It is wonderful to be on holiday.
I am writing this in a quiet interlude whilst Number One Daughter and Son-In-Law are at the gym. Mark is outside fixing something on the camper van that he said the MOT man really ought to have noticed, Oliver and Ritalin Boy are playing on their computers, Lucy is asleep in bed, and I am in the lovely kitchen writing to you.
It is a very beautiful house. It is painted in colours of cream and white and has tasteful pictures all over the place. Number One Daughter has obviously never made the bright-orange-and-lavender decorating mistake, and everything is cool and calm and clean.
I have been sitting next to the huge kitchen window and sewing name labels on to school uniform. This has been brilliant, it is ace not to be feeling guilty about all the other things I am not doing.
It has been a tranquil sort of day, except for the dogs. Of course Number One Daughter has got Roger Poopy’s brother, and they were very pleased indeed to be reunited with one another. They have been playing tiresome dog games ever since, involving a lot of charging about and rolling over and growly noises, in fact they are doing this at my feet even as I write.
Roger Poopy’s brother has not had such a lovely day, because Number One Daughter asked me to bring my dog haircutting kit. This morning we put a board on the top of the dustbin and obliged him to sit on the top of it whilst he was divested of his thick coat.
He did not like this at all, and it took three of us to hold him down.
He does not want to be anywhere near me now, just in case. Every time I shout him he looks worried, and belts off in the opposite direction, just in case I have got anything else horrible in mind. I offered to do Ritalin Boy whilst I had the clippers out, but he belted off in the opposite direction as well.
Oliver had some good fortune this morning, when he discovered that Number One Son-In-Law is the proud owner of a motorbike. Oliver has had some quiet interest in motorbikes for a while, and this morning Number One Son-In-Law put him on the pillion seat and took him off for a ride.
Oliver thought this was brilliant.
They went a hundred miles an hour. I do not know how they managed this, because I thought that the speed limit in Woking was about thirty, like it is in the Lake District, but obviously not, because when they came back Number One Son-In-Law was grinning and Oliver was beaming from ear to ear and had very wobbly legs. He thinks that he might very much like a motorbike when he grows up, how delighted I was.
We all went out this afternoon. Mark and I went to Decathlon to look at sleeping bags and rucksacks, and everybody else went swimming. I did not want to go swimming. I like my swimming pools hushed with statues of the Buddha lining whispering tranquil steamy corridors, and young men with white cloths over their arms wondering if they might bring me a drink on the terrace afterwards. Guildford Baths and a riot with Ritalin Boy is not quite the same thing.
I was interested to notice a sign on our way back advertising that the Crown woodlands were selling firewood. I am surprised that the Queen still needs to do this now that she has not got school fees to pay any more, although I could quite see her needing to do it when the children were young. I would do it if I had any woodlands. I wonder if she has a stall next to the roadside, so that people can just come along with pickup trucks and load up. That is quite heavy work, although I suppose Prince Philip would have been around to help her.
She could have got her name label sewing done during quiet moments on the stall, as long as it wasn’t raining. I do that when I am in the taxi.
It is very exciting being so close to the seat of the monarchy. I shall tell you if we see her. Number One Daughter does not buy firewood because of being on gas, but I think we would buy some anyway.
It is good to help one another out.
