There is a website online, liked by Oliver, that is called Fail Army.
It is full of people trying to do things and not succeeding. Oliver’s personal favourite is somebody who is trying to entertain a baby, and blows a party hooter. The baby dissolves into agonised sobs, which makes Oliver laugh his socks off every time.
I hope he is not going to grow up into a serial killer.
Anyway, today I could probably be admitted to their ranks, because I have had the most spectacular lack of success imaginable.
I have achieved precisely nothing at all.
Elspeth gave me some sailing boots to dispatch to Oliver, who is off next week on Ocean Spirit, which is Gordonstoun’s yacht. I do not know how long he is going for, usually I think they do a week at a time, and so obviously it is important that he does not have wet feet.
Elspeth’s daughter is Captain of Gordonstoun’s outdoor activities, and seemed to think that wellies would not do, not that I think he has got any wellies either since his feet grew. Anyway, Elspeth had lots of sailing boots in her Outdoor Pursuits Centre, and said we could take a pair.
Then, in an outburst of generosity, suggested that we took a pair in the next size up as well, ready for his next growth spurt, which obviously we did. Gordonstoun demands an array of footwear unthinkable in most households, there are indoor trainers and outdoor trainers, Astro trainers and running shoes. There are rugby boots and school shoes, casual shoes and slippers. There are Expedition boots, climbing boots, wellingtons, and of course sailing boots.
Imagine a new pair of all of those, in the next size up every year, most of which run in at about forty quid a go, and you will understand why it is a complete myth that private school parents are wealthy.
I took a Size Eight and a Size Nine, and this morning scrubbed a pair and wrapped them up to post to him.
I was on my way out of the door with the parcel before I noticed that I had got the wrong pair.
There was no excuse for that either, because the right pair had 8 written in enormous white paint on the toe.
I scrubbed the second pair, unwrapped and re-wrapped the parcel, and was on my way out of the door for a second time when I noticed that I did not have my purse.
It took a lot of hunting about before I thought to go and look in the camper van, which was where it was, along with my portable computer and the jumper that I couldn’t find this morning either.
Once I had my purse and posted the parcel I thought I might pop in to the Co-op to replenish some of the things we had eaten whilst we were on holiday. I spent the twenty quid that I had thought I might start saving for some sheets, which meant that I had got to go to work to make some more.
I was already late for work, because I had taken the dogs out for a long walk in the morning. Pepper has gone on holiday, and Roger Poopy is moping, so I thought a walk to the top of the fell might brighten his spirits, which it didn’t, except briefly, when there was a squirrel.
After the walk, instead of getting on with the housework as I should have done, I took my cup of tea upstairs to write my story for ten minutes.
This is an increasingly dismal, but nevertheless gripping experience, as I am ploughing my way into my imaginary dystopian universe. Indeed, I have got so caught up with the dystopia I can hardly squeeze the story in next to it.
I do not think that it is likely that anybody will want to read it, but as far as I can see the best selling point for a book these days is that it is depressing piffle that nobody wants to read, and so perhaps I am in with a chance.
Anyway, before I knew it an hour had passed and I had not watered the conservatory or made cakes or mayonnaise or dinner and the day was passing me by.
Mark rang, and said that he liked to have stories to read just as much as cake and so it would not matter, and we could just eat pasta.
This seemed to be an awful cheat, but I took him at his word and belted off to work anyway.
I have been here for ages and not made any money.
I have joined the Failing Army.
On a brighter note, there are some good things to tell you. The first is that Number One Daughter is doing splendidly well at her Cross Fit, and has once again been awarded the title of being the fittest woman in any military service in the whole world. Not only that, but when she had her performance review, her senior officer seemed to think that she was the fittest person in the PT Corps of the British Army that he had ever worked with.
I am very impressed.
Not only that, but Oliver is also doing jolly well. His drumming teacher has said that he is one of his very best pupils, and has asked him to join a rock band.
Gordonstoun is having an outdoor rock concert this summer, and Oliver will be playing the drums in a rock band.
I will be very pleased if he becomes a rock star, because this will save me an awful lot of worry about what he is going to do when he grows up.
He can be the drummer in a band and look after me in my old age, by which time I will be too deaf to notice him practising.
Have a picture of a walk in the woods.
