It turns out that the film Rocketman is the story of Elton John and his descent into expensive drug-taking misery.
I have never seen Elton John on stage, although Mark has. I am not terribly interested in his music, although I confess to be rather an admirer of his sartorial style, and when I got to the taxi rank this evening I spent a wistful half an hour looking at dungarees for sale on the mighty Internet. I was most especially taken with a bright pink corduroy pair. Fortunately it is only a couple of months until my birthday, because they are the sort of garment that Mark would most certainly know that I have not had for ages.
The film seemed to have been made by Elton John’s husband, and is ruthlessly unflattering about everybody who has ever been horrible to Elton John. I quite liked this, what an elegant sort of revenge for them both.
It was not a very cheerful sort of film. I have always secretly thought that it might be jolly nice to have a mansion with a swimming pool, but after the film we both thought that probably it is just as nice to have a terraced house with a functioning bathtub, which ours will be once Mark has finished the plumbing.
Indeed, we went to bed feeling very smugly pleased with our lot in life. We had wondered if it might be a good idea to book ourselves another night of idle holiday cottaging, but then Ted rang and wanted Mark to come to work this morning, so we sighed and picked up the traces again instead. I suppose it is no bad thing, we would not want to turn into idle hedonists.
The sun was shining this morning, although the fells were still white with snow. To our happiness, there was lots of nice holiday dinner left over to put on Mark’s sandwiches, and for me to take to work in the taxi, so we felt as though we were still a little bit on holiday, even though it was a work day really.
Once Mark had gone there were lots of things that needed my attention, because of having had a day of idleness. I made biscuits and peppermint chocolate, and cleaned away the paw prints left over on the carpet from a day of idleness.
There was some dog sick as well, but I hoped that was this morning and had not been lying unnoticed since yesterday.
I cut some firewood before I rushed off to work, and to my surprise I had only been there for an hour when I had my first customers.
This was a massive improvement on the rest of the week, and I was so relieved and pleased that I forgot to pretend to be deaf, and actually talked to them.
Not only were they friendly, but by chance they turned out to be from Saddleworth, which is, of course, where my family live, and so I did not even need to pretend to be interested.
We talked about Saddleworth, and I told them that my brother is standing as a candidate in an election there tomorrow.
I have not mentioned this to you, but it is a small background adventure going on in our lives, and I am feeling a little bit excited about it, fancy having a little brother who is grown up enough to be a politician.
I stood for election myself once, and the thing I remember most about it was the utterly overwhelming sense of relief that I felt when I lost. I do not think I am cut out for politics. Grumbling about other people’s efforts is a lot less difficult.
My brother has also spent years and years grumbling about other people’s efforts, and hence has decided to jolly well have a go himself. I think this is exactly as it should be. I do not think you should complain about the way anybody else is organising things if you are not prepared to stand up and try to do a better job yourself.
My brother is in a new and passionate sort of political party called Proud Of Oldham and Saddleworth, and they are new enough to the world of politics to believe that truly you can make the world a better place if you are honest and upstanding and determined enough, and this is what they are trying to do.
I would have liked the world to be a better place as well, but I was jolly glad never to have to put up with the hours and hours of wrangling in back rooms in a chilly town hall, leading to a the sort of vote where he sides with him because he voted with him about the other thing, and everybody thinks that everybody else is a secret rotter.
I spent long enough doing political things to know that it eats your soul from the inside out.
My brother has got a fairly robust sort of soul. I am quite sure he will be truly brilliant.
The people in my taxi thought so. They had voted for him by post already.
I jolly well hope he gets in.
