Not dead

I had the most awful waking-up experience this morning.

I woke with a horrible start to discover that one of the dogs, who were asleep on the floor next to me, had got the most abominable wind.

Clearly my lizard-brain, concerned at the absence of oxygen and troubled that I might be being gassed, had decided to leap into action and alert me to my peril.

Worse than that, when they came to sit with us whilst we had coffee shortly afterwards, something utterly terrible happened. A flea jumped off one of them and on to the bed.

This was a disaster.

I had an immediate panicked flap.

I washed everything. I washed their cushions and our dressing gowns. I washed all of our bedding and every scrap of clothing. It took four loads of washing, three of which were boiled. I squirted everywhere with Instant Destruct Flea Nemesis Poisonous Insect Murder spray, and I bathed the dogs.

This was a nuisance, because it meant I had to clean the bathroom again afterwards and I only did it yesterday.

I was not pleased.

Mark said that they have not been scratching so it was probably something they picked up yesterday when they were charging about the Library Gardens with some other dogs, but I was not convinced. Fleas, like bank charges, have a habit of multiplying out of all control very quickly indeed.

I took them for a long walk as soon as Mark had gone to work, on the general principle of putting as much distance as possible between home and the revolting products of their digestive systems as I possibly could.

There is a picture attached, of the walk, not of the dog poo, obviously.

I tried doing some running on the way, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that although I am monumentally unfit, I am still moderately able to run up hills without actually expiring, although not at any speed and with a great deal of gasping for breath. I was quite pleased with myself about this, and thought that I would go again later on in the week.

When we got back from our walk we went for another walk, this one to Bowness to replace some of Mark’s washing things. I could have gone in the car, but there is never anywhere to park, and I am not very patient about daytime traffic, so we walked there as well.

It was wonderful to have some exercise and sunshine. It was nice to have some time with the dogs, who have been patiently suffering neglect this summer whilst nobody has had any time to do anything interesting with them. They were so pleased to be trusted to walk down the hill that they were impeccably well behaved, and walked with their noses determinedly level with my heels for the whole way. Roger Poopy was so proud of his success that he jumped madly in the air and barked his head off when we got to the shop, which made the lady look at him uneasily and slope off behind the counter.

I wrote to Oliver when we got home. He has been considering whether or not to take Latin classes again.

He has never demonstrated any inclination towards learning Latin, and has explained, apologetically but resignedly, that he is no good at languages. This excuse shattered into a thousand fragments when he got 82% in French at Common Entrance, and hence Gordonstoun, and I, thought that he could jolly well give it a go.

In any case, I think that Latin is a brilliant language to learn. It is far from being dead. Indeed, it has given Boris Johnson the supremely enviable ability to say a handful of unintelligible phrases, and immediately infuriate half of the electorate to the point of apoplexy. If ever there was an occasion where one could justifiably sport a smug smile, that must be it.

Better still, how very satisfying to be able to respond in kind when some other smug git spouts it at you. Latin is an important part of public school. If you come out without the ability to be monumentally irritating when you leave, then the fees have been wasted.

I have communicated these opinions to Oliver, and added a potential cash reward if he does really well.

That should do it. Ten Downing Street here we come.