It has been a hazy sort of day, with watery sunshine and a quiet, muted, muffled feel to the air.
We have been sitting patiently on the taxi rank since lunchtime, out of an anxious sense that we need to optimise our potential income whilst people still think that holidays in the Lake District are a better idea than saving up for Christmas.
This is because we are, as usual, completely broke. You will remember that we are going on holiday in a few weeks, less than three, actually, and are trying to make sure that we pay all the things that need paying, like the school fees and the mortgage and the electricity bill, before we set off, in order to avoid the scary-envelope-on-the-doormat-when-we-get-back experience that is the inevitable reward of recklessness. We are familiar with this experience due to past events of recklessness, and are trying to avoid repeating the sensation.
Despite these laudable intentions, we had an epic fail (note the use of topical slang gleaned from talking to the children, which I believe deserves a role to play, albeit a small one, in the vocabulary of a modern diarist, also I like the sound of it, it sums the experience up very nicely, so I will repeat it) – an epic fail in the cash hoarding department this morning.
We had every intention of going to work and amassing large quantities of money to pour into the bottomless steep-sided chasm that is our current account, sacrifices to the wild and demanding gods that lurk therein.
However we were still making sandwiches and groaning about backache when the phone rang and it was my parents.
Sometimes it is not a good idea to talk to my father. When the conversation started I was just explaining to them that we were going to have to pick Number Two Daughter up from the airport in Manchester at seven thirty on Monday morning, and that this was a tiresome event because of having to get up early and drive through traffic and so on.
This conversation progressed through several calls as we all explored our feelings about meeting up with Number Two Daughter. The final outcome of this was that within half an hour we had all booked ourselves into the airport Hilton for Sunday night, with plans of sociability in the lounge and glasses of wine instead of a sensible early night at home: then we would meet her off the flight the next morning, refreshed, apart from any lingering hangovers, but still without the trauma of a tiresome drive from the Lake District before breakfast: and then return to the Hilton en masse to partake of their splendid buffet breakfast and listen to her stories of international jet setting.
I liked this idea very much indeed and felt instantly cheerful and excited. However, it could hardly be described as being compatible with an economy drive, so we had to get our act together and go to work after that, instead of loafing about drinking coffee and occasionally throwing the tennis ball over our shoulders into the garden for the dogs to fight over.
I made a hasty visit to the library first. I haven’t been there for ages, because we just seem to have been constantly occupied doing other things, and it was very nice indeed because they had some new books, all of which I borrowed immediately, and because I could catch up on the librarian’s latest adventures and exchange opinions about Jack Straw’s memoirs.
After that Mark hoovered the taxis out, and I made us a flask of tea and a taxi picnic, and we went off to earn the funding to support my extravagant tastes.
The difficulty is that there are so many very nice things to do in life, and I really don’t want to miss any of them.
It will be lovely to stay at the Hilton. There will be hot water in the taps and everything. There will be smiling people in waistcoats hovering beside the table waiting to top my wine glass up, and then bacon and sausages for breakfast. Mark will have a shave and wear his tweed jacket and expensive aftershave and I will feel contented and privileged and full of well being with my happy life.
I just hope that lots of people would like to go to places in taxis tonight.
