We have got Oliver back.
This has meant that we spent the day driving.
Of course it did not really need both of us to collect him. Either one of us could have gone, and left the other one at home to catch up with the countless undone chores that are haunting our current nightmares.
However, Mark wanted to collect a new bit of well-rusted scrap iron from the camper van undertaker in Darlington, and I wanted to make sure my last little chick was all right, so we drove over together.
It was a slow and tedious journey, because the million or so people who are usually on their holidays abroad at any one time are not. Instead, they had all decided to come either to North Yorkshire or the Lake District, and just to drive backwards and forwards between the two, very, very slowly.
We had not got up as early as we should have done and so this meant that we were rushing a bit. I don’t suppose you are surprised to hear this. Also because we were travelling in an unloved taxi and not the camper van, we could not get the radio speakers to work and hence did not listen to our story.
We could have listened to the radio, but we don’t, any more, mostly because it is full of self-righteous twaddle these days. If you are living a joyful life without carrying the burden of guilt and anxiety that is supposed to be the grievous lot of Mankind, just listen to Radio Four for half an hour. That will sort you out.
It did not matter, because we have barely spoken to one another for weeks due to the rather urgently pressing need to earn cash, and so it was a rather useful opportunity to explain to Mark in detail about all of the jobs that I wanted doing around the house. The journey to Harrogate takes almost three hours when you go via Darlington, so it is a good job that there are so many of them.
I think that probably he was listening. He was not snoring, which is the usual give away. He promised gravely that he would get on with all of them and have everything done before winter, although of course I did not believe him.
We collected an oily lump of scrap metal from a talkative chap who might have been a gypsy, and set off to Harrogate for Oliver.
His friend lives at a riding stables, and we found our way there all right, but could not find the house when we actually arrived. When you are going to Ten Oak Street it is easy, it is between number eight and twelve. This was a massive complicated sprawl of gorgeous glowing red-brick farm buildings, with wisteria and ivy creeping up their walls, and delphiniums and sweet peas spilling out over the paths.
We searched around a courtyard and some cottages and some barns and saw lots of gleaming horses peacefully grazing in nearby paddocks, until in the end we spotted Oliver, clad in Barbour and flat cap, jumping up and down and waving to us.
He had had a lovely time. They have been swimming and karting and playing rounders and riding, and I was so pleased and relieved to think that he has had some kind of holiday before he has had to go back to school. It has only been a very few days, but he bounced into the car feeling refreshed and full of resolutions for the new term.
He will be going next week. We stopped at Asda on the way home, for a horrible face-masked visit. Well, I wore a scarf and Mark and Oliver wore buckets, which made everybody laugh. We bought tuck and toothpaste, which are usually among the last preparations for a final departure.
I have still got to sort out some new pyjamas, but apart from that we are pretty much done.
He has been at home for almost half a year, and he is longing to go back, but we will miss him so very much.
All times pass over.
Have a picture of some on-trend shoppers.
