Excitements

We had an exciting email today.

It was from Gordonstoun, telling us that their Sorting Hat has been through the list of new entrants, and Oliver has been placed in Duffus House.

This has obviously let to some humour, most especially the Swallows & Amazons joke about being Better Drowned, but actually I feel quite jubilant about it, because it is an ace house to be in, friendly and welcoming, and obviously the best one. Also it is the only house name that I can actually remember.

We know Duffus House, because they stayed there during the weekend when they all went up to visit. They sent us a leaflet about it, and it looks splendid. There will be sixty boys in the house, and the housemaster has a gloriously Scottish name. I can’t remember what it is at the moment, but it is very Scottish indeed, couldn’t be more Scottish if he were called Mr. Och Aye The Noo.

I think I remember the chap himself from the visit, when I liked him, he was young and friendly and Scottish. Prince Edward was in Duffus House, although not on the weekend when we visited, obviously, it might be a while since he was there. In any case it is a happy thing to have happened. We are feeling excited for Oliver all over again this evening.

We have had a busy day on our own account.

As you know, we have been planning to do some shopping. We had thought that we might head down to Manchester this week, but did not, because of headaches and dreary moods and indisposed brakes. Hence when I came to organising my life for our visits to both schools tomorrow, I had nothing to wear.

Mark was building the conservatory in the garden, but I told him about this anyway.

He said that he would come and help me work it out, and took his boots off.

When he looked in the wardrobe there was a shirt that Number One Daughter had bought. This was for the thrilling, never-to-be-forgotten occasion when the Head of Gordonstoun made the long trek south, and we had dinner with him and his wife. This, as you might remember, involved an awful lot of flapping about what might be suitable to wear, from which Number One Daughter rescued me with a new shirt.

It has been worn on every smart occasion since, and it is a little less smart now.

My clothes go through a cycle. They start off by being Best, and live in the wardrobe on hangers with bags over them in case of moths, or if I throw coffee at Mark and the wardrobe door is open, or in case any visitor looks in the wardrobe and I want them to think I am middle class.

When they are not good enough for Best any more, they go in the drawer and become clothes for The Taxi. After that they go underneath the chest of drawers and become Painting clothes, after which they finish up being cut into pieces and stored underneath the kitchen sink, to be dishcloths. The worn-out dishcloths are put aside and used for vile things, like Roger Poopy’s accidents, after which they are burned.

There was nothing else in the wardrobe apart from a dressing gown, a couple of home-made skirts, and a nightie, which we bought in a reckless moment years ago and I have never worn, because I don’t wear clothes in bed. It is in case I ever go into hospital. If I do I will have a yellow silk nightie from Harrods to mop up all of the revolting bodily fluids that are misfortunately released when you are a patient.

There was a silence. You might know the sort, especially if you are married.

Mark said that we had better go shopping. He thought that now would be a good time, and took his overalls off, so we went.

We went to Kendal with his credit card.

It was wonderful.

We bought some shoes, because I don’t have any. I have got flip-flops for the summer, and thick sheepskin boots for September to July. The shoes were a very odd sensation indeed. They are almost exactly the same shape as my feet, it feels very strange.

After the shoes we went to a shop called the Edinburgh Woollen Mill, which surprisingly did not sell any woolly things at all, but we found some beautiful shirts and some fleecy jumpers. I stayed in the changing room and tried things on, and Mark wandered around the shop picking out things that he thought I might like and that were in the sale. The shop assistant lady said that he would make a very good personal shopper, and how lovely it was to see a husband who cared, which made him a bit embarrassed.

After that we went to Marks & Spencer, for some jeans, because I had got a money-off voucher, and then home, because I had had enough of shopping by then.

I am going to be better dressed than I have ever been in my life, which admittedly is not very difficult.

I am suddenly looking forward to tomorrow very much indeed.