I worked late last night, and did not want to get up this morning.
It had been a fairly dull night anyway, enlivened only by the lodger and her friend dressing up in sparkly clothes and dancing off to the Wheelhouse nightclub, out of which they tumbled some time later in a state of giggly intoxication, pursued by some hopeful young gentlemen.
We evaded the gentlemen, and I deposited them at home, after which there was not a great deal of work left, and I slid wearily into bed as the clock struck four.
When the alarm went off a couple of hours later, my eyes would not come properly open for coffee. Mark made sympathetic noises, and volunteered to empty the dogs so that I could go back to bed instead of galloping off up the fell before I had woken up.
Obviously I accepted gratefully, and would have gone straight back to bed as soon as he had gone to work, except that when I glanced at the computer there was an email from a parent of one of Oliver’s friends.
They have a villa in Portugal, and were inviting him to go and stay there for a week with them in August.
It has got a swimming pool.
I refrained from suggesting that they invite all of us, and accepted, rather wistfully, on Oliver’s behalf.
They will already be there, so he will have to fly out by himself and just come back with them.
The flights go from Heathrow.
I raided the last desperate gasp of our overdraft and booked them. I can always worry another time about how Oliver will get to Heathrow by himself. He is twelve now, maybe we could put him on a train, with a label that says Please Look After This Bear.
Once I had successfully bankrupted us I went to bed and slept soundly until lunchtime. I felt guilty about this, because I have got a lot to do. Mark has invited Ted and Mrs. Ted to come to dinner on Thursday. I am worried about this, because I haven’t even achieved my normal housework for the week yet, never mind considered attempting to be Jamie Oliver and throwing together a few of the freshest ingredients and garnishing them with a sprinkling of dressing and a merry sprig of gnocchi.
I am going to behave better this time. I am going to remember my New Year’s Resolution about not drinking too much, whatever it was, I know there was one. I am not going to drink loads because I am socially frightened and hungry but can’t manage to eat, and then slide ungracefully under the table by the end of the night. This time will be different.
Oh ye of little faith.
I was halfway round the walk when the above picture arrived from Number One Daughter.
It is her achievement so far in the Cross Fit Open competition.
So far she is fifth out of thirteen thousand, two hundred and fifty eight competitors.
I was jolly impressed. There is a lot more of it to go yet, but she seems to have made a good start.
I thought guiltily that perhaps I had better go to the gym as well. It would be terrible to have a picture taken with an international athlete relative and have everybody say ‘who is that portly person next to her?’
I haven’t been to the gym for a few days for child-related reasons, so when I had finished the housework, or at least as much of it as I could actually be bothered to do, which did not include cleaning the bathroom or changing the sheets, I packed up my sports bra and went off to huff and puff and turn pink for a while.
I went to work for a rest afterwards.
I have not yet earned enough to pay for a coffee in the airport, never mind a flight to Portugal, so I might be here for a while.
I suppose you have got other things to do, though, so you may as well buzz off now, I won’t mind.
I can always read my book.
