It is our last taxi night before Christmas.
It is not terribly busy, but this is perhaps not such a bad thing, because I have got gate fever quite badly. I am longing to stop and go home.
Actually it is probably more peaceful out here than it is in our house, which is currently overflowing with family. There is a liquid feeling to them all, like water that trickles inexorably into any space you have not firmly bunged up with something impermeable. Every corner seems to have children in it, or perhaps shoes, or leftovers from somebody’s dinner, or somebody else’s shampoo.
I do not mind this at all, it is giving life something of a novelty sensation. Of course when you have only got people staying for a few days, it is not possible to explain to them your countless little peculiarities. You explain a few of the most earth-shatteringly important ones like: this is my coffee cup, and then spend the next few days discovering all of the little routines that you did not know you had until something different happens.
This is happening all over the place, unexpected things are turning up everywhere. This morning I opened the fridge to discover unfamiliar tubs and pots, and spent an interesting few minutes inspecting it all to try and work out what it all might be. I am still no wiser. It is something called Kaffir, which sounds exotic enough to come with its own turban, but I don’t know what it is for. Also there is something called Spelt Flour on the shelf. I do not know what this is at all, and initially misread it as Spilt Flour. My flour says Asda White on the label. I wondered vaguely if I ought to use it when I made bread this afternoon, but decided against it in case it was not intended for making things.
It is ace to have them all milling about. Lucy came to sit on our bed with her coffee this morning. She is absolutely covered in bruises. She has acquired these during police fisticuff classes, where they learn how to put handcuffs on to people who are resisting arrest. Judging by her bruises, some of them must have resisted fairly vigorously.
She seems to be enjoying this part of her training far more than the essays about Human Rights, she may not be a candidate for a future desk job. They will be doing more fisticuff lessons in the springtime, to make sure that they are not easily bashed about before they go out on a real police beat at Easter. There are some troublesome rascals out there, eight hundred people have been stabbed in Northampton this year. I do hope that she has learned it fairly thoroughly.
We had plenty of time to loaf about listening to stories because we had misfortunately been obliged to wake up early. God had told some Jehovah’s Witnesses to come and minister to us and help us see the wonderful light. Unfortunately he had neglected to mention that we don’t get up before lunchtime, and when the doorbell rang, we were not very enthusiastic about daylight, still less the great light of spiritual truth.
Once we had got up to answer the doorbell, of course that was the end of the night’s sleep, because the dogs charged about and barked excitedly, and we realised that our bladders had become too full for comfort, and all of the usual demands of the daytime could no longer be ignored.
We did not talk to the Jehovah’s Witnesses anyway. I have got a perfectly functional, if peculiar, set of beliefs of my own. Even if I was thinking about upgrading them, which I am not, it would probably not be before lunchtime, and would be likely to require alcohol rather than coffee.
Once we had finished rubbing our eyes and groaning, my urgent project of the day was to get the ironing done.
We do not have enough middle-class clothes to be able to manage a double hit of dressed-up events one after the other, and some frantic laundry has had to take place in between.
I have had to wash everything that we have worn, iron it and put it back in the luggage. This was an intermittent sort of project, because the things hung furthest away from the fire seemed to be taking ages to dry, and after that there was washing all over the place, in various states of travel-readiness.
I did it in the end, mostly, and on the whole we are packed now and ready to go tomorrow. Well, almost ready. There are the dogs to sort out, and our swimming things to pack, and everybody will need feeding, but mostly we will be able to set off without too much difficulty.
I suppose we could always eat Keffir.
I wonder what it is.
Have a travelling picture to get you in the mood. It is not travelling to the Midland in Manchester but to Gordonstoun, but it gets the idea of a journey in midwinter.
