Apologies to anybody who didn’t get yesterday’s diary entry. For some reason it didn’t share on to Facebook, I suspect I might not have pressed the right button, being the weak link in the uploading process.
It is there now, however, if anybody wants to waste half of their day scrolling down through everybody’s political outrage until they find it. However I think I should warn you that I probably wouldn’t bother, since nothing much happened yesterday, and rather like The Archers, you can miss this for quite some time before you start to find it difficult to catch up.
Nothing of momentous note has happened today either, and I am writing this in haste whilst Mark does the washing up. This is very kind of him, because he has spent the day repairing the camper van, which is quite enough effort for any day: but he has decided that he wants to go to bed, and the best way is if we get everything done all at once, which means the sort of division of labour where he does the labour and I write to you. I have taken a photograph of him in his noble efforts for you to admire.
You will understand from this that we have not gone to work. Instead we are having a night at home, we have eaten dinner from plates and had tea from the teapot, instead of doing all of this out of an assortment of flasks the way we do when we are at work. All of this needed washing up, hence Mark’s heroic labours.
It has not been a long night at home. We are trying to get things done in the countdown to Christmas. Mark was at the farm until half past nine, and although I was at home I was not sitting drinking tea with my feet up but scrubbing the mould off the kitchen windowsill and making mayonnaise.
Tuesdays are a bit of a short day anyway. We are very late getting up on Tuesdays, partly because the weather is horrible and it is lovely to sit warmly in bed with coffee, looking out of the window at the sleeting rain.
Also it is usually about five o’clock in the morning when we actually get to bed on Monday night, because Monday night is when all hotel staff go out and drink. Hotel staff tend to get themselves into such a state of insensibility after having to be polite and charming to people all week that even the ones from the hotels in the middle of the village have got to get taxis home.
I am not in the least surprised. It must be a very difficult way to earn a living. If I don’t like my customers I stop the taxi and tell them to get out, but hotel receptionists tend not to be able to do this.
We ferried them about until the last of them had finally given up and gone to ground, and then we came home. It is so quiet in the Lake District that we didn’t think there was much point in bothering tonight, our financial success last week was marked by a particularly uneventful evening where we earned eighteen pounds between us in six hours on the taxi rank. Therefore we could take the night off with a completely clear conscience, and get on with some other things.
As I wrote the last sentence Mark tipped the water down the sink and has started drying his hands. My time is up, we are going to go and get ready for bed.
It s an early night as well, we can get lots done tomorrow.
Hurrah.
