Retraction

Oliver has gone back to school, in an upstairs-in-his-bedroom sort of way, and somehow it seems to have resulted in a flurry of domestic activity.

Obviously, I am very pleased and grateful indeed that he is having an education, and such a good one, whilst trying to suppress flickers of impotent rage at a world which has decreed that so many children simply are not. We are fortunate, beyond fortunate, because Gordonstoun has pushed every boat out as far as it will possibly go.

Quite apart from lessons, they start every day with Chapel. There are House meetings, and tutor groups and Activities. Oliver could have chosen from a massive list of the latter incorporating several different sorts of yoga, as well as diverse and captivating offerings such as astronomy and dog training.

Privately, I wished that he had chosen the latter, because Roger Poopy could jolly well do with some training, but he has not. Instead he is doing Leadership And Personal Development, and online board games, because he thinks that he would like to learn to play chess.

I am mildly regretful that they won’t let parents choose an activity as well, because I quite liked the idea of Debating Group and Baking and Computer Programming, not to mention the yoga, but I am not at school and my contribution is merely to make sure that he is out of bed and dressed, and provided with a plate of nourishing breakfast.

I do not know if chocolate spread sandwiches and yoghurt exactly qualify for this.

He has set his computer up for classes in Lucy’s bedroom, because it feels important to go somewhere else for school, and I could hear him singing the hymns this morning as I was cleaning the bathroom. Then there was a meeting with his tutor, who promised that between them they could Beat This Thing, and lessons started.

He appeared down the stairs looking anxious a couple of hours later, because of a worrying chemistry lesson that he had not entirely understood.

I wondered if he had mentioned this to the teacher, which he had not, and so we looked on the mighty Internet.

It turned out that YouTube had got plenty to say about the pH of acids and alkalis, and we listened with interest as some earnest chap explained the difference between a strong acid and a concentrated acid. I have forgotten now what it was. This does not matter because I am never again going to have to face the ordeal of GCSE Chemistry, and I know how to mix the chemicals that I need, like caustic soda for soap, without blowing myself up, at least, not very often. Anyway, it cheered Oliver up and he went away with a bounce in his step.

The next one was physics, which he said airily was a breeze after Common Entrance physics at prep school, and after that I did not hear anything from him for the rest of the day.

I can hear him now. He is deep in some game with his school friends. I can hear their voices coming out of his computer.

I am overwhelmed by our good fortune. I do not need to worry about him at all.

Of course it is not merely good fortune, and Mark trudged loyally off to work again this morning to raise some more school fees. We think perhaps that he will have a day off on Sunday, because he is starting to get tired. We are all starting to get tired. It is not easy to carry on living this half-life with nothing bright on any future horizons anywhere.

I am feeling especially disgruntled with the Fates at the moment, because for us, unlike the rest of the population, January is our holiday month. January is the time when we can indulge our idle Inner Souls. We can potter about the house, or go on holiday, because there is no work.

This time last year we were in the Orkney Islands.

This year we are not on holiday in the least. We are still working, plodding along on Mark’s wage. I am beyond frustrated to realise that in a few weeks the Government will release everybody on parole, and they will promptly be desperate for a holiday. They will flood up here and we will not have a holiday then either. Instead we will have to work, not least to try and catch up several months of lost takings. This will be very handy but not nearly as nice as having a holiday in Barbados.

I am sure that it will all come out all right in the end, but I am feeling growly about it at the moment.

Much to our amusement, given its current uselessness, Oliver’s new passport arrived this morning. I had given so little thought to some of the finer details of our exit from Europe that I was utterly astonished to discover that it was black, so much so that I did not exactly realise what it was at first, even though I was expecting it.

It has huge novelty value, so much so that I have taken a photograph of it. It had never occurred to me that passports would be different in our new Non-European status, and to my surprise, part of me was a little thrilled.

Oliver could probably have a red one as well if he liked, being in possession of a French birth certificate. He tells people that he is an immigrant, which I suppose he is, sort of.

In other news, as a last footnote before I go to bed, I wish to announce that I think I might have to withdraw my previously less-than-complimentary opinions of our local MP.

He has very kindly agreed to support me in my current project of encouraging the local council to put taxi fares up. Fares have not budged since 2014, and I have been doing my vociferous best to persuade them to do something about it. They have ignored me for two years now, with all the thoroughness that civil servants can muster, which is a very, very lot, when they put their minds to it.

Our dear, much appreciated MP has written to the chief executive on my behalf, and asked that he do something about it sharpish, and even better, suspend their fees whilst none of us can work. We have paid hundreds and hundreds of pounds to them in licensing fees whist parked uselessly at the side of the road because of bat flu, and it would be jolly nice if it stopped.

What a splendid sort of chap he is.

As the newspaper said, when obliged to print an apology:

3 Across: We might have been wrong.