We are going to Manchester tomorrow and we are not in the least ready.
We are considerably more ready than we might have been, but that is still not very ready.
In the good news column, Lucy’s car has passed its MOT. Mark has spent all day bashing it about and swearing. The swearing was because he discovered that the bit that the garage had told us was broken was not broken at all, merely had some spilled oil on it. He was not at all pleased, and showed me. I looked at it politely and I could not see any holes in it either, so I nodded sympathetically and tried not to look too mystified, and he put the new bit on anyway, since we had got it.
We took it into Kendal this evening, and were just going to dump it with the garage until they got round to looking at it, but the nice chap who does MOT certificates, as opposed to the horrible one, was still working away in the dark, and he looked at it there and then, on the spot, even though it was getting late and everything. He agreed that Lucy’s car was a fine specimen of an automobile, and passed it for her, so we could take it home after all and we do not have to worry about that again for another year.
Obviously that is assuming that it lasts another year. Really it has done very well indeed to last this long. Its number plate tells us that it was born in September 2003, so it is looking set to rival the camper van one day at this rate.
Also we have already taken the dogs and dumped them on Elspeth. I was hoping that I might be able to do this by myself, and occupy the evening drinking clandestine gin and getting too drunk to drive home. I suspect Mark saw that coming, because he insisted that we drove down together, and waited in the car whilst I abandoned the dogs. I was disappointed about this, because I have had enough of cooking and cleaning, and liked the idea of some bad behaviour, but I suppose really it is just as well.
I have almost packed, in that I have got our clothes out of the wardrobe but not put them in a bag, and I have filled both cars with fuel so it does not matter even if we are late coming back from Manchester, we will still be able to go to work. Putting fuel in Mark’s car turned out to be an embarrassing nuisance, because I forgot which side the fuel cap was on, and had to faff about turning the car round in a rush, because I had already put all of the card details into the stupid pump thing. I could not work out how to open the fuel cap after that. It was a moment of great irritation, I can tell you.
I have still got his bank card in my pocket. I will have to remember that before my trousers go into the washing machine.
I had to put all of my clothes into the washing machine after emptying the dogs this morning. It was raining. I mean really raining, the sort of rain that makes you long desperately for a bright log fire and steaming rum punch with hot buttery muffins. The terrible thing was that Mark was fixing the car in the rain and had claimed his coat back. I do not have a scruffy coat at the moment, just the very expensive woollen one for pretentious showing-off. I did purchase one on eBay last year which looked lovely in the photographs, but when it arrived turned out to be filthy, so I returned it in disgust for my money back.
I had no intention whatsoever of wearing my smart coat on a very muddy, sleety walk, we are going to Manchester tomorrow and I do not wish to turn up looking as though I am a recent refugee from the Ukraine. I was obliged to go in my jersey and sheepskin body-warmer. I was drenched to the skin before I was even halfway up School Knott Fell.
I plodded on, occasionally stopping to wring water out of my sleeves before I blew my nose on them.
When I got home I was so wet my clothes were almost too heavy to lift off the floor to drag them into the washing machine. The dogs could not remove their fur, and lay on their cushion looking affronted. I think I have only just warmed up again.
I suppose I had better go and put our clothes in a bag. I am trying to be excited but without success so far.
Maybe tomorrow.
