We have now released both children into the wild.
I have had some pictures, and some inside stories, from the mother of Prime Minister To Be, which have made me laugh very much, but which nevertheless reassured me that Oliver is surviving his first days of freedom.
The picture attached is the dinner, for which they had to plan, budget, shop and finally cook, before they could actually eat it.
We admired its beautifully presented perfection no end, and were very impressed indeed. I am sure that you will agree that it is a magnificent effort, and a future of fine dining beckons.
They had spaghetti and meatballs, which they seem to have improvised by cutting up some beef burgers into roughly spherical shapes. Apparently Oliver then fried them in butter. This seems to me to be a splendidly functional method of manufacturing low-budget meatballs in an emergency, and I commend their ingenuity. I would very much have liked to have sampled one, especially before they dropped them on the floor.
However, judging by the final pictures they seem to have had something of a misfortune with the spaghetti, which might have benefited from more water.
I have attached these pictures as well.
If any of them are reading this this morning can I suggest that you put some water and washing up liquid in the pan and put it back on the stove to boil for a while, that should get the misfortune off the bottom of it.
You should probably throw the tea towel away before anybody sees it. There are some things that Mr. Barlow does not need to know about.
I think the Prime Minister can send for take away when he is not being invited out for dinner, so don’t worry too much.
Also I think you are all jolly clever, what a brilliant dinner. I am truly impressed with you all.
Lucy is also having her first wilderness experience. This has turned into an adventure, by which I mean that it is much scarier and more troublesome than a mere holiday.
We worked late, and hence getting up in time to take Lucy to Lancaster in time for the coach to Glastonbury turned out to be hard work.
My eyes would not come open when the alarm went off. Mark went downstairs and made coffee, and we steamed ourselves awake slowly.
Actually we both fell asleep holding it.
Mark emptied the dogs whilst I plaited Lucy’s hair. We loaded her stuff into the car and set off to Lancaster. She had a lot of stuff. I have been to Glastonbury festival before, and I know from experience that everything you have forgotten and are obliged to buy when you get there will cost you about five times as much as it will anywhere else.
The security company were running a coach for all of the thugs. We found the pick up point quite easily, because of the waiting crowd of thugs and enormous pile of scruffy rucksacks.
We sat on Lucy’s trunk and waited for the coach.
Up until this point I have been using the term ‘thugs’ as a tongue-in-cheek humorous description, designed to make us all chortle in a middle-class sort of way.
I think perhaps I had better stop using it. When something turns out to be a plain description it is not entertaining in quite the same way.
There were a lot of tattoos and piercings. I mean really lots.
I eavesdropped on some conversations which made it clear that there were a lot of drugs as well.
There were vests and shaven heads and cans of Red Bull, and the men were much the same.
Eventually the organisers turned up and read out the list of names to go on the coach.
Lucy’s name was not on it.
We all flapped about at this. We knew that she was supposed to have a place on the coach, because they had sent her an email confirming it, however, we are dealing with a well-intentioned, enthusiastic security company, run by the brightest of the bouncers.
They had left several names off the list.
They loaded the ones in to the coach whose bookings they had remembered, and then ambled about wondering what to do with the rest.
Lucy, who was in a bit of a state by this time, said that she would go and get her car and drive down to Glastonbury.
The chief bouncers were relieved about this, and offered to pay her fuel money if she would take the rest of the forgotten bouncers with her.
She agreed that she would do this, and we chucked her stuff back in the car, at which point the chief bouncers realised that they had accidentally ordered a bigger coach than they had thought, and there were lots of places in it after all.
We stuffed her luggage into the bursting hold, and she got on.
There were more people to be collected in Preston and Liverpool. I have no idea what they planned to do with all their luggage. Mark and the coach driver struggled to get the doors shut as it was.
We left them chugging off in the direction of the motorway and turned towards home. I sent Lucy lots of anxious texts, and Mark laughed so much that he could hardly drive. He said that they were all perfectly friendly, and that she would be absolutely fine. He thought that it would be an interesting breath of fresh air after five years in a genteel girls’ boarding school.
He suggested that the appropriate description for her colleagues might be ‘pirates’ rather than ‘thugs’ and indeed I thought he was probably right. There was a very piratical look about most of them, right down to the gold teeth.
I am sure that she will be fine.
LATER NOTE: It is midnight, and she is still not settled in her tent. the coach, inexplicably, dropped them five miles away from their campsite. They all had to sit on their luggage for three hours whilst somebody went to find a minibus to take them in. The last I heard from her, she was just on her way to put her tent up in the dark.
Fortunately it is not raining.
Freedom is a glorious thing.
LATER NOTE STILL: She rang at one. Her tent was up, her air bed inflated, and warm soft quilts and blankets had been installed. She had got water for her morning coffee and chocolate biscuits for an emergency. She was exhausted, and about to turn off her torch.
She is going to do just fine.
