I would have liked to stay in the camper van, but we didn’t.
We are in a beautiful hotel beside Lucy’s school. It is called The Parsonage, because it was, once. It is built of lovely red-brown bricks, with wisteria and jasmine curling up the walls, and I like it very much.
I could not even ask for nicer rooms. We are in the loft of a little annexe called The Cottage, with gorgeous sloping ceilings and wide-opening windows overlooking the gardens. Our room and Oliver’s are separated from the rest, and take up half of the top floor, with the bathroom at the end. It is cosy and pretty and quiet, and feels just as if we had the house to ourselves.
Lucy is not here. She is having her very last night at school.
We could not be further away from the car park in Manchester city centre where we woke up this morning.
We are staying in the lovely hotel because I do not think I want to try and get ready for a smart Speech Day and an even smarter Summer Ball in the camper van. It is very lovely but it is not an ace space to try and change into a ball gown, especially not when there are four of you, how terrible to be so cramped that you accidentally spill your coffee.
We have not even got the dogs. We have put them into kennels in order to preserve them from being looked after by over-excited drunk people for the whole weekend.
This was a horrid thing to do. I had not expected to be upset about it, but I was. The kennels is run by friendly teenagers, and I know they will be lovely, but Roger Poopy’s brown eyes widened in disbelief when he was taken away on a lead, and his father barked madly, to tell us that we had forgotten our dogs.
We drove away anyway, but I keep being haunted by worries about the dogs, all alone in kennels and thinking that they might be lost for ever. I know that they will get proper walks, and people will remember to refill their water dishes and not keep accidentally standing in their dinners and then swearing at them, but somehow it does not feel as good.
The hotel is full of us. My parents are here, and Number One Daughter is here with Ritalin Boy, and Nan and Grandad are here as well. Number Two Daughter would be here is she was not in Australia, and Lucy will be here tomorrow.
We are gathered to celebrate the end of Lucy’s school days.
We met Lucy in the Designer Outlet shop this afternoon. We had promised to buy her some perfume as a reward for being fully educated and ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.
We spent ages in Penhaligon’s, whilst a patient gentleman demonstrated woody notes and top notes and floral notes and hints of citrus and cinnamon and bergamot, and Lucy sniffed them all and wondered what a person like her ought to smell of. This is an important decision to make in life.
Oliver thought that Eeeny Meenie Miny Mo might help, and Mark thought that the ones that were not a hundred quid a bottle might be quite nice, and in the end we whittled it down to three, and went away to wait whilst they settled on her skin. You cannot buy perfume until it has calmed down. It takes a while to stop fizzing and smell like itself.
In the end we all agreed on the nicest one, which happened to be the least expensive as well, which was a relief. We made our way back to the hotel, where the children checked us in and sensibly ordered a couple of large glasses of merlot to make sure the day ran smoothly.
Perhaps we should have unpacked the camper van before we drank them, but heigh ho, you live and learn.
I have got the rest of my life to be sober. I am going to enjoy myself.
