There were some muppets wishing to get in taxis last night.
One couple staggered out of a pub, screeching and bellowing over their shoulders as they left.
They swayed unsteadily over to the taxi and collapsed into the back seat.
It took me some time to translate the outraged shrieks, but it turned out that they had been ejected from the pub. This did not surprise me in the least, but the couple were entirely convinced that the reason for this was that the gentleman was black.
I squinted at him in the dark. If he was black it did not show very much, although I conceded that he did seem to be a sort of brownish hue.
They told me, in detailed Anglo-Saxon, what they thought of the racist and backward people of Windermere. Especially their racism.
I did not, by way of exchange, explain what the people of Windermere thought of noisy and intoxicated oiks. It seemed that the landlady of the pub had already attempted that explanation and could expect an unfavourable review on TripAdvisor for her pains.
I do not much like the landlady of that particular pub, and smirked, happily, at the thought.
Another lady was dressed in nothing but garments that appeared to be some very highly polished black leather underwear and some equally polished, long and uncomfortable looking boots. She wore a fur scarf around her neck, like an extraordinarily long fox’s tail, but it was clearly inadequate as insulation, because by the time she got in the taxi she was shivering so convulsively she could hardly get the door open.
Sleet was lashing down from the night sky by this time. Her boyfriend was sensibly clothed in an anorak and jeans, and it was hard to imagine what she had been thinking about when she set off for an evening in the Lake District in a February storm, without considering that being almost completely naked was potentially not going to end well.
The next lady asked me what book I was reading. Actually she said: bewk, but I understood. I loathe talking about my own entirely private reading habits, but vaguely conceded that it was about the war, and she said that she was reading a bewk as well.
I was so astonished by this that I could hardly form a reply. Mostly customers tell me that they have either never read a bewk, or that they started to read one once but couldn’t get along with it.
I asked if it was an enjoyable book, and she told me that it was called Mental Fitness, and was brilliant.
I wondered what one had to do in order to consider oneself mentally fit, and she explained that it was essential not to worry about stuff.
I was impressed by this inspired insight, and she assured me that once she had worried about stuff, but now that she had read a bewk and become mentally fit, she never would again.
Oh, the power of the written word.
I have spent all of today contemplating the power of the written word, because of course it was the day of my class. This does not glide along smoothly and easily when it comes hot on the heels of a very late night and only a couple of hours’ sleep, and for all I had been looking forward to it all week, I found myself sounding rather abruptly short on patience.
I was not short on patience, indeed, had no need of patience, because we were discussing one another’s attempts at writing fairy stories. I had not only occupied a very happy couple of days writing them, which you know, but had thoroughly enjoyed reading everybody else’s.
Some of the others are really, awe-inspiringly good.
I was somewhat less enraptured by the afternoon class, during which the tutor made the unfortunate decision to read us long passages of text. Almost all of these went entirely over my head, and during one of the less gripping ones, I might have actually closed my eyes and woken up with a start, hopefully before I started to snore or dribble, or anything embarrassing.
I was not exactly sorry when it was over. Lucy had departed during my lunch break, and Mark and Oliver had returned to bed until it was time to depart for Scotland, so I tiptoed quietly around the house for a while, emptying the fridge into a bag and waxing everybody’s boots, until finally it was time to wake them up and set off.
I am writing this from the middle of a snowstorm in the middle of Scotland. Mark is driving and I am trying not to nod off. There has been some exciting weather so far, not least thunder and lightning in the middle of the blizzard, and it is showing no sign of becoming mild and tranquil so far.
I am glad we are in the camper van. You will be pleased to hear that Lucy has arrived home all right, although she has bashed her foot and has a broken toe.
More tomorrow.
