We have got Lucy at home for the exeat weekend.
I got up early and went to York for her this morning.
She bounced out of school looking gloriously cheerful and healthy, and flopped into the car with a huge grin.
Sixth form is splendid, she thinks, and told me all about it. She is doing psychology, theatre studies and business studies, and all of them are marvellously interesting and jolly good fun. She was originally doing maths as well, but in the end we thought that three was enough, and that there should not be any bits of the working week that you are dreading.
She went out to a Thai restaurant with her friend for her birthday, and rang her new driving instructor to book her lessons. She goes to the Sixth Form Drinking Society in the cellars at weekends sometimes, where they learn to drink wine under the supervision of a girls’ boarding house mistress. The idea of this is that they do not turn instantly into idiots when they get to university but get a bit of practice beforehand.
She does not think she will go to university, not least because of the colossal cost. At the moment she thinks she would like to enjoy a couple of years in the Sixth Form and then buzz off to Sandhurst where she will learn to shoot straight and order people about, after which she will join the Military Police and eventually have her own security company. I think this sounds brilliant and am very impressed. I hope she does it.
I told her all about moving out of the shed, and she felt sorry for poor Daddy. Then I told her about The Dinner tomorrow night, and she laughed a lot.
She managed to think of lots more ways that we could mess it up, because she knows us. Also she has had sophistication lessons at school and knows how to sit and wag cutlery about properly and what not to do with a napkin. She said instantly that I must tell Daddy not to blow his nose on it.
I explaned my anxieties about the menu, and she said that she would have a look when we got home.
She did look, and between her and the lodger, who is also a waitress, they offered sensible advice about the way to behave when out for dinner. They both said not to worry about waitresses spitting in the food, because I would never know anyway, even if they had.
They read through the menu carefully, and although nobody could throw any light on garlic aioli. In the end I had to look it up, and for your information I have discovered that it is in fact mayonnaise.
This is a difficulty I have noticed before in expensive restaurants, it seems as if they don’t want you to know in advance what you are going to eat, as if surprises should cost more.
Lucy and the lodger explained that I should avoid telling my black pudding story, about the pig wee, even if somebody orders the roast duck with black pudding. They were quite determined about that, so determined that I feel a bit like Basil Fawlty not mentioning the war. I shall have to concentrate about that.
The lodger said encouragingly that at least we knew how to pronounce Merlot, although Lucy pointed out that this hardly counts as a qualification in sophisticated dining. They both thought that it would be a nice courtesy if we asked the Headmaster what he might recommend, since he had been there before, but I thought I wouldn’t bother in case he picked black pudding, which I don’t like because of the pig wee.
Lucy said that I must not mention the pig wee, because if I did then Oliver’s entire Gordonstoun career would be blighted for ever by being remembered as the boy whose mother was a bit peculiar.
I promised that I would try.
We thought not soup, because it always starts off too hot. After that it turns into something you have to eat really quickly because of everybody else having finished their starter, and it goes all over your shirt.
Definitely not the black pudding.
They do partridge with liquorice blackberries and bee pollen. I might try that. We never bothered about the pollen when we kept bees, so it will be interesting to see what we missed. I hope I don’t sneeze.
Lucy and the lodger thought that would probably do, and then Number One Daughter rang.
She was concerned about my being appropriately dressed, which I had not even got round to worrying about yet. She has sent me a shirt by special delivery, which should arrive in the morning.
I was very touched indeed, not to mention relieved, because of my own dress sense invariably turning out to be peculiar, and Number One Daughter is always impeccably turned out without a flip flop or tucked in T-shirt in sight.
How lovely my family all are.
The picture is Roger Poopy being pleased to see Lucy. He will not leave her side and keeps sucking bits of her if she leaves them in dog reach. In the picture he could reach her nose.
