Privations

Today the Weather Gods won.

I had hung my washing in the yard, and it was almost, almost dry when the heavens opened.

I only just noticed in time and went belting out to drag it all in. Enormous fat raindrops splashed down, and everything had to be draped all round the wood stove to dry out.

I was so busy getting the washing I forgot the potatoes and they burned.

When  looked outside again the skies had cleared to crystal blue, and I could practically hear the Weather Gods laughing.

I did not bother hanging it all outside again, because there are some games that can amuse the Gods practically indefinitely, it takes them ages to get bored when they are on a winning streak. Instead I rescued the potatoes, and as I stirred tomatoes and basil into them, the telephone rang.

To my astonishment it was Oliver.

We have not heard from him for weeks and weeks and weeks, well for a few days anyway. We did not mind this because we assumed that it meant he was having a good time, but it turned out that this was not the reason.

He has not rung because he has been away at sea.

He has been learning to sail on the school yacht.

The yacht, which is called Ocean Spirit, is eighty feet long, and they have been off sailing around the Isle of Skye.

Oliver has had the most wonderful, fantastic time.

He has lived in the same clothes for a week, fallen asleep in his oilskins and boots, and eaten with the fierce desperation of the still-growing manual labourer.

One of the boys fell asleep during dinner. He fell off his chair but it did not wake him up.

Oliver was seasick at first, but once he got his sea-legs he was fine, until he disembarked a week later, and then he was sick with the peculiar immobility of the land. He was awed by the hugeness of the sea and the sky, battered by rough seas and high winds, frightened and thrilled and joyful all at once.

He rang to tell me about it, and I could hear the happiness in his voice.

He explained that he will not be ringing again for a while, because next week the boys of his house are off on an expedition to the Cairngorms. They are going to climb mountains and slide down zip wires, build shelters and sleep on the beach, and cook on camp fires.

The letter I have had informs me that there will be no access to showers or toilets.

I am glad he is back at school. It is not at all like his nice bedroom at home, where the only expeditions have been down to the kitchen for supplies of biscuits and apple juice.

Number One Daughter rang as well. She is also struggling with the privations of life, but in her case it is because Number One Son-In-Law is off on his oil rig, and in his absence the Army have been turning her heating on and off because of boiler issues. She has had no hot water, and now it turns out that they have issued her with a defunct cooker. This has been condemned by British Gas, leaving her trying to feed Ritalin Boy on raw vegetables, probably a bit like Oliver next week when he has got to cook everything on a camp fire.

I think she should take Ritalin Boy round to the Army housing office and leave him there until they bring her a new one. I mean a new cooker, obviously, not Ritalin Boy, she likes him. All the same, it is practically impossible to manage. You cannot be a housewife, a full-time career soldier, write a dissertation for a degree, be the fittest person in the Army, win weightlifting competitions and look after a small boy by yourself without hot water and a cooker.

Something has got to give, and I think it should be the Army.

She has been a soldier for a long time, and so she was resigned to the slings and arrows of outrageous Army fortunes. She is hoping that they will bring her another one tomorrow, but it is the British Army, anything might happen.

They had jolly well better do, or I will be writing to Boris and the Queen about it.

Have a picture of some weather in Windermere.