I am writing what I can whilst I can. It is shaping up to be a difficult night to be a taxi driver.
There are several stag parties out in Bowness. From where I am sitting I can see a giant, inflatable representation of male anatomy, a man asleep on the pavement, and dozens of over excited, intoxicated gentlemen, waving beer glasses and bawling patriotic ditties untunefully at one another.
It is the second time today that I have been carried away on a wave of song.
The first time was this morning, in the chapel at Lucy’s school, which was magnificent. We stood in the ranks of an English public school, and felt the swell of the crashing chords of ‘Jerusalem’ vibrating through the glorious stained-glass sunshine, and ached with the splendour of it all.
We had not meant to be in the chapel. We had come for the speeches, which come afterwards, but we were early because nobody was mending the motorway. We headed towards the chapel, because of the bathroom facilities, and the provision of coffee intended for the parents who have attended the Leavers’ Service. It is a long way from Windermere. We have availed ourselves of this illicit coffee every year, and so far have not been chucked out.
We had visited the bathrooms, and were trying to look as though we might be deserving of coffee, when a kindly gentleman told us that there were seats left in the service, and ushered us in.
This was a splendid start to the day, and this evening I have been trying to put into practice the chaplain’s exhortations to Be Kind, to everybody, no matter what. It is wearing off a bit. I don’t think the chaplain spends much time trying to get cash out of drunk people.
When we came out of the service we walked straight into Nan and Grandad, who had probably had the same coffee idea, and then strolled across to the marquee.
It is such a gorgeous event, especially in the sunshine, and today it was baking, in the wonderful unaccustomed English heatwave. We assembled ourselves on the red carpet in the huge white tent, accompanied by the strains of the school band, playing jazz music in the background, whilst we all waved at one another and took photographs.
This year we were the parents of a prize winner, and so were invited to sit in the Distinguished Visitors section in front of the stage. We were very proud about this, it was rather splendid to be able to look around haughtily at the ranks of less distinguished parents, who have got to sit out to the sides, and to enjoy the superior view.
Lucy won two prizes this year. We were especially pleased with this, because Oliver’s headmaster has joined the ranks of Lucy’s school governors, and was sitting importantly on the platform. I thought smugly that now he could not ignore the cleverness of our children, because obviously we are a family of prize winners.
It was, as always, ace. This year the visiting speaker was a politician, called Amber Rudd, who managed to be quite funny as well as encouraging. She made a huge fuss about all of the girls always voting, because of all of the women who fought so hard for it, and I jolly well agreed.
The retiring Upper Sixth floated across the platform, beautiful in summer dresses and thoroughbred tall and elegant, to say their farewells to their school life, and be welcomed into the Old Girls Association. This always makes me cry, so I don’t wear make up to Speech Day.
Lucy told us afterwards that they had all been practising the night before, because of the difficulties involved in being a novice high-heel wearer and needing to go up and down steps.
Afterwards we milled about vaguely in the sun for a while. We had decided not to do a picnic, but to retire to the pub. This turned out to have been an inspired idea, because of the relative cool of the Fat Monk, or whatever the local pub is called, and the quiet, and the excellence of the gammon and chips.
We drove home as fast as we could, because of being desperate to sleep, and chucked all of Lucy’s luggage on top of Oliver’s luggage in the corner of the living room. Then we rushed upstairs and collapsed into two hours of blessed oblivion before it was time to go to work.
We are at work now. Everybody seems to be very cheerful, if thoroughly intoxicated.
It has been, it turns out, a good day to be English.
