Well, once again I am bashing these words out on the taxi rank.
It has been a day of unmitigated dashing about.
Well, almost. When I took the dogs up on to the fells this morning we came through the park gates at the same moment as a tottering, doddery old chap with a stick.
The dogs dawdled about so much that he not only beat us to the far side, he had time to sit down on a bench for a little rest, feel a complete revival of his spirits, and set off for home again.
I was still barely at the football pitch, bellowing in fruitless frustration at Roger Poopy’s stupid father, who had his nose blissfully buried in somebody’s wee, and was utterly oblivious. In the end I marched back and yelled in his ear, and he jumped about a foot in the air and rushed off in the wrong direction. After that he would not come to heel in case he was in trouble, by which time he was absolutely right and if I had been able to catch him I would have throttled him with his collar.
This pattern carried on right over both fell-tops, by which time I was not having a nice walk at all, despite the sunshine, because I was frantically hurrying to get back. Oliver and I were going to Asda to refill his tuck box, and we had to get home before his appointment with the barber.
The holidays are almost over.
It was a cross and frustrating walk, occupied with dark thoughts of being revenged upon a small and dawdling dog. I could cheerfully have chucked him in the tarn, but when we got home he made several unsuccessful hopping attempts to get on the sofa, and then gave up with such a sad sign of resignation that I felt sorry for him and lifted him up. They are not allowed on the sofa, most especially after Roger Poopy was sick on it the other day, but sometimes I have no strength of resolve.
After that I collected Oliver and we went to Asda, which was as hateful as going to Asda always is, most especially at the moment when everything is three times the price it was a couple of weeks ago, I could hardly believe the price of tea bags. Chai tea has gone up so much it would probably be cheaper just to stick to drinking wine. Even sausages, that everlasting staple of the Ibbetson family cuisine, have become so expensive I considered avoiding them.
I didn’t, because I couldn’t think of anything we might eat instead. I used to make my own sausages once, in the days when we kept our own pigs, but it is a monumentally tiresome undertaking, especially if you are going to scrub the gut-casings out yourself instead of begging them from the butcher. Also you have to add a very lot of sugar and salt to make them taste like everybody else’s sausages.
Also today we had to purchase tuck, which made me gulp with parsimonious anxiety. The thing is that when you are purchasing six weeks worth of chocolate and crisps, especially for a person who is about to embark upon their GCSEs, it looks like a very lot of sweets.
It is a very lot of sweets. Oliver is expecting to need to do a lot of comfort eating over the next couple of months.
I sympathise. I do wish I had managed to inherit the sort of gene that meant I went off my food when I was worried about things, but all of my assignments so far have required copious supplies of fudge and cornflake cakes.
Oliver is so thin that it might actually do him some good.
Only a few more days and he will be gone, and the dreaded GCSEs will be upon him.
Poor Oliver.
At least he will have plenty of tuck to console him.
