I think I have got hormones.
I am feeling very grumpy.
I have just written a sharp sort of email to Lucy’s school. They contacted me to explain that they have decided, now that the girls are in the Upper Sixth, and sufficiently mature, to offer them sex education. As long as I don’t mind, they are going to tell her where babies come from.
She is eighteen.
There were no words to express my astonishment, which was fortunate, because the words that I did use will probably make me unpopular enough.
I wonder if there is a single member of the Upper Sixth who is still mystified about the subject.
I suppose it is possible, given that they censor the internet at school.
To be honest I think that this information would even be wasted on Oliver. Certainly when I was at school it was the only branch of science to which everybody paid close and fascinated attention.
I have had a bit of a grumpy day anyway. We went to Lancaster today, to collect a new table purchased on eBay, from a lady who turned out to be quite, quite mental.
She has emailed me about six times this week to explain some uninterestingly trivial detail, such as that there is another house called the same as hers somewhere else, so not to go to the wrong one.
She sent copious and inaccurate directions. We ignored these, which turned out to be sensible, because they involved a forty mile detour.
When we finally arrived I rang her to see which was her house. I explained that we were outside Terrace Farm, of which she insisted she had never, ever heard. She said that we would have to go back to the motorway and start again.
I am not very good at managing idiots, and so gave the phone to Mark, who managed to work out that her house was less than fifty yards away.
She fussed and flapped and told us that we should have brought something to wrap it it, and wanted me to give her a receipt. Since I had bought the table from her I declined to do this and told her shortly that I had had enough of her company and would prefer just to leave.
The dog did a wee on her gatepost on the way out.
It was only the one dog, because poor Roger Poopy had been abandoned at the vet to have all of his hormones removed.
This was not at all nice.
We had worried about this for a couple of days. We had not worried very much, obviously, otherwise we would have changed our minds, but we did worry a bit, because it is not a very nice thing to do to somebody, however dreadful they smell.
He did not want to go in. He stopped at the vet’s doorway and dug his claws into the linoleum, and had to be encouraged by Mark’s boot.
The vet said that they would do the Operation and then keep him in for observation for a little while. We should collect him, she instructed, at any time between half past three and seven.
At half past one they rang us and explained that he was howling the place down and would we kindly come straight away, which we did.
Poor Roger.
He was terribly forlorn and shocked.
He could not walk, so I had to carry him.
He was having a post operative reaction which meant that he dribbled everywhere. When we got home my jersey was disgustingly soaked. He lay weakly in my arms making little groaning noises.
The vet tried to sell us one of those horrible wicked cone shaped collars that make dogs not able to lick their stitches. He was so traumatised we thought that perhaps they had put one on him anyway.
He was not going to lick his stitches.
He was entirely convinced that he was going to die. He would not go in his nice dog bed, because he wanted to be with everybody else. He lay in front of the fire, whimpering miserably, especially every time somebody tripped over him. His father whimpered as well, by way of support.
We unearthed some Tramadol and poked one down his throat.
It should have felled a donkey, but it didn’t.
He is lying at my feet now, with his father curled sympathetically around him.
There are worse things than having hormones.
