We had a horrible argument last night on the way to York.
I don’t know what it was about. Nothing, really. It wasn’t even an argument. I was cross and tired and shouted at Mark. He was tired as well, but he didn’t shout back.
It was awful. It was terribly cold, really, piercingly cold. The engine of the camper van wouldn’t warm up enough for the heater in the cab to work, and Mark had to stop in the end and stick some tin foil over the radiator, which helped. The stars were huge and bright in the ice-black skies, and the fells white and grim, deathly and fearful and empty. I felt miserable and small and chilled, and wished things were different.
It was half past five in the morning when we finally reached York. We chugged wearily into a layby and curled up together in our too-small-for-argument bed, like bears in a dry winter hole. I stopped shivering and fell asleep, warm against Mark in the frozen night.
I was sorry this morning when we woke up for coffee. Mark said kindly that it was because I had got upside down sleep patterns and anxiety about everything, and my life was confused and it was nearly Christmas. I made him promise that he would not leave me even if he became a dot com millionaire entrepreneur and I didn’t manage to lose any weight. He laughed until he nearly spilled his coffee and said that he likes me to be round anyway.
We realised that we were nearly late then, and had a bit of an undignified scramble into our clothes. We only just made it to school in time, but it was all right, because Nan and Grandad had been more organised, and had saved us some seats at the very front.
We couldn’t see Lucy anywhere. Nan said that she would probably be the one sloping in ten minutes after the service started, with her school blazer over her pyjamas and a cup of coffee in her hand. It didn’t matter about not seeing Lucy, because the service was glorious, lots of sensible carols that everybody knew and could bellow along with without needing to bother hunting through their handbag to find their glasses first.
Mark held my hand all the way through, so that I would not think that he thought I was the wrong shape to be married. The school does music beautifully, the choir was ace, rows of polished girls in their red choir robes, and a handful of gowned masters providing the bass notes. They sang a song called Gaudete, which I know, but have never heard done so brilliantly, it left us all feeling a bit shivery and lost, as if Christmas and the baby in the stable in the bitter winter might all be real after all.
Afterwards we found Lucy and went to the pub.
We thought that we would try having starters instead of pudding this time, because of my diet and because it might be better for us. I had some fried Brie, which was superb, followed by chicken and asparagus in a cream cheese sauce. Then the waitress, who has met us before, brought the pudding menu anyway, and even though we were so full we could hardly reach the table any more, we had pudding as well.
I had chocolate fudge cheesecake. I hope Mark means it about wanting to have a round wife.
I don’t think I have ever felt so comfortably contented: and then Nan and Grandad insisted on paying for it all as a Christmas treat, which was wonderful.
We were sorry to say goodbye to them, we won’t see them again until after Christmas now. We piled into the camper van and went instantly to sleep.
Obviously we had got to drive home when we woke up, because it is Saturday night, and we have got to work. We unloaded Lucy and all of her luggage, and now we are on the taxi rank.
It is snowing.
I think this is very exciting indeed.
