I am pleased to note that we are going to have a general election.
I am just mentioning it in case anybody has not noticed.
How pleased are we, the people, to have yet another meaningful opportunity to intervene in the management of our glorious country.
It appears to coincide with Oliver’s carol concert so it is a good job that Gordonstoun is not volunteering to be used as a polling station.
Of course we shall vote anyway, although it might have to be the postal sort. I always have a sneaking sympathy with those who ignore all the tick-boxes and merely write a rude word on the ballot paper. I can think of several rude words that I would like to employ, and almost all of them could be applied to our local twerp of an MP. It is such a pity that your ballot paper is considered to be spoiled if you add a short opinion to the bottom of it. I would think it could be an enhancement.
Of course these pages are not the place for the discussion of political matters, and so I shall desist, although I do think that a December election is going to be a complete nuisance, when does Boris plan to make his mince pies, for goodness’ sake?
It is as if he has not thought about it at all. December is a massively busy month. Quite apart from the carol concerts and the mince pies, there are candles and chocolates and soap to be made, Christmas cards to be painted and cakes to be baked. He will never get round to organising an election in the middle of all that lot now that he does not have a wife to do it for him.
I ought to write to him and tell him that he had jolly well better get started now or it will all just get away from him. I know this from experience. At the very least he should have his dried fruit soaking in cognac and his beeswax on order.
I have got dried fruit soaking in brandy, with cloves and nutmegs and cinnamon stuck through it ready to make mince pies. How quickly it all seems to come around. Already we have got the stove lit, and there was a glittering frost on the ground this morning when we opened the curtains.
We were woken up earlier than expected by Lucy, who had been the horrified recipient of a telephone bill for three hundred pounds.
We are entirely used to this particular misadventure, being parents. Numbers One and Two Daughters might recollect the Pokemon Card Exchange Trading Line debacle, many years ago. Anyway, it startled us into wakefulness, and I spent the first half hour of my day sitting up in bed with my hair standing on end, arguing with Vodafone and being very glad that video calls have never really taken off for this sort of thing.
In the end it was all right, because they had made a mistake, or rather, failed to correct a previous mistake. Lucy’s bill was reassuringly restored to thirty quid, and I could settle down to my coffee. At any rate I settled down as much you ever do when you have just had an unexpected Alarm and need to unleash all of your disgruntled indignation into the ear of your sleepy spouse.
The day was clear, and bright, and shockingly cold. Mark went into the garden to build his solar energy capturing project, but I sloped off back to the house, and the fireside, as soon as I had finished dog-emptying and pegging the washing on the line.
Mostly I did painting, although I made mayonnaise and cooked dinners ready for work as well. We had thought we might have a night off, because of it being Tuesday, but I have seen a corduroy dress for sale on the mighty Internet that I would very much like to own so we have come to work to see if we can earn enough to buy one.
It is only twenty quid but it is a very quiet night so we are still here.
Have another picture of Roger Poopy.
