I am writing this from our beautiful room at the lovely, lovely Midland.
I am exhausted and happy and stuffed full of nice food and wine. Mostly wine, I think. I am not finding it easy to type efficiently.
I think that the Midland is the loveliest place in the world, and Number One Daughter and I thought that we had stayed here often enough to consider it our town house.
It is an absolute joy to be here, somewhere so familiar and perfect and reassuringly unchanged. It never seems to be different year on year, everything is stable and calm and predictable and quietly dignified. It has been worth every moment of the effort to get here.
I can hardly tell you how astoundingly smoothly the packing up and departure went.
There was no yelling or going back for things we had forgotten, nobody was sick and poo did not feature in any way at all. We left the house tidy and clean, the car started without incident and all the wheels stayed round for the whole journey: in short, it was not like going on holiday at all.
Despite this, by the time we arrived at the Midland we felt justified in collapsing into utter idleness. We turned up at the door and Mark, whose experience of driving a taxi has taught him exactly how to get things done, resolved all difficulties by summoning a porter in a smart waistcoat and simply giving him a tenner.
This was a magnificent idea. The porter very kindly unloaded all our bags from the car and stacked them all on a trolley. By the time we had checked in he had parked our car for us and also taken the bags up to our room after which he volunteered to help us any time we thought we might feel in need of loafing about idly again.
We did feel like loafing about idly, although did not feel the need for assistance. We unpacked, and by the time we had made our way downstairs to the lounge Number One Daughter had arrived, with her entourage of brave invalids, and we convened together in the beautiful octagonal lounge.
This has a tiny hint of a Moroccan feel to it designed to be subtly exotic without being scarily foreign. I like this idea very much, it is just enough to make me feel daring and adventurous without actually needing to bother with all of the inconvenience of actually being a hippy. I can sit on in a squashy armchair in my pearls and admire the wrought iron lamps without the least discomfort.
We drank champagne cocktails with a gorgeous mixture of peaches, and began to feel joyfully, seasonally extravagant. The boys dashed off to shoot one another in the lifts and on the landings with their Nerf guns, and we settled down to hedonism.
The champagne cocktails came with large platters of bread and olives, which we thought might put us off eating dinner, but to our surprise they didn’t at all, and we devoured enormous quantities of crusty brown bread liberally dipped in hummus and then thought enthusiastically that it was probably dinner time.
Our friends had joined us as well by then, and we had an en masse excursion to a Mediterranean buffet restaurant a few minutes walk away. The gorgeous cooking smell hit us as soon as we opened the door, garlic and olive oil and spices. We occupied a large table, rather noisily, and excitedly stuffed ourselves yet again, this time with wine, and falafael, and grilled lamb, and couscous.
We are back at the hotel now, in our tranquil room. The children are in the room next to ours. The connecting door is open, and from here I can see them comfortably curled on the beds reading.
I am on our bed. Mark is peacefully asleep next to me, and in a very few minutes I shall be joining him.
I am exhausted, happy, and, I must confess, rather inebriated.
It does not get happier than this.
The picture is Oliver relaxing in the lounge.
Christmas markets tomorrow.
