We woke up this morning to the horrifying discovery that it was two o’ clock in the afternoon.
The day was so grim and dark that it didn’t seem to matter very much, and so we sat around and had a cup of coffee in bed anyway.
It was a terribly gloomy sort of day, filled with a chill mist and drizzling rain. When we came downstairs I lit some candles to be bright little points of good cheer in the grey kitchen.
Mark went to the farm, even though there wasn’t much daylight to start with, and not much left at all before night time. I went to the bank, which was actually quite lovely. All of the shop windows were brightly lit and pretty, a bit like being in a story by Charles Dickens.
Charles Dickens came to Windermere once, he did exactly the same as everybody else does even to this day: and went to the pub in Bowness. I don’t think they had invented the night club then.
When I came back the lodger had arrived back from work. She is looking for a flat or a house to rent. I think that this is a splendid idea, because our loft is not exactly the accepted idea of penthouse living, but the house will be very quiet without her.
I told Number One Daughter about this on the telephone this afternoon, and she snorted and said it would be just in time for Number Two Daughter to get fed up of Canada and come back and move in.
I had phoned Number One Daughter to find out what her emergency had been when she phoned us up at seven o’clock this morning, just after we got in from work. Obviously we didn’t answer the phone because of being in bed asleep, but when I saw the missed call I was alarmed enough to call her back.
She explained that she had been driving to school with Ritalin Boy and they had agreed that it would be funny to ring me up just to see what I said.
I told Mark about this later, and he pointed out that I would have laughed a lot about that in her place as well.
After that I got on with apple processing.
I have now made three jars of apple jelly and six jars of chutney. The chutney is jolly interesting because of being loaded with garlic and chillis. My fingers were on fire for ages after chopping up the chilli, and everything I ate tasted of Indian restaurants. I am very glad I no longer suck my thumb, it would not be reassuring at the moment.
Mark came home with the news that his mother was going to come and see us, so I had to have a hasty clean up of chutney-and-jam splodges. There were a lot of these, and one horribly large one on the carpet where I slipped with some apple juice. I think I probably haven’t managed to clear it up properly, so eventually it will start to smell like apple mould with trodden-in-dog-hair. I am looking forward to that.
Mark’s mother had come to visit a dying friend and bring us the paperwork for the field. She stayed to listen to stories of children and taxis, so we didn’t go to work, but the lodger told us afterwards that it had been rubbish and nobody had been about, presumably apart from about thirty unemployed taxis.
We celebrated Mark’s mother’s unexpected visit by opening a bottle of our home-produce wine, Chateau Windermere 2014. This was unusual and possibly not very good for us, especially since we drank the whole bottle. It tastes rather like a very dry sherry and is inexplicably brown coloured. No matter how you tried to classify it, red, white or rose simply wouldn’t do. It is very definitely brown wine.
We drank it anyway. We still have six bottles left.
I might give it to people for Christmas.
