The bank holiday weekend is upon us.
All day the lake shore has been absolutely bursting with people, having picnics and ice creams on the grass surrounded by opportunistic seagulls, strolling happily up and down the lake front with pushchairs and children in tow, and taking to the lake in a huge variety of craft. There are rowing boats, and little motor boats and sailboats and gleaming white millionaire yachts, and of course the enormous steamers puffing their way up and down the lake, all packed with people having a lovely time.
The sun is shining, and although it is not hot, it is quite pleasantly warm, which helps. Everybody has peeled the outer layers of wind defences away. This might have been a mistaken choice in one or two cases, there are a few people wandering about in not much more than underwear and their greyish, hidden-all-winter shoulders have immediately turned a rather spectacular glowing pink, in ridiculous contrast to a few visiting Arabs, who have prepared for the English climate by enveloping themselves in woolly hats and gloves and who are still looking pinched.
I have lurked out of the way of it all in the shelter of my taxi, where I am shielded from the sun’s glare but still pleasantly warm. I have got a detective story to read and am having a nice day.
I like detective stories, although I always have to read the end first, because it spoils my pleasure in the story if I am worrying too much about who might have done it. I can’t think about particularly impressive turns of phrase or original and evocative images if I am hastily turning the pages to try and resolve the worrying question of who did the horrible deed. Much nicer to know, and then admire the author’s cleverness in leading you down unexpected byways or diverting your attention or cleverly slipping in clues where you might not notice them. I know now perfectly well who was responsible for the dreadful events in this one, and I am contentedly revelling in a story well-told.
Every now and again people have come and interrupted my contented solitude with their transport requirements, and I have had to sigh and turn my attention to ploughing through the queues of cars full of holidaymakers hopefully trying to find their way around the town, shout at the children and stare at the scenery all at the same time. I can’t blame them for this as everywhere is at its very nicest at the moment, scarlet and pink and gold blossoms in all the gardens, great clouds of bluebells in the woods and the Langdale mountains purple in the distance beyond the lake. It is a joy to see, but it is always easier once the evening descends, and it goes dark, and people abandon their cars and start drinking.
Tonight is going to be a late night. We parked the children at home with Number One Daughter and Number One Son-In-Law and Ritalin Boy, who are on a brief visit, and they got a Chinese takeaway and watched a DVD and had a splendid evening together. I was very pleased about this, it made me feel much less guilty about leaving them all home alone whilst we buzzed off to go and spend the evening raking cash in from drunk people.
Lucy and Number One Daughter have been shopping this afternoon, for clothes for her school summer holiday, and returned with a collection of exactly the sort of clothes the teacher in charge of the canoeing trip explained at the parents’ meeting would be entirely undesirable.
Of course Lucy missed that bit on account of arriving absent-mindedly late, and Number One Daughter doesn’t care, and both of them fell about laughing at my lack of understanding of teenage taste when I suggested that they buy some of those handy trousers where the legs unzip to make shorts. She now has a collection of low cut vests and hot pants in direct contravention of everything we were told would be appropriate to be worn by a Girls’ School On Tour.
Since I can’t see what the teacher in charge is going to do about it as he can hardly make her go canoeing in the nude, I have done what most rubbish parents of teenagers have done for generations, which is rolled my eyes and pretended not to know. I will pack it all anyway and pretend that he didn’t say it. Since they will all be in the Ardeche and I won’t it won’t trouble me in the least.
As the day turned slowly into night one of the lakeside hotels hosted an enormous firework display, which was splendid, and everybody stood around in the road to watch it and sigh happily. I did as well. I like fireworks very much.
It has been a very busy holiday.
