I did not manage to write anything in these pages before work.
Hence I am sitting on the taxi rank, trying to be inspired into outpourings of thrilling prose, in between customers who would walk up the hill to their guest house, honestly, of course they would, if only they didn’t have a bad leg.
I don’t know why they feel that they have to make an excuse to me, the taxi driver whom they will never see again in their lives, and if they really must, why not at least make it a decent one? I would be interested and charmed to have a customer who explained that they had urgent need of a taxi because they were a secret agent for MI5 and Doctor No had just stolen their nuclear-powered skateboard. Or that they had planned to walk but were suddenly in a tearing hurry because somebody had just called them to warn them that the police were hunting them down and they needed to get away immediately.
Actually I have had that one once. The police tried to catch me on the motorway cameras all the way to Liverpool, but failed, about which I was secretly rather proud. I got my criminal home, which is, after all, my job, and the police had to telephone Liverpool police and ask if they would pop round and do them a favour and bring him back to the Lake District.
They could have just called me. I would have brought him back for a discount, since I was coming anyway.
Anyway, I am sitting here contemplating the earliest bank holiday tourists, and rather regretting that I have finished my book, which was a good one.
I don’t quite know how I have managed to finish the day in such a rush. I don’t much like writing on the taxi rank, as you know, because of the Persons from Porlock, but today I managed to fritter away the afternoon so badly that by the time the dogs were starting to fidget about for their pre-work emptying, I was still rushing about putting washing away and sloshing tea into flasks.
I do not know where the day went. Some of it went on the usual activities, and some of it went on a long Zoom call to a friend on my course. She has read my dystopian story and wanted to tell me what she thought. I am pleased to tell you that we thought the same bits were rubbish, which was encouraging. Mark tells me what he thinks as well, but he always just likes reading stuff, and so does not count. He does not ask me exactly what I am planning to do with my Character Arcs or discuss the different speech patterns employed by different characters.
It was a very helpful experience and I felt newly inspired at the end of it.
I did not write anything else, inspired or not. I made some biscuits and got dinner ready. Fortunately Oliver just wanted chicken and couscous, which was easy, and Mark’s approach to eating is much the same as his approach to literary criticism, which is that he more or less just likes everything.
Spring is very definitely on the way, and our walk this morning was full of hawthorn blossoms and birdsong. I like this time of year, when the new green is just settling on the trees like mist, and the tadpoles are almost popping their legs out.
I check them every morning just to make sure I haven’t missed their first little toes.
I have just arrived back at home, and I am going to go to bed. I ended the night with a trip to Kendal with a tiresome lady passenger who told me that she knew everything about taxis and would know if I was ripping her off, and that the price should be five pounds less than the meter price.
I got the right money out of her before we set off and told her I would give her the change when we got there, if there was any.
She was very disgruntled when we got there, because she knew she was being overcharged when I showed her the correct fare on the meter, but I didn’t care once the cash was in my pocket, she could be as disgruntled as she liked.
I do not do discounts for rude people, especially after my bedtime.
I am going to bed.
