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Oxonmoot was rather good, methinks, and probably the one I've enjoyed the most. Gregarious is not a word I'd use to describe myself and I suspect few others would use it of me; but I did manage to talk to lots of wonderful people familiar and unfamiliar, spend money acquiring books, mousemat, mug, T-shirts and badges, and enjoy possibly the best atmosphere possible at this or any comparable event.
However, after the dance workshop on Saturday I had to wend my way homeward, first to Woodstock - where I managed to copy my pictures and video clips to disk, but not upload them to Photobucket or YouTube - and then north. It was a reflective drive, as I mused on Ents/z going on elsewhere in a series of decreasingly populated service areas, the worst being Moto at Woolley Edge on the M1 south of Leeds, which broke all the rules by being closed, and relying on the Esso petrol station as a source of refreshment. I arrived at my parents' at about 1.20am, and eventually finding bed at 3, after I'd unwound sufficiently.
Today was my grandfather's ninetieth birthday. He wasn't in the greatest of health; he'd been moved into the lounge of the residential care home where he lives, rather than his own room, and had been left in a wheelchair rather than lifted into a proper chair, about which we weren't happy. Nonetheless there was a good turn-out of family, including three of his five great-grandchildren, though there was little for them to do. My sister had cleverly bought a few activity presents for them; though in the end it meant that I spent what seemed like an eternity assembling a cardboard helmet so that Duncan, aged five, could wear it. Thankfully, he liked it so much that he was driven away in the car still behind its visor. Iona, meanwhile, liked her eighteenth-century Marie Antoinette paper doll book, but she liked the cutting out most, and wanted to go outside and start cutting the grass with scissors, which somehow seems a very eighteenth-century thing to do.
However, after the dance workshop on Saturday I had to wend my way homeward, first to Woodstock - where I managed to copy my pictures and video clips to disk, but not upload them to Photobucket or YouTube - and then north. It was a reflective drive, as I mused on Ents/z going on elsewhere in a series of decreasingly populated service areas, the worst being Moto at Woolley Edge on the M1 south of Leeds, which broke all the rules by being closed, and relying on the Esso petrol station as a source of refreshment. I arrived at my parents' at about 1.20am, and eventually finding bed at 3, after I'd unwound sufficiently.
Today was my grandfather's ninetieth birthday. He wasn't in the greatest of health; he'd been moved into the lounge of the residential care home where he lives, rather than his own room, and had been left in a wheelchair rather than lifted into a proper chair, about which we weren't happy. Nonetheless there was a good turn-out of family, including three of his five great-grandchildren, though there was little for them to do. My sister had cleverly bought a few activity presents for them; though in the end it meant that I spent what seemed like an eternity assembling a cardboard helmet so that Duncan, aged five, could wear it. Thankfully, he liked it so much that he was driven away in the car still behind its visor. Iona, meanwhile, liked her eighteenth-century Marie Antoinette paper doll book, but she liked the cutting out most, and wanted to go outside and start cutting the grass with scissors, which somehow seems a very eighteenth-century thing to do.
