I am very late in starting to write this.
This is because a) I couldn’t be bothered, and b) I have been drinking.
I have not had very much to drink, but it was Figgy Pudding Gin, which was a Christmas present from my cousin, and frankly you don’t need very much.
We thought that we would drink it now. It does not seem an appropriate drink to be quaffing in May. Springtime is the season of light flowery alcohol, like Pimms and champagne, if you can afford them, which probably we can’t really. In any case, by the time we get round to the springtime, the drinking season will be well and truly over and the taxi-driving season will have begun.
It can’t begin just yet because my taxi is still off the road. It had no hope whatsoever tonight, because Mark was installing rural broadband not very far from Windermere, and left his taxi at Ted’s house and came home in the work truck. Hence this evening we are a taxi-free household, and could fill our glasses with Figgy Pudding Gin with a clear conscience.
It was sort of clear. We knew that there was nothing else we were supposed to be doing, unless you count dull things like fixing the taxi and writing on these pages. It was not exactly clear, because we accompanied the Figgy Pudding Gin with a massive dinner of lamb simmered in cream, stuffed full of vegetables grown by Mark at the farm. We followed that with wallops of bread-and-butter pudding, served hot with piles of home-made ice cream.
I imagine you can understand why we might be feeling a bit uncomfortable about that lot.
Really it will be a good thing when the taxi season starts again and I go back to work, otherwise I will have to consider investing in some larger trousers.
I do not think I have got to worry just yet, because I have still not fixed the adventures of Symon the Black to my satisfaction, and the dogs and I walked for miles and miles again this morning whilst I was contemplating him. It was raining, and I put on some waterproof trousers, which worked mostly, except I was not wearing a waterproof coat, and the water-absorbent coat that I was actually wearing is still dripping over the fire even now, hours and hours later.
It was so very wet that the dogs became resentful and started to glare and skulk by the time we were almost home. I had some sympathy. The rain was dribbling down my neck and I was almost glad to be home, even though it meant that I had to recommence my labours over Symon the bloody Black.
Talking of dogs, the Number Two Daughters have finally acquired one of their very own. It is a mad skinny looking creature which seems to smile with its tongue sticking out, it will fit into their household absolutely brilliantly. It is a cross between a collie and a Labrador, and has come all the way from a rescue centre in America. It would have been with them last week, except it was stuck in a crate at the border whilst the truckers protested. Instead it arrived at five o’clock this morning, and they are determined to love it and cherish it for ever.
I am quite sure it will be wonderful.
I have been for my shower and am now ready for bed, so I am going to draw this to a close. We watched a film which rather reminded me of the sort of book I am supposed to read for my course, because it had layers and layers of hidden meaning, none of which I understood, no plot as such, and everybody kept taking their clothes off.
It was a soothing end to the day.
I am going to go and sleep it off.
