I know that I have got a boy upstairs, but honestly you can’t tell.
He has been a sleeping boy, and he has slept so long and so thoroughly that by the time he finally emerged I was beginning to wonder if I ought to start looking on Google for a handsome prince to come and volunteer to fight his way through the garden and wake him up.
I am not surprised. He has not said much about the end of school, but a quick look at the reports on their web-page suggests that not only did Wednesday involve two outdoor performances of Macbeth, there was also a whole-school twenty mile hike and Prince Edward, himself a Duffus Old Boy, popped in to present the prizes in Assembly.
I should think the Headmaster is in a similar state to Oliver.
At least Oliver did not need to worry that the day before all of these adventures, Moray Council inexplicably decided, without issuing any warning, to close and dig holes in the tiny access road to the school. Presumably this was for the amusement value of watching parents who had come prepared to collect exhausted children and stacks of luggage, and Prince Edward with lots of other urgent appointments, flapping about wondering what to do next.
Our stacks of luggage are piled in the conservatory. I should have sorted them out and tidied them up today but I didn’t. Oliver should have done it as well, but he didn’t either. Instead he looked at the huge pile of bags and boxes through bleary eyes and speculated about which might contain his phone charger, before finally unearthing it and retreating back to bed.
I emptied his laundry bag into the washing machine and ignored his sacks of towels and sheets. There is plenty of summer to worry about it all, and tomorrow will be just as good a good time to start.
I am not looking forward to it. He has grown again and it may be that further uniform-and-shoe expenditure will be called for.
I won’t even worry about that tomorrow. That can wait until next week.
I took the dogs for a long walk over the fells, during which the heavens opened so thoroughly that I became drenched to the skin. I had left the washing flapping in the garden, just to add to my sodden misery, and got back to haul it all indoors just as the sun emerged, grinning in some embarrassment, like Oliver coming out of his bedroom.
I hung it out again later, and you will be pleased to hear that it dried in the end.
I was obliged to undress, and to leave my clothes in a puddle on the floor whilst I went in search of dry ones, which got wet all over again during my next excursion, which was to the Post Office.
Nigel who runs the Post Office has gone on holiday. Everybody in the village is following his holiday stories on Facebook but that does not stop us all dawdling about the counter creating an enormous queue behind us whilst we all enquire in minute detail about how he is going on and whether the dogs are missing him.
I went to the Co-op to buy milk, because I am cross with Sainsbury’s. I discovered the other day that everything in their king-sized mega-market Kendal metropolis store is fifty pence cheaper than in the old car showroom that they occupy here in the village. I am unimpressed with this, because I only go into Kendal about once a month, which is just not often enough to buy tomatoes and milk and raspberries. The Co-op might not be much cheaper, but at least I am not paying for them to give discounts to the hoi-polloi of Kendal.
It could be worse. I discovered today that one of the little local corner grocery shops, who shall remain nameless, is switching off its fridges and freezers at night in order to reduce its now very expensive electricity usage.
If you notice on your news screens that the population of Windermere has been inexplicably wiped out by a virulent outbreak of e-coli, you will know why.
