We have just encountered an old friend on the taxi rank.
He is a friend so old that he recalls Lucy’s name as being Tiddles, which it has not been ever since she was old enough to shout: “No!”
Mark and I were having a quiet cup of tea when we saw him, and there was one of those lovely revelatory moments when you realise that the person you are seeing is not merely an older look-alike, but the real thing.
We were partners in crime when Numbers One and Two Daughters were at school, because he was not only their teacher, but the head of house, or something important. He used to come round for tea after school every night and help keep them out of trouble. This took some doing, because they were absolute rascals.
Of course seeing him triggered lots of long-ago memories. We were so pleased to see him again, and spent ages after he had gone reminiscing about past times, and Numbers One and Two Daughters in their age of villainy.
I am not going to tell you about those times, you will have to ask them yourself, suffice to say that life was far from the sedate and elderly trundle that it is now. We had a lodger called Mad John and a couple of extra resident teenagers, all of whom were the most brilliant good fun, no wonder I have got grey hair.
We had the usual late start to the day, inspired by the late finish to the night. Once we were out of bed we reluctantly set about cleaning.
We have been putting this off for ages. We have been looking at the dust and thinking how much better we like the house without it, but of course the sun has been shining, and the camper van has been calling, and dusting is so dreadfully, bone-achingly boring.
Today it was raining, and we only had a couple of hours before we went to work, so Mark cleaned the bathroom, and I cleaned the office and the bedroom.
It was every bit as boring as we had expected it to be, but at least it was soon over, and then when we had finished I wished that we hadn’t, because Mark announced that he was going to massage my back.
You might remember that I have a tiresome and continual problem with a trapped sciatic nerve. This is an especially irritating ailment which has been most effectively described as being ‘like toothache in your leg’.
It seems to be caused by a slipped disc in my back. Occasionally Mark helpfully pokes this back into its proper place for me. This is effective but excruciating.
Of course back problems are the ongoing curse of taxi drivers, the hours in the driving seat compress your spine and you have got to get out and stretch and walk about often. The thing is that when it is raining, as it is sometimes here in the Lake District, getting out and walking about leaves you sodden and grumpy for the rest of the night, and so I confess that I do not do it as often as I should. In consequence, and predictably, I have now got a limp.
Number One Daughter has helpfully prescribed some handy exercises which I am sure would be more helpful if I did them three or four times a day, which is what I am supposed to do. I wish she could just prescribe one strong one that I could just take once a day, like a blood pressure tablet, because at the moment I don’t have very long after an exercise before I have to start feeling guilty again.
Massage helps. That is to say, it helps afterwards. At the time it is not at all a sensual relaxing experience. It is intimate only in that we have got to shut the dogs outside because they keep trying to rescue me.
It was a squeaking and protesting sort of experience, with some bad language. If you had been walking past the window you would have been forgiven for imagining that Christian Grey had come to the Lake District for his holidays.
Obviously now I am much improved. I am sitting on the taxi rank and I am pleased to be able to say that I am not hurting anywhere at all.
I apologised to Mark for making such a dreadful fuss and explained that I was grateful really.
He said not to worry, because it had been entertaining.
I took the picture at work. I love the Lake District at this time of year.
