This is a short entry because of it being Saturday.
As you know, most of Saturdays are occupied by sleeping and working, which makes for tedious writing, not to mention reading. It is not at all an unpleasant way of spending a day, but even by the uneventful standards of these pages it is not a captivating read.
We abandoned Oliver and Son Of Plutocrat in Lucy’s care last night in order to go off to work. As it turned out, the village was quiet, and we did not make a fortune, so we are here again tonight.
I have to say, I don’t think we have been missed at home in the least.
We got up late this morning and suggested to the boys that since it was not raining they might like to go off to the park, or to play on the trampoline, both of which suggestions were emphatically refused. They explained that school is perfectly competent at providing outdoor vigorous occupation, and that what they preferred to do once free of its energetic supervision was to loaf about in their underwear eating crisps and killing zombies for the day.
Of course we were in no position to dispute this as what we needed to do was earn cash to pay the ever-present school fee invoices, so we nodded weakly and left them to get on with it.
The dogs are very pleased to have them all home. Roger Poopy, as all dogs, is weak-kneed in his adoration of Lucy and follows her about, well, like a small tiresome poopy.
I fed them all on my usual domestic speciality of beefburgers and waffles and went off to work, where matters were considerably improved by the weekend influx of tourists, and we have been kept busy.
This is a relief, because it is handy to have cash coming in, especially as my thoughts are starting to turn towards Christmas. Quite apart from anything else, we have got to manage to have the camper van back on the road before the season of concerts and carol services and wassail, and I am itching to get on with it.
It is terribly frustrating to have to turn our attention to mundanities such as the troubling creak on Mark’s taxi suspension. My whole soul yearns to be piecing the camper van back together and chugging off down the road to find adventures and sunsets and new places to explore, it has been such a terrifically long time now.
The evening is coming to an end now. I am sitting in my quiet taxi writing this outside the Stag’s Head. When I say quiet I am ignoring the sound of female shrieks coming from the back alley, the loud-voiced male laughter from the tables outside, and the singing coming tunelessly from a rather unsteady gentleman weaving his contented way home along the road. None of these noises trouble me in the least, they are the background music to an evening at work.
I have got about another three hours to go before I can slope off home to bed. I am looking forward to it, and am going to spend some time reading my book now, instead of writing to you, because my eyes are starting to feel sore, and I have suddenly noticed that I have spent five hundred words and not purchased a single fascinating statement with all of them.
A good time to stop, I think.
