Just a few words because I am not writing on these pages today.
It is Saturday, day of short day and long, longetty long, taxi-filled night.
I am on the taxi rank after a day spent playing the Washing Game with the Weather Gods.
I won in the end, although it was one of those pyrrhic victory things, the sort where you have pegged the washing out, then dragged it off the line in a hurry, then draped it over the banisters, then pegged it back outside again, a very lot of times.
In the end it all dried, and we will have fresh clean towels for our shower tonight after all.
It has been tiresome all the same.
Mark took the dogs off to the farm to be out from under my feet, which was splendid because it meant I could mop the kitchen floor. This is unnecessarily difficult when there are three interested dogs on it.
Today’s fried halloumi was better than yesterday’s although I am not exactly sure that I would consider it a success, because it is not exceptionally nice to eat. It is perfectly acceptable but salty, and cooking it makes an awful lot of clearing up.
I might not bother again for a while, although it is very fashionable, almost as much as avocado, so I do feel I ought to try.
It is not terribly busy on the taxi rank. There are no trains, and you would have to take out a secured loan on your house to purchase the fuel to get here from anywhere further away than Preston, and so we are not teeming with visitors today. Those who have arrived have spent all of their money hastily buying fuel to get home again, in case of inflation before tomorrow. They have walked down the hill from their guest houses, and do not fancy walking back up it, but they are all a bit worried about their electricity bills, and so they are hanging about Bowness wondering how you use buses.
Also there are a very lot of taxi drivers. This is because most of them usually earn their living from loitering on the station, waiting for British Rail to disgorge hundreds of confused potential customers, but alas, that source of revenue has disappeared, and so they are hovering around Bowness, hoping desperately to swoop on anybody who is not walking with a purposeful air.
Power to the Workers, that’s the thing.
I am going to go away and read my book. I am sorry this is short. Actually I am not very sorry, because I have got a good book.
Perhaps I will be feeling more inspirationally creative tomorrow.
