I am a failed human being.
We were supposed to be going to work tonight and actually forgot.
Once we had made an irretrievable mess of things there didn’t seem any point in worrying about it and so I am now on the third glass, yes, the third glass, of Merlot.
We have finished the bank holiday weekend, but have not quite made enough cash to cover all expenses, so we thought this morning that we would work tonight.
This seemed like a sensible plan. We thought that we would go to the farm first. Then we milled about organising our lives at home for a while.
When the post came, to our surprise, as well as the usual half dozen letters extolling the virtues of Tim Farron and Theresa May, there was one from Gordonstoun.
Labour don’t bother to canvass in Windermere.
Gordonstoun had sent us a kindly letter inviting Oliver to spend a long weekend with them in August.
It looks like an ace weekend, with sailing and adventuring and bushcraft and dancing and a barbecue on the beach.
Oliver was thrilled.
Obviously they have picked the August bank holiday weekend for this extravaganza. I imagine that this is because most of their parents will not be trying desperately to earn a living on those dates.
There is absolutely and completely no question at all of us driving to Inverness and back instead of staying in Windermere and squeezing every possible penny from the Lake District tourist trade. We miss everybody’s birthday party and wedding party and anniversary party over the summer because of weekendly financial considerations.
Oliver was cast down.
We rang Number One Daughter and her accommodating family.
They are the obvious choice to accompany him on such an outing.
Number One Daughter enquired acidly whether I had looked at a map when I thought of her as being the obvious parental substitute at such an event.
She lives in Surrey.
I assured her that she would have such a lovely time that it would be well worth a thousand miles of driving.
I could hear her scowling and sighing at the other end of the telephone, but all the same she said that she would do it if she had to, and as long as she wasn’t doing anything else more important.
This was jolly kind of her.
I suppose that it is a bit much really. We talked to Oliver, and he bravely agreed that he would go on an aeroplane on his own if he had to. This will be a brilliant adventure, he is only eleven. I think that it will be good for his soul, he can become an independent human being.
All the same, if anybody fancies a trip to the north of Scotland in August…
Afterwards, Mark and I went off to the farm. We were supposed to be building a wall for Mark’s sister, but it rained, so to our delight we could get on with our camper van things.
Mark built some scaffolding so that I could get on with painting the front of the van. Lucy has requested a dragon and Oliver an octopus.
The picture is the dragon.
The scaffolding was exciting. I mean really exciting, in the sort of way where it is loosely tied up with string and you imagine yourself lying bravely in a hospital bed in a pale blue robe wanly assuring everybody that you will be fine and then miraculously relearning to walk against all of the odds. Despite the obvious appeal of this image I was really careful.
Apart from its wings the dragon is mostly finished, another hour will do it.
Mark says that it is fat.
We spent so long happily painting and doing things that we forgot about work, and suddenly it was starting to go dark, so instead we went home and had some cheese and a glass of wine. The children talked to us whilst we did it, we are trying to understand how the world looks to young people.
Peculiar would be the word, I think.
