Young people

It has been a quietly busy day.

Something a bit shocking, and a bit funny, but somehow rather splendid happened last night.

A large group of people came out of the nightclub with the clear intention of having a party together. Three pretty girls, all local, cheerful Cumbrians, jumped in my taxi, and one of the boys elbowed his way into the back alongside them, where he started being chatty and charming with the girl next to him.

We had not gone very far when the girl in the front noticed him and turned round.

“I didn’t want you in our taxi,” she said, loudly and firmly, “because you’re an idiot. We all know you spent all night last Monday buying drinks for Karen and then you took her home and shagged her. Then this week you just ignored her and wouldn’t speak to her. Well that’s really rude. So you ought to know that nobody is going to shag you this week because you haven’t got any manners.”

“Quite right,” her mate chipped in, “you bought lots of drinks for Joanne tonight but she isn’t going to shag you because you just don’t know how to behave. You don’t have to want to see somebody again but just ignoring them and not being friendly after you’ve shagged them is just plain rude. So we all think you’re really bad mannered and none of us are going to shag you.”

“Thank you for the drinks, though,” added Joanne, in the back.

I don’t think I have ever felt heat rising off somebody’s face quite so thoroughly, the poor boy was practically steaming with the humiliation.

“I don’t think I’d like to shag you either,” I said helpfully, which made the girls laugh and the young man virtually crawl under the seat. When we stopped he just shoved a tenner at me and practically ran off, and I couldn’t help but feel terribly sorry for him. I don’t suppose he will ever be ungentlemanly again, what a dreadful sharp learning curve.

I went home thinking how very brave and scary young women are these days, what a splendid world it is where people are not afraid to draw such clear lines for themselves.

When we got home we had some minor surgery to do because Mark’s idiot dog has cut her paw on something running after the sheep yesterday. It was awfully upsetting to do, because she is not very brave about pain and was feeling terribly sorry for herself.

We washed it in Dettol and squirted it full of antiseptic cream whilst she shivered and whimpered, and Mark cut a bit of her claw off that was digging into a swollen bit. I held her still and fended off my dog, who was overwhelmed by sympathy and concern and who was trying desparately anxiously to rescue her from the cruel owners who were making her cry.

After a while she realised that we weren’t actually touching her any more, and stopped squeaking, which was something of a relief because it was a very tiresome noise, I am glad I don’t have to live next door to us sometimes, it was, after all, five in the morning.

She was still sorry for herself this morning, although not sorry enough to want to be left at home instead of going to the farm, and Mark scooped her up into the back of the car and buzzed off to get on with his wall with both of them, leaving me with a sunny day to myself.

I went into Kendal. Oliver is back tomorrow, and Lucy at weekend, so I had got to go to Asda to restock on beef burgers and waffles and apple juice. Also I had got some trousers to take back to Marks and Spencer’s.

I bought two pairs together ages ago, and for some reason only wore one, which over the last few weeks has got steadily bigger and bigger. I had the optimistic thought that I might be getting thinner but Mark looked at the trousers and said that it was the elastic in the fabric which was stretching.

Fortunately I hadn’t worn the second pair, so I thought I would take them back and exchange them for a smaller size.

Regrettably this actually proved Mark right, because when I tried the smaller ones on in the shop fitting rooms they were like a surgeon’s glove and had to be peeled off with some difficulty, so I gave up on the idea and resigned myself to hitching my current ones up at regular intervals.

Mark suggested braces when I told him later, and laughed. He likes rounded women, so he didn’t care in the least which size of trousers I had got.

I think this is very fortunate.

He has got good manners as well.

The picture is Mark’s very nice wall which he has finished now. He is very pleased with it, so I thought I would show you as well.