The Indian Summer in the Lake District is continuing, in its predictable form of an incessant monsoon.
Mark went to the farm and I re-lit my honey candle and cooked things.
I fried some potatoes in olive oil and garlic for picnics, and made a coffee cake. This turned out to be a bit dull and crumbly by itself, but superb served in a pot of cream and blueberries and honey yoghurt as part of a picnic.
Whilst I was contentedly pottering about the kitchen, my friend Kate came to see me, and we had coffee and exchanged stories about children. This was lovely, although I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty.
Regular readers might remember that the last time I managed to go and see Kate I didn’t manage to arrive there until almost eleven at night. This was unspeakably rubbish. She yawned all the way down her glass of wine and had to be polite about longing to go and put her pyjamas on and chuck us out
Kate lives miles away and often makes the huge effort involved in getting in her car and trailing all the way over to Windermere to see me. I like seeing Kate very much indeed, it is always lovely to listen to her stories: but never ever seem to organise myself sufficiently to drive all the way over to Sedbergh to see her. I am irritated with myself about this, because it is nice to visit people, and sit around in their bright kitchens being given coffee, and drinking wine, without feeling guilty about not hanging the washing up.
I don’t quite know what I do with my life but it does seem to be busy.
Whilst we were comfortably drinking coffee and exchanging stories about teenage daughters, Mark appeared back from the farm. I was surprised about this as it was still early, and mildly concerned about being discovered in the middle of such an outrageous shirk: but as it turned out this did not matter in the least. Mark had had a misfortunate incident with the circular saw in his workshop and his finger, and wanted to be patched up before doing anything else with his day.
He had made a makeshift bandage to staunch the blood out of some kitchen roll and electrical tape. I was jolly impressed with this. I would not have managed to collect the dogs and drive home with a scarily leaking hole in my finger. I would have rung Mark to come and rescue me.
Mark is not married to Mark, so he rescued himself.
We removed the kitchen roll and inspected the cut, which was a large one, along the side of his finger joint, and looked to be a bit nauseatingly deep. I washed it off with some Dettol, and Kate went to the chemist for some strips to glue it shut.
Once it was thoroughly glued shut we plastered it all up and put a splint on it to stop him bending his finger and opening the cut before it started to heal up. We had to cut the plaster open again half an hour later because it got tight as his finger swelled up, but it seemed to be still working, so it was all right.
He had decided not to bring the dehumidifier home with him, explaining that it had just been too much trouble to unplug it and dig it out of the camper van and load it into the car with his finger hanging off. This was irritating, because it is a bit damp in our house at the moment, but I supposed it was understandable, under the circumstances.
It is long after midnight now, and we are at work. You will be pleased to hear that Mark has survived so far, and says that his finger is not hurting more than one might reasonably expect.
I will let you know if it drops off before morning, but expect it will probably be all right.
NOTE TO MY MOTHER: Please do not worry. It was not actually hanging off, that was a figure of speech done for dramatic effect to illustrate the blood-soaked excitement of it all. It is still quite firmly attached. Even if it wasn’t, you still don’t need to worry. Most of our French neighbours managed perfectly well with hardly any fingers at all, due to the lunchtime drinking. He is perfectly all right, in a sore and sorry for himself sort of way, he just needs a new saw blade.
