TOM JACKSONTentative plans are being made for the
Almond-Crampton (my wife didn’t change
her surname when we married; one surefire
way to annoy her is to call her Mrs Crampton)
family Christmas. Nicola, optimist that she
is, thinks we will be allowed to travel from
London to Hull in late December. I have my
doubts, but she’s booked a hotel anyway, with a
refund option if we cancel three days before.
Nicola’s parents live in Anlaby in the
western suburbs. Her youngest brother,
Colin, and family are in Brough, a village
five miles further along the A63. Her
other brother, Jonathan, lives in Edinburgh.
If the Sturge allows it, he may come south
in his camper van. Colin actually owns
a business converting camper vans (it’s
booming – one of the silver linings of the
pandemic), so we could borrow a van from
him and park up somewhere in that, but we
thought it might get a bit cramped, the four
of us plus the tree.
Long story short, Nicola booked the
Premier Inn in Hessle, halfway between
Anlaby and Brough, just there on the
Humber Bridge roundabout opposite the
municipal tip. Nicola initially thought the hotel
overlooked Hessle foreshore, a picturesque
spot by the bridge with a sweeping view across
the estuary, the refineries at Immingham
Docks poking up along the south bank, if
memory serves. But no, it’s opposite the tip.
Still, £202 for four of us for three nights?
Seventeen quid per person per night? A twin
room and a double? You can’t expect scenery
at those prices, can you? And it’ll be handy
for recycling wrapping paper.
It’ll do the family good to stay somewhere
a bit budget. While I stay in Premier Inns
regularly for work, Nicola and the kids are
used to something a bit more upmarket. A lot
more upmarket in Nicola’s case, at least when
she worked in the City in the glory days of the
late Eighties and early Nineties. Although two
years ago, driving through France, we stayed at
a place in Beaugency on the Loire that was so
scary we called it the Murder Motel. Fortunate
to escape with our lives, we were.
That same night, we were having a drink
by the river and a bird shat on my shoulder.
So obviously our luck was in.
Also, scoping out Durham University with
Rachel when she was deciding where to apply,
my daughter and I checked in to the sort of
rudimentary accommodation above a pub
where the receptionist is always unaccountablyfurious and demands full payment in advance.
“Daddy,” said Rachel, on first sight of the
specially narrow beds, minuscule TV and
view of a brick wall, “this is horrible.”
I don’t know what we’ll be able to do, as
regards sallying forth from the Premier Inn to
meet the extended family. Maybe no contact,
not even via the hug curtain in my parents-
in-law’s garage, will be permitted. Maybe we’ll
be able to meet in the garden. Or have a walk.
Maybe involving a “substantial meal” outdoors
using essential shopping items only. Two
metres apart. Or one metre. In a hazmat suit.
Maybe we’ll end up just making a flying visit,
there and back in a day (“doing it in a one-er”,
to use the Hull idiom), quick mince pie on the
porch then back to the Smoke.
The social-distancing rules remind me of
the famous Lord Palmerston quote about the
intricacies of the Schleswig-Holstein question
in mid-19th-century diplomacy. “I’m one of
only three people ever to have understood the
Schleswig-Holstein question,” said the prime
minister and former foreign secretary. “One is
dead; the second went mad. I am the third and
I’ve forgotten all about it.”
“If only we could stay at Westbourne,” said
Rachel when we told her about the Premier
Inn plan. Westbourne being shorthand for my
mum and dad’s house, sold after my mother’s
death five years ago. If only indeed.
That mention prompted Nicola to tell
the story of the time we’d managed to
double-book Christmas dinner at both sets
of parents and didn’t have the heart to cancel
either one. Pure sitcom stuff. “What did you
do?” asked Sam. “Ate them both,” Nicola
replied. “And then barely moved for the
next 36 hours,” I added.
Then there was the time nine years ago,
the first Christmas after my dad’s death,
when I’d just been to Africa for work and
came down with what may or may not have
been dengue fever, or a bad reaction to an
insect bite, but definitely wasn’t malaria,
thank goodness, and I ended up on Christmas
Eve in Hull Royal having tests and feeling
absolutely godawful.
They let me out on Christmas Day, but
I still felt ropey for some time afterwards. No
double festive lunch that year; in fact, not even
one. I guess it balanced things out. However
things play out this time around, it can’t be
worse than that. n[email protected]‘My lockdown
Christmas is booked
already. It’s all back
to my room – at the
Premier Inn in Hull’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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