Right, everybody, this is going to be a short late-night entry because I have been out having adventures and I do not want to be writing at all. I want to be going to bed.
As Homer Simpson once said: Future Me. Well, I don’t envy that guy.
I don’t envy Future Me either, most especially the one who has got to wake up at seven o’clock tomorrow morning and carry on right through until three the next morning. That person is going to have a jolly horrid day.
Today has been jolly good, though. Apart from all of the usual things like washing and baking biscuits and writing stories, we have been all the way to Lancaster to have a Chinese dinner with our friends Kevin and Kate.
We like them. Kevin is writing an game for an app on a mobile telephone, and Kate is doing something important with industrial plumbing for hydrogen things. She has explained it lots of times, and Mark asks interested questions, and then more interested questions when he gets the answer to the first ones, but frankly I do not have a clue about what she is going on about, and just have to nod and try hard to keep up. It is one of those things where I think I understand what she is saying, and agree earnestly, but then when she gets to the end of it, if anybody asked me to explain what I had just heard I would just look blank and a bit guilty and have to make an excuse to go to the bathroom.
It does not matter. I know that she is having a good time and actually being quite a globetrotter. She has been to Glasgow this week, which has become practically abroad now that Nicola Sturgeon is getting serious about being another country. Apparently she has issued an apology to all the witches that Scotland has burned, although really it is a bit late. Even five minutes afterwards would have been a bit late really.
The dinner was jolly good, and we ate sufficiently extravagantly to make my trousers uncomfortably tight now. We brought the leftovers home . Mark thinks that he might eat them but he jolly well isn’t going to. I am going to give them to the dogs. The popular press, by which I mean the august Daily Telegraph really, has warned me that the price of dog food is going to go absolutely through the roof, and advised that people start feeding their dogs on leftovers. They would become very lean in a very short time in our house, I can tell you. They get all of the leftovers already, not that there ever are many, and what is more, I scour the pans out with dry dog food before I wash them, and tip it into their dishes to make sure that we don’t waste even the stuck-on bits at the edges. This might account for some of their more surprising digestive disturbances, I suppose.
They were very pleased to see us home, how the Queen manages ever to get out without tights full of corgi-induced ladders I have no idea, she must put them on in the porch on her way out.
On that speculative note, I am going to go to bed. Mark has just staggered roundly up the stairs and we are going to give up for the night.
It has been a splendid evening. I think we should do it more often. Maybe our glorious leaders could be persuaded that it was a helpful thing to do, and subsidise it again.
See you tomorrow.
