It rained so hard here this morning that the few brave souls who inexplicably thought that the Lake District would be a nice place to come for a holiday in February, all got in their cars and went home.
We ignored our cars and went back to bed.
There were all sorts of things that we should have been doing, but we had a long night last night. The sleep that followed was disturbed by Roger Poopy’s desperate incontinence at about ten o’ clock, around four hours after we had gone to bed, so we had got to get up.
It was not an exciting night in the end. Mark had one tiresome customer who leaned back in through the passenger door and told him that he was going to drag him out and murder him. Mark drove off and the chap fell on the floor with an unfortunate crash. This basic sort of misjudgement is one of the disadvantages of being completely off one’s face on cocaine.
I had one intoxicated customer who didn’t have enough cash and went into his house to get some more, and failed to emerge. It was three in the morning, so I gave him five minutes and then went and hammered energetically on his door to remind him not to forget that I was waiting.
He reappeared, told me that he was looking for money, and slammed the door again. I gave him a further two minutes and then thundered on the door again. This time when he opened his door I stuck my foot in it, just to make the point.
He swore and blustered a lot when he found that he couldn’t close his door. Eventually a weary looking pregnant girl emerged from the house. She paid the fare out of her purse, punched him in the ear and told me in fluent Anglo Saxon to leave, which I did, cheerfully, having achieved the full fare, although regrettably not a tip.
Apart from that, little happened to enliven the evening. We didn’t make enough money to pay the mortgage, so we are here again tonight, sitting patiently on the taxi rank and hoping for a miracle. Miracles happen to us all the time, so I am not worried about it.
Other than that it has been a pleasant day. Its highlight was going back to bed in the middle of it, which is always a peaceful thing to do on wet, grey afternoons. After that I had a very happy conversation with an old friend who is also trying to write a book. In an inspired moment we thought that it would be enormously helpful to read and criticise one another’s efforts, in a sort of mutual encouragement society of two.
I was hugely pleased with this idea, and occupied the rest of the evening in the taxi rank completely riveted by his literary efforts, which he emailed over to me. I enjoyed them a lot more than my current book, which is about religious extremists in the American church, and which is depressing me very much.
This helped the evening pass very pleasantly indeed, so much so that I was able to be completely courteous to the horrid old man who should really consider going on a diet and who snorted and complained about the fare like a malevolent walrus.
It is now after midnight, and probably in a little while we shall be heading for home. The last of the pubs chucks the tail-end loiterers out soon, and we shall finish our evening and go and empty the dogs. I have been home to empty them once this evening already, but it was raining, and they skulked reluctantly under the table.
Not long to go now.
