Luck, Love and Dog Sledding

Three crucial events in the Springheel calendar take place over the next two days.

Tomorrow is Friday 13th. Springheel’s maternal grandmother would not venture from the house on this date, although given the misfortunes that befell the poor woman in her early life (Father lost at sea in the Great War, husband and two children dead of TB in one year), I don’t think one can really blame her. In a contrary spirit, I adopted 13 as my lucky number years ago and I make it a point of honour to be out and about on Friday 13th, which I suppose (given that I am in a particularly acerbic humour at present) ensures that it will certainly be an unfortunate day for everyone I encounter.

Saturday is a day of twofold significance. Firstly, it is St Valentine’s Day. Now, those of you unluckily born overseas may consider all Britons to be emotionally repressed, unromantic souls, sadly unfamiliar with the arts of Love. Compared to the dashing Italian, the passionate Spaniard, the sensual Frenchman, you might feel that we are, well…dull.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Beneath the tweed-clad breast of every right-thinking Briton, there lies a heart capable of great passion, of undying loyalty, of fanatical devotion. This is, I grant you, normally channelled into football, rugby, cricket or fishing. But it exists. It is present. In my own case, my passion for a certain scarlet temptress has been well-documented. I have laid before her the richest gifts available: digital tuners, tweed and leather cases, the compositions of Stephen Foster. And I have devoted long and painful hours to her. But Saturday is not a day dedicated to my Ukelele.

It the day on which I demonstrate my profound affection for the memsahib.

I have already acquired a card with a suitable picture (a selection of brogues arranged in a heart shape on a background of Harris tweed, Fox-framed umbrella acting as Cupid’s arrow) containing the message “You’re a chum, Old Girl”. And people say we bottle up our feelings!

And as a token of my esteem, I have purchased choice gifts - a bottle of 12 year-old single malt whisky and the memoirs of Sir Ranulph Twistleton-Wykeham- Feinnes. It is regrettable that the memsahib doesn’t drink and has no interest in exploration but I think you’ll agree that the thought is what counts, and of course they will not be wasted, should she capriciously reject them. I confess that I have noted that she has an inexplicable tendency to do so, no matter how much time and trouble one takes at the vintner’s, the bookshop, or Stilton section of Paxton and Whitfield’s. But I suppose that is the mystery of womanhood for you.

Oh yes, and the third crucial event?

Good Lord man, d’ye mean you don’t remember? Saturday sees the start of the Yukon Quest! 1,000 miles of dog sledding from Whitehorse Yukon, to Fairbanks Alaska. No Lance Mackey this year (He’s focussing on the Iditarod) – so the question on the lips of everyone in fashionable society is, of course, who will take his crown? And of course, how will plucky British entrant Mark Sleightholme do?

I will endeavour to keep you all up to date.