The school reports arrived in the post this morning, along with the bills for next term.
The reports were excellent, so I put them on the top of the pile and the bills underneath so that Mark would be feeling cheerful by the time he discovered that Lucy’s trip to the Ardeche was costing almost as much as a new taxi: and it worked fairly well, he laughed a lot at the reports and so was fairly mellow when it got to the rolling his eyes and groaning when he found the bills.
Apart from the bills the school reports were really nice. Oliver’s report said that he was a splendid chap and remarked that he was so polite that it was sometimes hard to work out what he was talking about; and Lucy’s glowed so splendidly you could have read it in the dark. We were both very pleased and happy and felt very self-congratulatory about having such wonderful offspring.
We had a little talk about his credit card bill then, since we were in the office, and at the end of it I was obliged to go to the bank and put our Nice Things money into the credit card account. This is all right because we buy nice things with the credit card sometimes, so I didn’t mind, and what was more in the bank I had the splendid experience of catching up with an old friend and happily arranging a night out with them next week.
I was thrilled about this, it is such a nice thing to look forward to. There are six of us, three couples, and we only see each other occasionally despite all of us driving taxis round the same town. We have been friends for years, since Number One Daughter was at primary school, and every now and again we have an evening of roaring celebration together, and laugh and talk and drink until we all get a bit hazy and collapse, and then regret it dreadfully the next day.
I told Mark when I got back, and he was pleased too, because he enjoys it as well, although he doesn’t drink quite as much as I do, and tends not to get squiffy and carried away and tell rude stories and fall about laughing. However it was not lost on him that a night on the tiles will cost a small fortune, and therefore, in what must be a fairly unique experience for husbands, paying off his credit card was an action that has led to us being actually worse off than we would have been if we hadn’t. He is very brave about being married sometimes.
We did some more sums then, which was a bit depressing, but one of the things I love about Mark is that when we run out of cash, which is often, he doesn’t wonder how to make economies, he wonders how to make more money. This was what he did now, and phoned round the offshore companies to see who had contracts starting up soon, but nobody did, everybody was complaining like mad about horrible weather and saying it would be another three weeks: so that was that.
I was half upset about this because I am a rubbish pauper, I complain and whinge and forget that I am supposed to be being sensible and run up bills on the credit card. The difficulty is that there are so many very lovely things in the world, and they are all my favourites, like bluebell scented hand cream, and Chanel Number Five soap and prawns in chilli spices and Chilean wine and French wine and Spanish wine and Italian wine, although I have had one or two dodgy experiences with Australian wine – and the problem is that they all cost so much, so it helps quite a bit when Mark is earning a lot of money.
However the other half of me was really pleased because it means he will be here for another few weeks and it is nice to have somebody here who I can tell things to and who mends the car and cuts up logs. This is lovely and makes me not mind nearly so much about being broke.
In the end he spent the day fixing the camper van because we are going to go away in it soon and the brakes don’t work, which he thinks is important, and then after dinner went out to work to do the nightclub shift. I thought this was really brave and noble and half-heartedly volunteered to come with him, but when he said no, stay at home and wash up like a proper girl I was entirely relieved.
I thought I might wait a day or two before I mention that both the children need some new clothes.
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Today I feel that I must at last reveal all about this blog. It is a complete fabrication! You are all being completely taken in.
There is no Sarah.
The writer is an old spinster of 86 who lives in ground floor flat in Bayswater. Her real name, as if you hadn’t already guessed, is Georgiana Fitz. I know this because I am her father.
There is of course a Mark.
He was a taxi driver with whom she had an affair in 1939 . He went off to war in his taxi and unfortunately ran over a mine which had been carelessly left out on Liverpool docks. His beloved taxi was completely destroyed and he was devastated. He never recovered from this. He forgot all about Georgiana, and spent the rest of his life trying to rebuild his taxi. I believe he is at present in an old folks care home for dementia sufferers in Aberdeen. He sits there day after day with a Lego set trying, inexplicably, to build North Sea oil platforms. He rarely speaks but when he does the only word he says is “Taxi”. I think that in his own mind he is unable to distinguish between taxis and oil platforms. Very sad.
There is also of course also a dog, a Lucy, and an Oliver.
The dog sits in the corner of the living room and has been dead for 4 years. However every morning after breakfast she shows him a picture of the Library Gardens, grabs his tail and wags it furiously, before dragging him twice round the room.
Lucy is a goldfish who swims leisurely around her bowl in a very desultory way, with her eyes half closed, yawning occasionally. At night Georgiana puts her bloomers over the bowl to block the gas light out so that Lucy can sleep undisturbed. Which she does until Georgiana remembers occasionally to remove the bloomers, sometimes a couple of days later.
Oliver is a chubby faced, cheerful, little gerbil. Georgiana has put a rugby ball in his cage for him to play with, and he loves running about with it. He feeds entirely on ginger biscuits.
Georgiana herself is a sorry sight, staggering about the room with her Zimmer, trying to dodge all of the empty brandy bottles which litter the floor. Her racking cough, and globby catarrhal spitting are the result of a lifetime of chain smoking. She usually stubs her cigars out on the arm of her sofa, but occasionally she absentmindedly drops them into Lucy’s bowl. The care workers who visit tried to teach her how not to slobber when she eats, but now they just change her cardigans.
I am so sorry to disillusion you all like this, but today of all days I feel I must do it!
Let me point out the date…
Just a coincidence.