All right

Another night of not writing much.

The creative muse is not being helped by having had a leaking water bottle last night, and everything in my taxi, including my computer, is sodden.

It is a jolly good job we didn’t fork out half a million quid for a new one.

The old one still seems to be working all right, or at least, as all right as it ever was, so that is good news, but the case is sodden and is still making wet splotches on my dress as I write even tonight.

I had an environmentally ethical glass water bottle up until a couple of weeks ago, when some tiresome oiks from Droomer Drive pinched it, and so now I have been reduced to re-using an elderly plastic bottle that once held Asda’s Slightly Upmarket But Still Cheap apple juice. It leaked last night, and so I put it in the bin in a vengeful fit of pique. It can jolly well go and be recycled into something useful.

Mark insisted that we bought another glass one on Amazon this morning, so we did. It has got a bamboo lid so it must be virtuous. I bought some new flip-flops as well, because of my York flip-flop misfortune, so my equilibrium is now restored and once again I will be fully equipped to stride forward into life.

I do not quite understand why, but Rosie has developed a passion for all of my right-footwear. Not Mark’s footwear, and not my left-footwear, but she finds the right irresistible.

She has had the insoles out of my right boots, both my walking ones and my sheepskin ones. She has eaten two of my right socks and chewed through my right flip-flop. I am endlessly getting up out of a chair to find only one shoe remaining beside me, and it is always the left, because the right has disappeared into a secret dark corner somewhere. My right foot must smell especially delicious, I will have to start kicking her with it, perhaps, to create a different sort of association.

Last night was uneventful, which is how I like my evenings at work, and the sky was bright and filled with birdsong as we took our last dog-emptying stroll around the Library Gardens. We did not get up until lunchtime, and sloped off back to bed for another sleep before work tonight. We are trying to rake together cash to go north for Oliver this week, because the school year has finally drawn to a close.

He has done with GCSEs, when he goes back in September he will be starting on his A Levels. A few weeks after that I will be going south to Cambridge. I have been offered a place at a college called Lucy Cavendish. I do not know if this is a good thing or not, and have resolved, and repeatedly forgotten, to find out who Lucy Cavendish was, and whether I might have liked and admired her.

Whoever she was, her College will make an interesting change from the taxi rank.

The whole thing seems too peculiar for words. I can hardly imagine that in a few months I will be doing something so mind-blowingly different.

It is too difficult to think about.

I am going to go away and read my book.