Manufacturing

I was grumpy with Mark this morning because he was wandering about being vague and not being decisive and helpful and getting under my feet into the bargain.

In the end he and Number Two Daughter went to do the shopping and I forgave them because they bought nice things like flowers and smoked trout: and then afterwards Mark made the fudge whilst I got the picnic ready to take to work.

I should really refrain from fudge manufacture due to its encouraging effect on my fat-production mechanism, but it is such a delightful thing to have in the fridge if it goes right. It can be eaten in taxis and during hungry emergency moments at any time of day. I can justify not sharing it with the dogs because it is bad for them, and also if we have got fudge then we do not waste money on other terrible junk foods that we might otherwise find tempting. Thus, obviously it is a Good Thing.

Mark made the fudge, which seems to have set all right, which is a bonus, and we are contemplating dipping it in melted chocolate for added natural goodness, we have added about half a pint of cream for the same reason. Unfortunately it hadn’t set in time for work, so it had got to be left behind, but it didn’t matter because I had made sandwiches with smoked trout and home made mayonnaise and slabs of Red Leicester cheese which I can tell you now were absolute food of the Gods.

My mother phoned whilst I was making sandwiches. It has just been her birthday and I knitted her a hat just like mine, which I posted to her, and which had just arrived.

My brother and sister clubbed together for a birthday present of sending both of my parents on a long and exciting railway journey, a sort of West Coast version of the Orient Express, I think. I do not have that sort of available funds, on account of the school fees and other reckless spending, and so concluded that a hand knitted hat was the very thing to make a person feel happy on their birthday.

Certainly my mother seemed pleased, she seemed to think that a stickily-knitted hat manufactured on wet nights in between customers was the just very thing she had always wanted.

This was really gratifying, as well as very kind of her. It started the day off on a cheery note, and set me to wondering if I ought to make a start on socks. I offered to knit Mark some socks the other week, but he was not at all encouraging even though it is a handy pattern which lets you make them the exact size for somebody’s feet, imagine having soft wool socks with your toes in just the right place.

I would have to make them stripy because I have not got enough left of any one colour, but that would not matter, and I might do it as a surprise for next winter, I am sure he will like them once they are there.

It seems to have become springtime all at once, as if the swallows arrived riding on an updraught of glorious southern warmth. The air has lost its dreadful biting chill, we have left the fire to go out, and today I am not wearing a woolly vest, which is a splendidly liberating feeling, almost indecently airy around the middle. Mark has left his woolly flat cap and his tweed jacket at home, and we are still not cold. It is the most delightful sensation, and suggests that there is no rush to start manufacturing socks.

With the sunshine everything has suddenly bloomed into glorious life. The trees have erupted into green, the colours are starting to seep back into the garden: and the lovely, lovely bluebells are out, just beginning their thick woodland carpet. I can’t remember the last time we had the magnolia and the cherry blossom and the bluebells all out exactly together, it is the most beautiful time imaginable.

Of course a bonus result is that the Lake District is now bursting at the seams with people who just thought they might fancy a weekend break away. Fortunately they also like a glass of wine with their dinner and then think that they had better not drive back to their hotel, especially since they can’t quite remember which one it is, which is where I come in.

We kissed Oliver goodbye, which he was not terribly enthusiastic about, because of having Harry round creating an on-screen bloodbath  on the PlayStation, and went off to work.

I spent my evening driving around the Lake District looking at beautiful things until it was too dark to see them, but even then I could still smell them, warm damp waves of scented blossom drifting in the still air.

Life is jolly good.