We are still in Devon.
At least, I think Plymouth is in Devon. This is where we are, anyway.
We are in an hotel.
It is quite a nice hotel, in a faded grandeur sort of way. That is to say, it must have been a wonderful hotel once, probably some time around when King George the Third was on the throne, but really it is time that they gave it a lick of paint and considered upgrading the plumbing.
I am in a glass house when it comes to plumbing, and must not throw rocks.
Our bedroom is absolutely beautiful, in a weary sort of way. It is almost at the top of a roof arrangement which includes, for some arcane hospitality reason, a sort of chubby steeple, and it is round, with walls which slope upwards and inwards accordingly.
I like it very much, it is truly beautiful. If we had won the lottery I would build a steeple on the top of our house as well, and put our bedroom in there. Probably we would need the lift as well, and I am not so sure where that might go, but we could worry about that detail later.
Ernest Shackleton stayed in this hotel on his way to explore somewhere horrible, I forget where. We are not exploring anywhere horrible. We are here for Number One Daughter’s graduation, which was this afternoon.
We were not supposed to be attending the graduation. Our job for the afternoon was to supervise Ritalin Boy. Grandma and Grandad, who are here as well, were instructed to attend the actual ceremony and listen to the speeches and do all of the clapping.
They departed at around lunchtime, suitably attired in uncomfortable shoes and other middle-class disguises. Then we organised ourselves properly and unloaded everybody’s bags into the right bedrooms, because of course we had not done that. We had arrived at the hotel and just collapsed.
Once everything was in order we thought we would take a stroll across the town to find the graduation so that we could jump up and down and cheer when they all came out.
We had Ritalin Boy with us, so the walk across town was more a sort of long-distance wrestling bout, but it turned out not to be very far.
It was at the Guildhall. Lots of people were milling about outside, organising tables of drinks and setting up complicated camera arrangements.
The ceremony had started.
It seemed like too good an opportunity to be missed.
We assumed a purposeful we-are-meant-to-be-here air, and strolled straight up the steps and into the hall, where a harassed-looking woman showed us to some seats at the back.
It must have been a very good purposeful air, because we were not meant to be there at all. It was a ticket-only event, with limited tickets, and instructions not to turn up without them under any circumstances. Not only that, but we were not even disguised as the middle classes. We were dressed for an afternoon of orange juice and wrestling with Ritalin Boy and the dogs.
I hissed instructions about virtuous behaviour into Ritalin Boy’s uncomprehending ears, and we settled down for an afternoon of clapping.
Ritalin Boy thought he would see if he could get his feet behind his ears. He managed this without getting stuck, which was impressive, although it made it difficult for him to clap.
We clapped politely when a hundred and ninety nine students were awarded their BSc certificates, and bellowed our approval for the other one.
Ritalin Boy liked that bit.
Afterwards there was warm Prosecco, as there always is at this sort of event, and some photographs, and lots of bursting with pride.
I was bursting with pride, obviously. Ritalin Boy was trying to climb up an interesting indentation in the outside of the Guildhall.
He was jolly good really. It was a very long time for a boy to sit and listen to a bloke in a dress going on about the West Country’s education statistics.
It was a lovely afternoon. We were very proud.
We reconvened for dinner in the hotel, at which we ate more than was good for us, and felt very satisfied with our day.
I have an educated offspring.
