It has been a back-to-normal sort of day.
Mark buzzed off to rid the world of non-connectivity, and I started trying to clear up and create some order in our small house with the large pile of kitchens.
In fact it did not take very long before I realised that the only part of the house that was thoroughly and completely empty of almost any sort of interesting clutter was the inside of the fridge.
This was a void.
We had got some cheese. I was pleased about this. You can’t go wrong with cheese. Also there was a bottle of Prosecco which is still there because I can never bear to get it out on special occasions because it is embarrassingly not champagne and reminds me that we are currently down on our luck. There were six sausages and some orange juice. This last was there because nobody except Lucy really drinks it, and she does not live here any more.
We did not work last night and so this morning we did not have any money. Obviously we had earned some money the day before, but of course we spent that yesterday.
I am aware that this is a very rubbish way to live our lives and that lots of people make their money last for a whole month between one glorious payday and the next. I am not one of them. One of the reasons that taxi driving suits me is that there is no delayed gratification involved. Had I been invited to participate in the toddler-and-marshmallow experiments, I would have been the one who had grabbed the marshmallow even before the experimenter had finished explaining that he was just going to pop outside for a little walk.
This might still be true even today, except I don’t much like marshmallows. If he were offering a decent glass of Bordeaux and a coffee cream chocolate then I would be lost.
Anyway, the thing was that we had got no money and an empty fridge.
I raided the two-pound-coin collection, went down the back of the seats in the taxi and checked the washing basket in case anything had leaked out of Mark’s trouser pockets, which it hadn’t.
Oliver and I took the dogs for an amble up the fell, during which Roger Poopy belted around like an idiot, barking his head off at imaginary rabbits, and his father got confused and was lost again. This meant that Oliver and I had to wander about for ages, yelling our heads off and clapping, and generally trying to make any noises that might be within the range of what is left of his hearing, until eventually he heard us and came rushing back, looking relieved.
When we finally got back I went to Booths. This was not because I was feeling especially ethical, but in times of penury vegetables are good to eat, and they have an eclectic collection.
When I came back I chopped up golden beetroot and parsnips and sweet potatoes and fried them all with some chopped lamb that I have been hoarding in the bottom of the freezer for an emergency. This is the sort of backstop that it is nice to have, except that it does come with the uncomfortable feeling that next time you have an emergency you will be on your own, I will have to be organised in Sainsbury’s some time soon. Then I simmered it all in a mix of too-horrible-even-for-me-to-drink red wine and tomatoes, and grated some cheese on the top.
You can’t go wrong with cheese.
Just a note, if you try this at home, add a spoon of sugar or some cream or yoghurt, or preferably all three. Otherwise it will be very acid and will give you indigestion.
I made butterfly buns for Oliver and a carrot cake for Mark’s dinners, and cooked some more sausages that had been on Special Offer.
Then I did the ironing and put clean sheets on the bed and now I am writing to you whilst I am waiting for the rice to cook.
Mark is home.
We probably ought to go to work.
Have a picture of the Lake District. It is less than two weeks since I took it, but the autumn has rushed in and it is not this colour any more.
