It has been a quietly uneventful sort of day, in a hot, and still, and sticky sort of way.
Oliver came with me on my run this morning. We set off early, because of the heat, but still by the time we got back we were salty and sticky and coloured a vivid shade of pink.
He runs a lot faster than I do. This is because he does not have lots of pounds of wobbly fat tucked under his T-shirt to be propelled up the fell side on aching legs.
I managed to keep up with him, mostly, but was relieved when he said that it was too hot to run any more, and suggested that we walked down.
The dogs were relieved as well. It is still very hot. I am sitting in my taxi wearing a soft cotton dress. This is not at all taxi driver behaviour, usually my sartorial taste in the taxi is inspired by clothes that could conceivably function as armour in a dreadful emergency. Also certain customers need to be deterred from putting their hands on my legs, even though I am fifty three and not at all pretty, drink is a marvellous thing.
Despite the lightweight costume, I am still not cool.
By ‘not cool’ in this sense, obviously I am referring to the warmth brought about by the current meteorological conditions in the Lake District, not in the sense that your children assure you that you are not. Just so you know.
When I staggered, and Oliver bounded, back up the path, he had got to go for a haircut. School requires short-back-and-sides for all boys, and Oliver is no more prepared to allow me to do it than Mark is. This is short sighted of them. I am quite sure that if they let me cut their hair often enough, in the end I would become good at it, it is just a matter of practice. The dogs look perfectly all right now that they have grown out a bit.
He went to the barber whilst I went to the bank. The barber does not encourage feminine presence in his nostril-hair-trimming sanctum, so I left Oliver to be manly and went off to the bank.
I paid in all our weekend’s takings, after which I went home and spent the whole lot on tiresomely dull things like the mortgage and the council tax. I have got to make at least a reasonable gesture towards paying this, because Number Two Daughter’s best friend works in the council tax office, and so if I am going to ring them up with an unlikely-sounding excuse I have got to find out who is on the other end of the phone first.
When Oliver returned, newly respectable, he thought that he might like pancakes for breakfast, and we had a companionable hour in the kitchen whilst I made pancakes and Oliver scowled at his maths homework.
I am no better at helping with Oliver’s homework than I am with Mark’s. Clearly, whatever went on in my maths lessons at school, learning did not feature highly on the curriculum. It is absolute nonsense that it all comes back, like riding a bike. Oliver asked me this afternoon which picture was the isosceles triangle. He might as well have asked me to pick out the best spot for a moon landing. I tried hard not to look stupid, and failed. Oliver rolled his eyes and asked Lucy.
I did the ironing and tidied up, and before I knew where I was it was time to get ready for work.
I told you that it had been uneventful.
Better luck tomorrow.
Have a picture left over from yesterday at the lake.
