We finished work early enough last night to have a final together hour with the children before we all had to go our separate ways.
Lucy was going out early in the morning today, and Oliver was going back to school. It was the last chance that we would have to be all together until the Christmas holidays, which are an awfully long time off.
By one o’ clock in the morning we were sitting round the kitchen table giggling. The conversation turned to things that we find troubling, and Oliver confided in us that he thought perhaps the middle flight of stairs might be haunted.
We were all fascinated by this idea, and everybody except Oliver thought that it would be brilliant if they were.
We all went up and sat on the middle flight of stairs and waited for a ghost to appear, which it didn’t.
After a while we talked to the ghost and asked it politely if it would oblige us by materialising, but it didn’t.
Oliver pointed out that there was a terribly cold feeling, but Mark said that it was the draft blowing down from the attic window.
We turned all of the lights off, in case that helped, and waited patiently, but we didn’t see a ghost. Nothing creaked mysteriously, or banged inexplicably, no lights flickered and no windows flapped open.
I don’t know how people have got the patience to investigate hauntings. It took us about ten minutes before we got completely bored of hanging about, and trooped off back downstairs. We made Oliver promise that if ever he feels as though there might be a ghost there again, he would call one of us immediately, so that we could get it to introduce itself.
We concluded that if there was a ghost it was not very brave, and did not feel like facing all of us together: or that just possibly there might not be a ghost, just a need for more insulation in the attic.
When we woke up this morning Lucy had gone out, and Oliver had not seen the ghost yet.
We had got to get ready for the trip back to school.
We had suggested to Oliver that perhaps I could take him back to school in the car whilst Mark went to work, but he had been so sad at the idea of not all going together in the camper that the plan had been scrapped without further discussion.
In consequence of this we were obliged to get everything ready for work before we set off for Yorkshire. We were busily dashing round making last-minute preparations when Oliver ambled down the stairs wondering if I had forgotten that I had said he was a scruffy oik, and must have a haircut this holidays.
There followed an emergency telephone call and some beseeching of the barber, who kindly agreed to squeeze Oliver in as a special consideration.
We emptied the two-pound-coin collection and dispatched Oliver to be restored to respectability.
We were almost ready to go when he returned, and obliged him to go and have a hasty shower, despite his protests that he had had two showers this holiday already, sometimes life can be cruel.
In the end we set off to Yorkshire, leaving the ghost by itself in charge of the house. Tiresomely when we got back it had not done the washing up or folded the washing or even hoovered, perhaps somebody has told it the Netflix password and it is whiling away eternity watching episodes of A Game Of Thrones. It must be doing something. I got bored after ten minutes of hanging about on the stairs.
We left Oliver at school, where he disappeared into a crowd of other freshly-trimmed freckled youths, and left feeling sad.
Christmas is such a very long time away.
Have a picture of the Lake District.
