Morning came and Mark was still faffing about with my taxi, which wouldn’t start.
This turned out to be because of a loose earth strap. This was not something I had ever heard of, so I exclaimed with polite interest and smiled encouragingly, and hoped not to say anything that might reveal my ignorance too glaringly.
He fixed it in the end. I am sitting in it now. It is astoundingly different to drive. I had known that it was a shockingly grinding old banger, but it is as if somebody had just noticed that one side had been fitted with a caterpillar track from a tank instead of wheels, and helpfully changed it all over for me. It is silken-smooth, easy and liquid to drive, and I am feeling very pleased with it.
Once we discovered that the taxi wouldn’t start, it quickly became very clear that a holiday would not in the least be on the cards, although I made the beds up in the camper van just in case. This job needed doing anyway, because of washing the sheets after last time we used it. They have been sitting in the living room gathering dust ever since.
They could not be allowed to stay there, the problem being that the children will be back soon, and we will need all of the vacant space that we can muster, obviously to fill up with the massive stack of their clutter. This might be something of a challenge this summer. They will be leaving their schools and I have no idea which things they will need again.
Oliver’s uniform can go straight in the bin. It is too battered even to be made into dusters.
Replacing the sheets took rather longer than expected because I was waylaid by an admiring couple who were busy appreciating the artwork. It is always flattering when this happens, although I can never think of anything to say in return. It was the second time in the day when I finished up nodding and smiling politely and hoping that I was not looking like an idiot.
Mark was still banging and swearing when I got back, so I gave up on the holiday, letting it go with a regretful but patient little sigh, I am noble like that.
I spoiled the nobility by looking online at pictures of ball dresses, ones in my size, the sort that I wouldn’t need to go on a diet to wear.
There were some very lovely ones, brilliantly coloured and silky, like looking at pages of tropical butterflies.
I showed Mark when he came back in, but he just looked worried and suggested that perhaps I ought to look in Jaeger.
I was cut to the quick by this. I had been having fairy-princess imaginings and it was depressing to be reminded that I am of an age and body-type where sensible knitwear and cardigans are more appropriate. I switched the pretty dresses off quickly, and then was further cast down by reading on the mighty Internet that a lady attending a ball should definitely avoid wearing anything in white, ivory or cream.
I have no idea why this is, it isn’t like a wedding where somebody might accidentally mix you up with the bride. Even at a wedding it is probably obvious that you are not the bride, especially if you are drinking too much and having an ace time rather than flapping about having a panic about flowers or caterers or bridesmaids or the groom kissing your best friend.
I don’t know why people bother making cream coloured dresses if you can’t wear them for anything.
I looked at my too-tight ivory dress and wondered if I ought to try dyeing it.
You can make a jolly good dye out of onion skins. I have done it before. I think you have to cook it with rusty nails and salt.
I will have to diet my way into it first.
I went to the gym this evening and I have got a picnic made up of raw carrots and lettuce.
Life is rubbish sometimes.
I haven’t got another picture. This blossoms into the most gorgeous flowers, I will take another picture and show you in a few days.
