The day started with the most terrific rush.
We had all sorts of impossible things to achieve before breakfast.
Actually they turned out not to be impossible really because we achieved all of them, but it was a bit of a rush. Mark had to go to work, the dogs to the park to be emptied, Lucy to get her car to the MOT garage, and Oliver had to go to the orthodontist.
I did not have to go anywhere on my own account but I can jolly well tell you that getting everybody else to their early-morning destinations kept me entirely occupied. I did not get to lie in bed listening to a cheery morning hubbub going on around me, and if anyone among you is contemplating the joys of reproduction, I would just like to draw your attention to that consequence, which is not the sort of thing anybody tells you about in ante-natal classes.
Obviously I had to drive Oliver to the orthodontist. Lucy set off a few minutes before us, because we were still faffing about, and we rushed to Kendal to collect her from the MOT garage before his appointment.
When we got to the garage she was not there, having become directionally confused. We were getting late for the orthodontist by then, and sat in the garage yard yelling frantic instructions at her over the telephone, which might not have helped much.
She dumped the car, which I am sorry to say failed because there was a crack in the CV boot, and Mark is going to have to fix it tomorrow. Then she buzzed off to Waterstones whilst Oliver and I went to listen to some fifteen-year-old dentist courteously explaining his treatment programme and telling him that he would need to wear a retainer brace at night for the rest of his life.
I do not think I would be inclined to bother with a brace under those circumstances, but Oliver is at the age where one’s face can never be sufficiently well arranged to be satisfactory, and thinks that it will be fine.
We joined Lucy in Waterstones, which turned out to be predictably costly, followed by a trip to Asda to refill Oliver’s tuck box. This was also costly, and by the time I got home I was feeling thoroughly rinsed.
I left the children recovering from their exhausting morning and took the dogs off for a decent sort of walk, because of only having been hastily emptied when we got up. It was dry, and my boots had dried, both of which were much appreciated, and apart from a blustery wind, the day was fine.
We went over the fell, and I was thinking so hard I hardly noticed it anyway. I was thinking about a story I would like to write. I will not bother you with the details unless I actually get around to writing it, but it occupied my thoughts so busily that I was striding back down the alley before I even realised it, and had to check behind me to make sure I still had the dogs.
They were both still milling along at my heels, which was fortunate, but I felt mildly guilty, what a waste of snow-capped mountains and a spectacular view of Windermere, and resolved to pay more attention to my immediate surroundings in future. The modern word for this is Mindfulness. It means being completely aware of everything that you are experiencing. Obviously you are supposed to look at the view and breathe in the fresh Lake District air, or Runcorn air, or Preston air, or Godalming air, or wherever you happen to be, but you are also supposed to notice the uncomfortable bit where your boots have dried lumpily, and the fact that your handkerchief has become a bit overfilled, and that the wind is blowing up your sleeves in a mildly irritating sort of way. It is a very popular sort of thing to do. I am not sure why.
When I came home I made fudge and chocolate, because we have eaten the last lot, and I was just having a mild crisis with the fudge which had become a bit crumbly, when Mark came home.
He solved the crumbly problem by eating quite a bit of it, and I mixed some of the rest in with the chocolate, which turned out to be truly splendid.
We occupied the evening watching a film, about Harry Potter escaping from a South African prison. This was made very exciting by the guards being the most conscientious employees imaginable, suspicions being alerted by the tiniest detail, like drops of sweat on the floor, probably they had been to mindfulness classes. Fortunately they coupled that with a complete inability to notice three enormous blokes in their underwear pegging off across the prison and out of the gate, swerving guiltily across the car park and away to freedom.
It was a most entertaining evening.
We ate crumbly fudge whilst we watched.
