Absence

The Peppers have gone away.

I do not mean for ever, although occasionally they make threatening noises about selling their guest house and buzzing off to Spain to grow olives. They saw somebody doing this on the telly once, and liked the look of the sunshine and geckos and red wine.

I am not very worried about this as they do not especially like olives and do not speak Spanish. I think probably they will wait until they win the lottery and do not need to bother growing anything. Also when you have got Euromillions it does not matter whether you speak any languages or not, because everybody understands money.

They have not gone to Spain. They have gone to York to amble around historic castles and the ace museum with the pretend Victorian street in it, and this evening they sent me a picture of a glass of wine just so that I would know how cultured they have become.

Their absence meant that I went off to empty the dogs by myself this morning.

I have not done this for ages. Usually the dogs scamper up the back alley and skid to a halt outside the Peppers’ back gate, where Roger Poopy stands with his nose pressed to the gap underneath it until Pepper rushes out and they can lollop off together.

This morning Pepper was not there.

I did my best to prepare Roger Poopy.

I told him No Pepper several times, and he put his head on one side and twitched his ears, which he does when he is either listening or wants some of my biscuit.

Fortunately he is not stupid. He can spell well enough instantly to understand exactly what I mean when I tell Mark that I am going to take the dee oh gees out for a double yew ay ell kay. Even Mark does not spell that well.

This morning we got to the Peppers’ gate and Roger turned around and looked at me for a moment, and then put his tail down and trotted off, sadly.

His father is an anti-social old gidget and does not care one way or another. He does not even care if I am with him when he goes for a walk. What he likes to do is to amble along as slowly as possible and breathe in the intoxicating aromas of everybody else’s wee on the way.

I felt mildly guilty about Roger Poopy’s sadness, and it was a glorious morning, so we did not hang about in the park but went straight on up to the top of the fell.

I have not done this for ages, and it was lovely.

The sun was so warm that I peeled my jacket off before I had even reached the end of the alley, and I had to carry it the whole way, because I did not need to put it back on even on the very top of the fell.

I have got some brilliantly dry boots at the moment as well, since Oliver’s feet grew too big for them last year. They are really, really good, because they belonged first to Number One Daughter, and they are warm and lightweight and a great happiness to wear.

This made the whole trek a splendid affair, and I strode carelessly through puddles and muddy patches as if they were mere trifles.

Not actual trifles which would be even messier to stride through than sheep poo and mud.

I was very out of puff when I got to the top. I think I have become unfit. This is a tiresome consequence of being too idle to do any exercise. I will have to consider this further.

The birds chirped and the stream bubbled and the sheep bleated conversationally, and I thought that between the dry boots and the sunshine I am very fortunate in my lot, even if I am not drinking wine in York.

I attach a picture of Number One Daughter who is leaving Sandhurst today to go and do something else military in some other bit of the Army. She sent me a picture and I thought I would share it with you.

She is the one standing on the step, and is not too idle to do any exercise.