Saturday 1 September

We leave the van at really silly o’clock as we know we have an 1¼ hour journey, the session starts at 9.00am and seats are allocated on a first come first served basis. By the dint of power walking from the train to the stadium, we manage to be near front of the queue. Prior knowledge from yesterday means that we are aiming to secure seats on the far side of the stadium in block 225. The less informed are pouring in to the nearest entrances so we are able to sit in the front row of block 225, right by the entrance and exit to what we have learned to call the field of play. In front of us are the competitors who have finished riding and behind us is the support network for British hopeful Natasha Baker, including her father.

We seem to have successfully avoided any irritating fellow spectators. We are here for the Individual Championship Test Grade 2, which means we will see our first medal ceremony. By now we are experts, well we know a free walk and a medium trot when we see one. There are several flighty horses in this class and some are eliminated for ‘non-compliance’. The audience is repeatedly asked to refrain from clapping until the horses are reunited with their handler, or, in some cases, ‘no applause whatsoever’ is requested. As yesterday, waving is encouraged as a substitute. All I can say is that there is some jolly noisy waving going on. When the Canadian rider is taken out of the stadium rather quicker than intended, the audience finally realise that no clapping means just that. Sitting where we do, we appear on the big screen. I try not to make the classic mistake of staring at the screen and look instead at the camera. After a great morning of entertainment, Natasha Baker wins gold with a record breaking score. Chris is excited to see that different types of tractors appear in order to adapt the arena for the medal ceremony. Now our seats are not so good as our view is obscured by the judging booths. Fortunately one of these is fork lifted away by the tractors and we are able to see something of the ceremony whilst, joining in with the National Anthem.

We travel back across London and Chris returns to the van while I meet Martha and go to the Olympic Stadium where we join Becca and Graeme. We sit on the grass for a while with a not very good view of the big screen before heading to the stadium. Having been somewhat distracted by house moving and job changing when Olympic tickets went on sale, Becca and Graeme failed to join the fiasco that was the Olympic ticket lottery. As Martha and I applied for Paralympic tickets before everyone else jumped on the bandwagon, we have several sets of athletics tickets. It was no problem persuading Chris to part with one of his so we offered a pair to Becca and Graeme, whilst all three households continued to try and failed, to get them a pair in their own right. Martha then, understandably, says she is not keen on travelling from the stadium to the caravan on her own after the evening session is over so we have a problem. At the very last minute I manage to get a single extra ticket for me. This has to be downloaded from an e.mail so I add worrying if the e.mail will arrive to worrying if the tickets I posted to Becca and Graeme will make it through the postal system. In the event neither is a problem.

My lone seat has an amazing ariel view from the very back row of what was intended to be press seats, just above the 100 metres’ track. There’s good news and bad news, I don’t like heights but I am under cover if it rains – it doesn’t. With the aid of binoculars I am able to see the other three on the opposite side of the stadium, including watching them looking for me. ‘World record weather’ is announced. Amongst other things we see the women’s shot put F54/55/56 final, the men’s javelin F33/34 final and the Irishman Jason Smythe win the men’s T13 100 metre final. It is a little worrying to note that the javelin area has been situated between the two shot pools. I wonder if they will hit each other. In between jumping up and down (‘as is customary will those who are able please stand’) for medal ceremonies there is plenty of British interest. In the absence of anyone from team GB we are quite happy to forget the history of the past 90 years and pretend that the Irish are still British. Failing that, the Australians will do, indeed almost anyone who isn’t Chinese, who seem to win pretty much everything. And clearly Oscar Pistorius must be British, especially when he breaks the world record in the T44 200 metre heats. As soon as Pistorius has run, people begin to leave and a third of the stadium is empty by 9.30pm. Although this will make leaving the stadium and our journey home easier, I still find it very irritating. Lovely to see the Olympic park illuminated at night and great that Becca and Graeme have been able to enjoy the Olympic experience like the rest of us.

Sunday 2 September

4.00am and Chris is chasing the resident peacocks off the caravan roof. He returns to the van just in time for the cockerels to wake up. The ornithological delights of this site are beginning to pale. It is drizzling when leave home and at least two of our party are wondering if the £4.50 a day parking charge at the station might have been a good idea, to avoid the walk. This weekend seems to have involved quite a bit of walking one way and another and I have developed some interesting looking blisters. After an uneventful journey we divert to M & S at Stratford in the hope of acquiring Martha some gluten free food. This endeavour fails miserably but Chris and I decide to avail ourselves of some pasta salads for consumption later. The downside of this plan is that the pasta salads are not equipped with forks and pasta is a tad tricky to eat with ones fingers. I begin a foray for something suitable. With one eye on the security cameras I acquire some plastic forks from the café. Martha says these are meant for take away salad eaters but I still feel like a shoplifter as I secrete them in my bag.

We join the thousands of people heading for the stadium and find our seats near to the front, by the 100 metre track. The commentator is having trouble with some of the more exotic names; should he not have been practicing? Unfortunately for the commentator, if last night is anything to go by, it will be those with the most unpronounceable names who win medals. The commentator has clearly been on the beer. He is introducing the long jump finalists ‘and third to throw is…’. Not only do we have the continual getting up and down for victory ceremonies but as we are on the end of a row we have to get up for those closer to the middle to leave their seats. They do this with such frequency that Chris is heard to question why he bothered to pay for a seat when most of his time is spent standing up. Our neighbours’ recurrent trips to the refreshment stands are followed by the inevitable trips to the toilets. I decide that no one who is incapable of remaining in a seat for three hours should be allowed in the middle of a row. We watch Aled Davies win gold for GB in the discus.

In the over-long gap between our two athletics session we make a trip to Canary Wharf on the DLR so Martha can eat. The only difficulty comes when Chris tries to find his travel card. He does have a travel card, in fact he has several including, one from our 6^th August Olympic trip and two for tomorrow, just not today’s. Finally he finds it and we are on our way. Back at the Olympic park we decide to go in to the stadium nearly two hours early so we can sit down. We are back in block E, high above the 100 metres track and finishing line. There is plenty to watch to pass the time. Mistress Efficient is training games makers in synchronised lane marker and block arranging. They also practice retrieving the lane markers quickly so they are not mown down by wheelchairs completing the first lap. Not easily satisfied Mistress Efficient.

The evening weather is announced as a ‘blank canvas’ and apart from the drizzle first thing, the weather has been lovely. There is plenty going on. The Cuban national anthem is quite jolly. The Brasilians have obviously been practicing, perhaps with an eye on Rio and they do quite well. Oscar Pistorius upsets the form book and is beaten for the first time in nine years by Brasilian, Olivera. We have a good view of Pistorius being interviewed by Channel 4. Martha gets a text to say he is complaining about length of Brasilian’s blades. There is a complicated formula to ensure that blade length is compatible with legs if they had any. The highlight is David Weir’s 5000 metres gold medal. Everyone is on their feet and the stadium is in uproar, this is definitely the best side of the stadium on occasions like this. More excitement follows as the Duchess of Cambridge comes out to present the medal to Aled Davies. What an incredible day.

Oscar Pistorius

David Weir

Monday 3 September

The morning Olympic weather forecast is ‘very promising’ and it is a glorious day. Back in very back row, we observe that every Brasilian athlete seems to be called Santos. The F11/12 (visually impaired) discus is in action. Some of these athletes have no sight at all and guides line the competitors up and some are shouting and clapping to give the athletes a sense of the direction in which they should throw. Paralympic GB continue to do well with Mickey Bushell conclusively winning his 100 metres heat and David Devine winning the 800 metres T12 heat. There is a curious medal ceremony where the Ukranian silver medallist is conspicuous by her absence. It turns out that there had already been one ceremony for this event and the Ukranian had initially been awarded gold by mistake because of a calculation error.

Again we have a six hour gap between sessions. Rather than add to my blisters and return to Canary Wharf on what is a very hot day, Martha nobly agrees that M & S sandwiches will suffice. Chris is suffering from his avian induced sleep disruption and falls asleep every time we pause for a few seconds, including in M & S. Back in the park we sit by the big screen with a better view this time. Inevitably, Chris, who is sitting a little way away from us, dozes off. Next thing we know, concerned games making first aiders are checking to ensure that he isn’t dead. He doesn’t seem to be, so Martha and I resume watching Mandeville and some GB judo players, Ben Quilter who won bronze and brothers Dan and Mark Powell.

We arrive early for the evening session again and watch one of the officials failing to resist the temptation to run on the 100 metres track. We pass the time trying to identify the flags and it takes us a while to realise that they are in alphabetical order. By this time the weather is ‘as promised’ and Mickey Bushell takes the T53 100 metres gold for team GB. Not quite on a par with David Weir, perhaps because it was a shorter race but exciting none the less. The women’s F20 long jump is taking place on the far side of the stadium. This is for athletes with an ‘intellectual impairment’. Martha is excited to see one of the competitors walking along a white line in pigeon steps as this is something she can identify with. She is a little less excited when we point out that the girl is just pacing out the distance for her take off marker. This is an exciting competition and the eventual Polish winner breaks the world record four times in five jumps. The first long jumper lands awkwardly and is injured. Previously Martha and Graeme had discussed which Olympic sport was the most dangerous and Martha had opted for long jump, so she is now vindicated, ‘I told you long jump was dangerous’. Mind you her grounds for selecting long jump were that she was worried that athletes might drown in the sand. We do witness two other non-sand related injuries.

The F42 (one leg amputee) men’s high jump was truly inspirational with several athletes clearing 1.74 metres merely by hopping. The gold was won by Fiji. Then a table appears on the track which is somewhat strange until we realise that it is for the sponges for the T12 5000 metre runners. We cheer on the Argentinian competitor and his guide who complete the final 1½ laps on their own. Greg Rutherford appears on the big screen; he is in the stadium signing autographs. George Osborne arrives to present a medal and is greeted by boos. There is a much better reception for Tanni Grey-Thompson who follows him. Afterward we see her again as we make our way out of the stadium.  It really was the experience of a lifetime and it will seem strange that it is all over.

Now back to historical shenanigans.

Thursday 30 August

Thanks to my helpful colleagues, I manage to abandon life in the seventeenth century early so we can head back to the big smoke for our Paralympic experience. A relatively straightforward journey and we arrive at a farm near Ilford. Quite a surprise to find a farm within a mile or so of the tube network and it all looks very pleasant with peacocks strutting round the pond and fancy bantams in an aviary. The site is distinctly lacking in facilities but that’s ok, we have our own. We park up as darkness descends. Our first attempt means that the caravan roof is being hit by an overhanging branch every time the wind blows, which is frequently. The novelty of this is going to wear off very quickly so we shove the van over a bit to be out of reach of any foliage. This works well and we are now only troubled by the occasional sycamore bract landing on the roof. Is it autumn already? I seem to have missed summer somewhere along the line. I am reminded that summer was last Thursday – silly me. I am just a bit worried by the part of the site information leaflet that says they will not pull the caravan out if we get stuck – mmm – given the amount of rain we’ve had lately that could be an issue.

I touch base with Martha to warn her what to expect, or rather not to expect, when she joins us on Saturday. Apart from no extra-van washing or toilet facilities there is also no television signal. This is partly our fault for not being prepared to exceed our weight allowance by dragging around an aerial that fills the whole van.

Friday 31 August

We discover the disadvantage of our rural idyll. The fancy bantams start crowing a good two hours before the first glimmer of daylight. There could well be a discreet pile of feathers under our van by tomorrow morning.

We set off for Greenwich in plenty of time, of course. The journey is quite straightforward so we are, inevitably, too early. We pass the Cutty Sark on the way to the venue and join a queue. Arriving early is a little more important for the equestrian events as the seats are not allocated so it is first come first served. We clatter across the specially erected footbridge to reach the security stations. The bridge does shake somewhat and I wonder how many people stood on it when it was tested. We needn’t have worried about getting good seats as we are in the front row. Today seems to be the day when everyone has brought along their under 5s in the hope that they will enjoy watching the horses. They do but the novelty wears off after about ten milliseconds and they begin kicking the backs of the seats in front of them and getting on and off  the tip up seats so that the whole row judders frequently.

Cutty Sark

The introduction to Greenwich by the passing the time commentator claims that Charles I was married to Anne of Denmark. My knowledge of the seventeenth century tells me that this would be illegal – Anne of Denmark is Charles I’s mother. The women behind us is talking incessantly and very loudly. As the first competitor’s routine draws to a close she asks if it has started yet. She can’t understand why the horses aren’t dancing ‘like on the tele’. Fortunately she is so disappointed in this that she takes herself and her unruly brood off after only a quarter of the proceedings are completed.

Continuing the ‘find a desirable job’ game from our Olympic trip we identify moving the fence surrounding dressage ring so that the horses can go in and out as a possibility. Chris is disappointed that tractors don’t feature quite so much in Paralympic equestrian events as they did in the Olympics. The people next door’s snack of choice is chocolate covered dohnuts; this may not be wise as it turns out that summer is today. The temperature reaches 75 degrees. It is just a bit of a pity that I have chosen to wear a t-shirt, a roll necked jumper, a fleecy jumper and a water proof coat. I send Chris off to purchase an attractive Olympic themed base ball cap so I don’t die of heat exhaustion. I can’t see me wearing it beyond this weekend. I then worry that he won’t be able to get back in again as I have his ticket safely secreted in my bag. This appears to be no problem. He also returns with new bottles of water; given out for free as the water fountains have broken.

Sophe Christiansen

I am fascinated by the use of ‘friendly horses’, who are brought into the ring to pacify the competition horses. In order not to scare the horses we are instructed to wave rather than clap certain competitors. The stadium, despite allegedly being sold out, is half empty. Apparently this is because the organisers felt that it the logistics of getting 20,000 people out after the morning session and back in for the afternoon session were too problematical so sales were limited. My only disappointment is that Lee Pearson, the only Paralympian equestrian competitor of whom I have heard, is not in the classifications that we will be seeing today or tomorrow. This is made up for when our girl in classification 3, Deborah Criddle, comes second and Sophie Christiansen in grade 1a gets nearly 10% more than the next best competitor. She goes on to win three gold medals.

On the way home a wasp decides that it will consume a chunk of my hand. I try not to draw attention to myself. The DLR halts outside Stratford, just by the warm up track so we can see athletes for tonight’s session getting ready. The train announcement tape seems to have got stuck and we get an echo effect with each half announcement being repeated several times. Good job we can recognise Newbury Park when we see it.

Still overwhelmed by all the Who Do You Think You Are? fall out and contacts – over 1000 website hits now. My fame may even last until Wednesday when the next episode is shown! Time to leave behind the celebrity status and get back to the day job. Most of today was spent preparing a House History course for Clovelly Community Archive Association next month. I am wondering what possessed me to book quite so many talks for September. One of those ‘seemed like a good idea at the time’ things.

I really need to write up the results of recent research commissions, so much history, so little time. Not that my latest research trip was an unmitigated success. Looking for an obituary in the local newspapers in a specific month should have been straightforward, shouldn’t it? Someone’s law dictated that the one page I needed had somehow escaped the scanning process. Do the Record Office hold the originals? The dreaded law strikes again – no. Whilst on the subject of old newspapers I should mention that I enjoyed looking at samples of old newspapers kindly sent me by Historic Newspapers. Seeing what happened on certain days in history helps to provide that all important context for family history. They also do teaching packs – always keen on anything that can help me encourage young people to take an interest in history. I can even give you a discount code should you want to order any – 15TODAY – they hold UK and US titles including some regional papers. Perhaps I should ask if they have my missing page!

Next research task involved looking at microfilm of some burial registers. I did notice one for the pre 1813 period that had a strange printed format, including columns for age, cause of death and parents’ names – just a shame that the incumbent hadn’t filled most of them in. Next, another burial register, totally illegible microfilm this time and yes you’ve guessed it, the originals are held elsewhere. Refraining from any tendency to seek out the nearest wall against which to bang my head, I moved on. Looking out some unusual Clovelly items including a list of the poorest inhabitants of Clovelly from the 1820s that will be interesting to transcribe. There are caustic comments against each name – even better. Did I bring my camera so I could photograph this? No. Can it be photocopied? No. Ah well better luck next time.

Wow! I can’t claim that my blog post about ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ has gone viral but it certainly could be described as a mild indisposition. 444 views on the blog yesterday and people retweeting the link like mad. Thanks everyone.

Yesterday I nonchalantly sauntered to the family history section of a famous magazine distributors and leafed through the publications to see if my ‘Coffers, Clysters, Comfery and Coifs: the lives of our seventeenth century ancestors’ had been mentioned. This process would have been easier if I wasn’t encumbered by a large (that would be very large) carrier bag containing a boxed electrical item but I think I managed to keep it subtle. Pleasant review in Family Tree Magazine. So while I have the attention of the world, well at least some of it, buy the book guys, please – the pile is going down nicely but there are other things I could put in the place where the 20+ boxes are stored and I expect the publishers would like to see their even larger pile continue to diminish too.

And now back that quirky existence that consititutes ‘normal’ in my life. Surely dressing in C17th costume and watching my colleagues chop off arms is normal ….. isn’t it?

Well, my moment of fame is over. I was pleased that it wasn’t reduced to two seconds of the back of my head, or worse still condemned to the cutting room floor. I even managed to maintain my telephone voice for what was over three hours of filming; normally I reveal my Sawf Lunnun accent. I really have to stop deluding myself that I am still about thirty though – face lift is booked, that is if I can’t put in for a head transplant. My daughter is not very reassuring on this matter. First she tells me that one of her friend’s parents thought I looked young, then she spoilt it rather by saying, ‘she must be watching the wrong channel’. Probably my fault for wearing said daughter’s hand me up jumper for the occasion, fortunately she didn’t spot that I was also wearing her jewellery.

Anyway, back to the story. Last September the production team contacts the University of Exeter asking for an ‘expert’ on the Bible Christians. Someone remembers that they featured in my thesis and I get a request to do some research. Unfortunately it needs to be done like yesterday and I am about to set off for Australia. I squeeze it in amongst the packing, list making and general catching up that needs to be done before one disappears to the other side of the world for a month. Then the call comes back, could I do some more? and yes, that had to be done before I went away as well.

Post Australia, the production team call again, might I consider being filmed? I send a CV to prove that someone in the family history world might have heard of me and then, just before Christmas, I meet the production team. Presumably this is to check that I can string a sentence together and don’t have two heads. I sit back to wait for the call to say that filming is to begin.

The long awaited filming day for Who Do You Think You Are? arrives. I have already had a phone call to warn me that they are running late so I set off at 1.00pm. I drive through January drizzle and thick fog, fortuitously ignoring the sat-nav at a vital point, to arrive in High Bickington. We are filming in the local chapel. High Bickington is a blink and you’ll miss it sort of a place, how many chapels can there be? More than one as it turns out. There is no parking outside the one I can find so I make the mistake of parking outside the doctor’s, down a nearby no through road. As I wander back to the chapel, wondering if it was really worth taking out a second mortgage to pay the hairdresser this morning, I am approached by the local postman. ‘Am I here for the filming?’, he asks. So much for top secret; this is SO North Devon. He does however know I am in the wrong place, yes it is, or was, a chapel but it isn’t THE chapel. He offers to let me follow his van round to the correct location. I go back for my car. I make the wrong decision. Instead of reversing back into the main road, I attempt a 83 point turn, during which attempt I seriously thought I was going to be stuck for ever. I do eventually emerge unscathed and follow the friendly postman round a couple of corners to the right location. He gets out of his van to indicate where I should park. He asks me if I can say who is being filmed, I reply that I am sworn to secrecy. As he returns to his van two eager dog walkers enquire whether he has found out anything. I think every dog owner in a ten mile radius just ‘happened’ to be walking past that chapel on that afternoon, several of them on numerous occasions. Then there was the man opposite who spent over an hour cleaning his car in the rain.

Inside the chapel a lovely lady called Margaret has turned on every available heater and is dispensing tea and coffee. The local archivist is also there to guard a document that we plan to use. They have not yet been told who the celebrity is to be. They think, based on a memorial in the chapel, that it is Tim Wonnacott. It isn’t Tim Wonnacott. Two other chapel ladies are hovering expectantly. We receive two more phone calls from the production team warning of and apologising for, delays. This is a miracle in itself as it is dependent on a) my phone being in the one part of the chapel where there was signal, b) my having it turned on, c) me recognising my ring tone and d) me being able to work out which button to press to answer it. When I say I haven’t yet used the £15 worth of credit that was on the phone when I bought it in July 2006, you’ll get the idea. The archivist is already worrying about the work he could be doing back in the office.

They arrive, much to the relief of the dog population of High Bickington and the sensation seekers can melt away; this is so not going to be a secret. The celebrity is Masterchef’s Gregg Wallace. When I learnt this I was just grateful that it wasn’t a rap star or a footballer; I had at least heard of him and could recognise him. Before his name had been revealed I had tried tracing forwards from the research I had done for the programme to see if it led to someone famous but I had failed. Once I had the name, I traced backwards to find out why – there was an mis-indexing in the records.

My cooking is of the ‘there is no smoke it must be salad’ variety but I know my younger daughter and her husband are great fans so I have bought one of Gregg’s books hoping he might be approachable enough for me to get it signed for them. I have chosen the pudding book, Gregg examines it like he hasn’t seen it before. Apparently it featured as a Christmas present on East Enders. I later discover that Masterchef is also one of my elder daughter’s favourite programmes and feel suitably guilty that I haven’t got a book signed for her as well. Gregg was wonderful to work with, completely approachable and friendly. Had anyone felt nervous they would have been totally at ease. Comments like ‘Don’t ruin this Janet, there will be 7 million people watching’, were only made after he realised that I wasn’t fazed by the experience and that non-scripted ‘performing’ wasn’t new to me. I even manage to give as good as I get. Gregg: ‘Now look, Janet, we had a list of 27 names we could have chosen from for this.’ Me: ‘Yes, but 26 of them were mine.’ He also keeps up a stream of truly awful jokes. Sue, the director is keeping a note of these for the benefit of her nine year old.

Chris the sound man shoves his hand down my jumper to attach a microphone. An enormous umbrella light is erected so that it still looks daylight when it gets dark. I have three documents to show Gregg. His ancestral story so far has been sad, well it isn’t going to get any better with my bit, or the bits that follow. We are to sit on the back pew and twist round uncomfortably to reach the documents that are on a shelf behind us. This is firstly, quite difficult to achieve without knocking each other’s knees but also very uncomfortable. After three hours we are locked in a bizarre twisted position and I am glad that am not still parked where the 83 point turn would be necessary as my neck doesn’t move. The insight into the way the programme works is fascinating. The celebrities really don’t know what is coming. Although we do have to do some retakes and go over things so we can be filmed from different angles, it is very spontaneous. Amy, from the production crew, is keeping continuity notes so she knows which part of the document we have pointed to and with which finger. It is quite an experience maintaining a conversation where only one of you knows the ‘script’ and I have to steer Gregg in the right direction so we don’t stray into areas that are not to be revealed until later on.

Finally the afternoon is over and we say our goodbyes. I tell Gregg that I am glad he wasn’t a rap artist I hadn’t heard of and he gives me a hug. As I am going out of the door Chris the sound man realises that I am still wired up to his microphone and has to retrieve it. I still have to negotiate my way across the pitch dark, uneven car park but my day is done.

 Since the programme went out last night I have been overwhelmed with messages and comments from people who watched. Some are already saying ‘Best Who Do You Think You Are? ever’ and this from people who don’t know me. It has done wonders for my Twitter following and I have heard from people I haven’t seen in years. I wonder if I will be pressed for autographs as I walk down the street or if I should look out the sunglasses before I venture out later on? If you missed it, where were you? It is available on iplayer.

Today was my day off so why then was I at work a full two hours before opening time? We had been asked to help out with a television series for the Yesterday channel to be called, I think, ‘Instruments of Death’. Our episode was to be about the weapons of the Civil War and the treatment of subsequent battle wounds. As I was member of staff without portfolio for the day I helped to get people in the right place at the right time for the production team and presenter Karl Ude-Martinez We dodged rain showers and pike drill with the visitors while the team filmed surgical treaments, musket ball making and then kitted Karl out as a pikeman. I somehow got roped in for some promotional photographs although noone in their right mind would use me to promote anything. I did even get to explain the role of rue in preventing camp fever, for the camera. Should be a really good series. Tomorrow I get to watch Gregg Wallace’s Who Do You Think You Are? and see if my part of the programme gets to be aired. All this star of stage and screen lark could go to one’s head.

Lovely day at 1646 yesterday with some very interested visitors. In one session I had a family who inhabit the C11th and a lady from the Napoleonic era all discussing our respective periods’ footwear! I am still not sure why Medieval footwear had a left and a right, whilst C17th footwear does not. I really don’t buy the theory that soldiers needed to have ambidextrous footwear so they could put it on quickly during battle. Whoever thought that one up has clearly ignored the battles of Medieval times! I did sustain a helmet related injury today. A little tricky trying to explain the delights of the armour of the pikeman with blood pouring down one’s hand. A kind lady in the audience supplied a not very authentic looking plaster and I managed to avoid getting the customers covered in gore. Their next session was with the barber surgeon so think of it as a warm up.

Exciting to receive my first royalties payment for Coffers, Clysters, Comfrey and Coifs – still waiting for the reviews in National Magazines with trepidation.

Day finished with a meeting of the Clovelly Archives Association Committee. Ok, so maybe it was a mistake to try to keep pace with the thirtysomethings up the (very steep) hill afterwards – especially after Zumbaing the day before but hey I almost managed it – or were they being kind?

This is our day at the athletics, which always seem to me like the ‘real’ Olympics. Our reluctant Olympic attendee takes some persuading but we set off for Stratford. Again no problems with the journey, despite it being a working day and travelling during rush hour. The 70,000 volunteer games makers are certainly doing a brilliant job to make the games trouble free and friendly. I support the move to make them the winning Sports Personality of the Year Team. As we leave Stratford station more sponge fingers pointing the way and games makers sitting on tennis referee type chairs shouting greetings through megaphones. When they spot a country flag they call out a welcome to the appropriate supporters, ‘Hello Canada’ and so on.

Security negotiated, we find our seats in the stadium. We are, of course, early again but it gives us an opportunity to take photographs. Once again we have excellent seats – row 5. The weather is announced as ‘British Variable’, which about sums it up. We are to see qualifiers for discus and shot put and heats of 100 metre hurdles, men’s 800 metres and women’s 1500 metres. We are quite impressed with the remote controlled car retrieving the discus and the game makers’ synchronised setting out of the hurdles and lane markers. Not seeing any finals is not actually a disadvantage as it means we see all the contestants. We enjoy cheering on the also rans who come in significantly behind the rest of the field but are none the less getting national records for obscure nations or clocking up personal bests. The shot putters crossing the track to consult their coaches during the races are however a little disconcerting.

Athletics session over, we allow Victor Meldrew, who has clearly had as much as he can take, return to the van, whilst Martha, Rob and I continue our tour round Olympic Park. There is the largest queue in the world for MacDonalds but in general, although it is quite crowded, the 200,000 people allegedly at the Park are not a problem. We spend some time watching the events on the big screen. Martha wants photographs of all the venues so we attempt to achieve this and spot Ewan Thomas giving an interview.

Andrew Osagie Team GB and eventual winner and world record breaker David Rudisha (Kenya) in the 800m heats

The concept of gluten free does not seem to have penetrated the many Olympic Park food outlets so we return to the van at about 5.00pm in order to prevent Martha starving. We do manage to visit every platform of Stratford Station before we arrive at the correct one but apart from that, our journey is uneventful. It is exciting to see the Athletics on television and be able to imagine ourselves at the venue.

Next stop Paralympics at the end of the month.

Not quite such an early start today. We got the train to Charing Cross where I noted that ‘spending a penny’ now costs 30p. We walked to find a position on the Marathon route, passing a couple of fibre glass Olympic mascots that are apparently scattered round London for us to find. We manage to get a space opposite a water and sponge station, which Martha is irrationally excited about. Collecting up discarded water bottles probably doesn’t rate as highly as equestrian pooper-scooper on our list of sought after Olympic jobs. We try to identify the flags at the water stations. Even with the help of the initials (TLS), we have difficulty with one. Once the assistant turns round, his track suit reveals that it is Timor Leste, of which more later.

Chris has still not quite forgiven us for dragging him away from Clovelly Lifeboat Day and is sporting his Clovelly Lobster festival t-shirt as if to make a point. He chats up the nearby policewoman and then exhibits his knotting skills by helping our neighbours to fasten their flag to the railings. The rain starts but that’s fine; I don my plastic poncho. This works well until Chris and Martha, who have not had the forethought to bring anything actually waterproof, try to join me. This results in water pouring down the neck of the poncho so that it is wetter inside than out. There are some bizarre sights amongst our fellow spectators, including a chap who is about seven foot tall and wearing C15^th style costume in bright orange. Perhaps he is supporting the Netherlands.

Two support vehicles go past on the far side of the road. They are followed by a lorry showing the time since the start and another with lots of media photographers covered in polythene. Then come the athletes. In all, they pass us three times on the far side of the road and three times on our side. They gradually string themselves out and it becomes evident that the competitor from Timor Leste is a long way behind the others. We get used to waiting ten minutes after the penultimate runner before Miss T-L appears and then cheering her on. There should be three GB runners, Paula Radcliffe having pulled out. One of the three never reaches us but we spot the other two mid pack. Some children opposite are cheering for each country in turn, starting with the end of the alphabet, whose water stands are opposite them. They are hoping to be given souvenirs by the officials waiting to hand out sports drinks and energy bars to their teams. It seems to work, although the inscrutable Swedish official takes a long time to crack. The Timor Leste official is entering in to the spirit of the thing and we start to feel quite sorry for him having to wait so long for his athlete to appear. In the end Miss T-L is not last as an Irish athlete fails on the last circuit and drops a long way behind even Miss T-L. It turns out that Miss T-L achieves a national record so well done her. Unlike many other spectators, we brave it in the rain to cheer these tail-enders on to the last moment.

It does take rather a long time to get back across the road at the official crossing point but this is the only occasion where we have had to wait for anything. The sun comes out and Martha and Rob decide to take a look at Hyde Park but I am deterred by the squelching in my shoes, so Chris and I return to the van.

We are glad to get back, bail out our shoes and make over the van as Dame Wishy Washy’s Laundry. We are even in time to see Andy Murray demolish Roger Federer.

We leave in good time, well okay, in very good time, to get the train to Maze Hill for Greenwich Park. As we departed in a shower, my companion has brought an over large umbrella that will probably not make it through Olympic park security. Some friendly South Africans guide us to the station. We show ourselves up as numpties from the country by trying to shove our travel passes through a barrier that is a) exit only and b) open. The expected thronging hordes are conspicuous by their absence. On arrival at Greenwich, our way is made clear by the numerous volunteers who sport large sponge fingers indicating the direction in which we should go. It does make them appear a trifle (yes, a pun) stupid but helpful none the less. We have time for a wander around before being the fourth and fifth people to enter the venue. We would have been first and second but for the three Japanese (inevitable) who managed to get in before it was actually open. We make it through the security barrier, umbrella and all. We are impressed with the organisation and how chatty and helpful everyone is. There are even people to help you work out which toilet is vacant.

Fighting our way through the crowded streets of Greenwich

We find our seats and they are excellent (row 6), the only drawback is that a speaker obscures the big screen. The stadium is not exactly full, well it is pretty much empty but we enjoy watching the riders walking the course. Some people come in looking for row 7 and sit three rows in front of us. This is odd, surely row 1 is at the bottom of the thirty or so rows of seats that tower up on three sides. It turns out that there are no rows 1-4 in this part of the stadium so we move forward for an even better view; the screen is no longer obscured and we are sat right in front of the finishing line. The jumps have been cleverly constructed to resemble landmarks such as Stonehenge and Nelson’s column. ‘Sky-cam’ runs, rather noisily, above us on wires in order to get aerial pictures of the ring.

Some tractors enter the ring. I thought we’d come to watch horses, maybe I misread the schedule and tractor racing is now an Olympic sport. Chris looks a little more interested in the proceedings at this point but it turns out they are just here to smooth out the sand.  I have identified another job to put on my list of Olympic roles I would like to fulfil. I had already decided I fancied riding the little motorised bike for the Keirin or wielding a sponge finger. Now I have added driving the tractor round the show jumping ring. An escapee from Play School introduces herself, via the big screen, as our hostess. She is seriously over enthusiastic. We start playing spot the stadium/security violations: big hats, large flags, use of camera flashes. Miss Playschool is chatting to the crowd. She has found someone with some champagne, how did that make it through security? There are a few showers. I am well equipped with my plastic poncho, low on style but waterproof. Unfortunately I fail to pull it down far enough at the back so it acts like a funnel and all the water from the poncho runs down my back to the seat. I end up sitting in a puddle and looking as if I have an incontinence problem.

The 22,000 capacity stadium gradually fills up. There are some unoccupied seats opposite, which is galling when we know people who would love to be here. The jumping commences. 75 rounds, including Nick Skelton and Ben Maher. One poor Swedish rider demolishes fence three and falls off. Oh, now there’s an even better job. There is an official Olympic pooper scooper. She even has a colour-co-ordinated long handled dust pan in Olympic purple.

Nick Skelton Team GB

Much as I like children, I decide that no one under the age of ten should be allowed in an Olympic Stadium. The ones in front, aged 1-7, are so not appreciating it and will probably have killed each other before the end. Even the well behaved twelevish year old next door but one spends most of the time reading The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. Not that some of the adults are much better. They seem to feel obliged to leave their seats with unfailing regularity. Five rounds from the end the announcer warns us that we will be leaving the stadium in row order, when asked so to do. This clearly isn’t going to work and starts a rush for the exits whilst people are still jumping. I know the stands outside sell delights such as wild boar burgers and people want to be first on the queue but this is just rude. Can these people be put on some Olympic ticket buying black list? As we leave the stadium, my companion offers to carry my bag. This seems like a good idea until I realise that, if we get separated, I will have no money, no travel card and no phone.