in inspiring surroundings.

Unfortunately, like most parents, our Sunday mornings tend to be dictated by the needs of the children and so wonderful moments like last Sunday's are a rare luxury.