I am still plague-ridden.
My head has been filled up whilst I slept, probably through my ears, with a revolting thick glue which has dribbled into every cavity, like flood water in an Ambleside cellar.
Originally watery and prone to surprise leakages, this substance has now become set. I am as thoroughly blocked as if somebody had squirted silicone up my nose.
This is not a pleasant experience. Mark is rather better than I am and pointed out hopefully this morning that some people find the experience of being unable to draw breath quite an erotic one. I assured him very firmly that I was not among them. Of all the thoughts which have been inspired by my current affliction, ‘goodness me, how exciting this is, let me take all my clothes off’ has not been among them.
I have taken lots of pain killing drugs. Since I am not in pain I hoped they might at least produce a happy sensation of good feeling to counter the horribleness of breathing like a cow who is trying to see what you are doing with her nose pushed up against the kitchen window. In fact they have done no such thing, so just in case you are ever in my position, my advice would be to stick to cognac, which is probably rather cheaper anyway.
I can’t stick to cognac because I am out at work. This is because we have spectacularly run out of money. We have had a magnificent time over the last few days, and purchased many soul-uplifting memories, but when we got up this morning we realised that we had got £1.98 between us to last until the New Year and hence thought that it would probably be prudent to attempt to raise a bit more.
So far we have not been terrifically successful, probably because of nobody thinking that they might fancy a short break away in the Lake District on a wet Friday night just before Christmas. If there are any tourists here they have settled down in their hotel lounge with a full glass of cognac and good cheer and are jolly well not considering going anywhere.
I don’t mind this because I have got time to write to you and have managed to catch up with The Archers. Both of these are good things, and also I went to the library yesterday and have got an interesting book all about the consequences of China’s one-child policy. Apart from not having any money I don’t in the least mind sitting here undisturbed.
We spent some more money this morning as well, because it was the Day For Collecting The Christmas Goose.
Fortunately we did not need to pay for this out of the £1.98 we found in the bottom of the washing machine, because we have been saving up our two pound coins for this very purpose.
We emptied out the skeleton money box when we got up, and to our great happiness we had raised exactly enough to pay for the goose. We set the washing off and emptied the dogs and set off for Coniston.
It was a very wet morning, and Coniston was grey and sodden. The farm was one of those ancient crumbling places with oak timbers and mossy slate walls. We beeped the horn to get somebody to come and pay attention to us, and five minutes later we were the proud owners of a Christmas goose.
They are terrifically fatty and a single goose will keep you in good pastry for ages. It is years since we have had goose for Christmas, not since Mark’s father was briefly working on a poultry farm and turned up with an absolutely enormous one as a surprise one year. I had completely forgotten how they ought to be cooked, apart from vaguely recollecting that you have to prick them so that the fat leaks out, so I had to look it up.
I have remembered now, and am quite looking forward to it. You put the goose directly on to the oven shelf, not in a tray. You put the biggest tray that you have got on the shelf underneath the goose and chuck your potatoes in that with some garlic. The goose fat drips down on to them and you pour it off into your pastry kilner jars when the whole lot is cooked. Carrots are best mashed up with chestnuts and ginger and honey, and sprouts are best given to the guinea pig.
I am sure it will be splendid.
If not then we will just open the champagne and not worry about it.
