Driving home for Christmas

I am on the taxi rank, once again.

I am not ambling middle-classly around a glorious oak-and-cinnamon scented hotel, bedecked in pearls. I am not even waiting for a starched napkin to be spread over my knees by a dexterous waiter whose next trick is to top up my wine glass with something unpronounceable.

I am wearing my worn Tigger jumper and bent glasses. I am on the taxi rank outside Costa Coffee and I am drinking tea.

It is peppery black chai tea in a china cup so all is not lost.

Of course all good things come to an end, and after a rather splendid breakfast which included bacon and hash browns and cheese and about six cups of post-party coffee, we had to leave our Yorkshire paradise behind us and come home.

We went for a little stroll in the grounds to look through the mist at the deer, and then chugged away.

Our house is not very big in comparison to Swinton House. It would have been very handy if it was, at the moment. Usually it would not matter how big the house is, because there are only two of us in it, and generally we do not mind being in a very small space together, but tonight it is filling up rapidly with returning chicks, flapping about and  chirping for all they are worth.

Number One Daughter and Number One Son-In-Law and Ritalin Boy came back from Yorkshire with us, along with their dog Tonka.

They are staying in the loft room, newly tidied and not smelling damp, or at least not much.

Oliver is home from Gordonstoun and entertaining Ritalin Boy on his PlayStation.

Lucy is on her way home as I write, driving home for Christmas, just like the song. When we get home from work she will be there, asleep in her own bed as if nothing had happened.

Of course this is lovely, and I am very excited indeed about seeing them all. Oddly, there is a sort of happiness in the house being so full as well, everywhere you turn there is a person, doing something interesting. It is warm and cluttered and friendly and safe, and I am feeling very pleased with it all.

Lucy has spent the week attending a course about how to exercise the mechanics of police brutality, which meant that she could not make it to the party last night.

The police chucked the recruits in a dark room and told them that somebody had a knife and they were to find them before they met a horrible end.

I recall seeing a knife fight outside the nightclub once. Two men were brawling, and one was threatening the other with a knife. I rushed to find the police to tell them all about it but was such a useless witness that when pushed, I could not say which of the two had had the knife. They chased them with a dog, I do not know if they caught them or not.

Lucy was not stabbed by an imaginary knife assailant, so I suppose she must have passed.

It is very odd to think of Lucy coming home, we have not seen her for absolutely ages. She was hardly a policeman at all when we last set eyes on her, and now she can tell you all about things like the Human Rights Act and when you are allowed to hit somebody with your truncheon.

It is probably a good thing that taxi drivers are not allowed to do this. Sometimes I think that it might be very satisfying if we were.

I am actually feeling quite contented and Christmassy about it all. We have got two nights left to work, tonight and tomorrow, and then it is over. We will not be working and we will have a house full of children and over-excited dogs. It is a funny thing about having grown up children instead of little ones. Instead of worrying about whether there are enough cupcakes and bottles of apple juice you start trying to work out parking arrangements and bottles of wine. 

It is Christmas and all is well.