Wild

Dear Readers,

I regret to say that I have had a complaint.

It has been brought to my attention that at least one reader considers my daily account of myself to be entirely dull. I will not tell you who it was, but they said: Every time I come to look at what my mother has been doing I read it and think Oh. Making jam. How boring.

I am very sorry to have been the author of such tedium and have been considering ways in which I might spice these pages up a little.

I thought about it hard.

Then I thought: I know what I will do. I will live a more exciting life.

So I popped into the alley and stole a motorbike. I put Bat Out Of Hell on the stereo, zipped up my trusty leather jacket, and set off at high speed. I did not put on a helmet even though it was raining, but I laughed in the face of such trivial bourgeoise restrictions.

I rode round the lake at top speed twice, with scant regard for the damage to the planet caused by exhaust emissions or even for the rapidly escalating cost of fuel, and I overtook some people even on blind corners. Then I got back to Windermere and thought: I am going to have to put some fuel in this bike now because I need to do parties and exciting living, so I took my trusty shotgun out of the inside pocket of my leather jacket where I had been keeping it out of the rain, and went off to rob the bank.

Unfortunately the bank closed some time ago now and is only open on Wednesday mornings in the Library. Today was Thursday, so I had to rob the Post Office instead.

Good morning, I said to Nigel behind the counter, this is a Stick Up, gimme all your cash.

Oh, good morning, Mrs. Ibbetson, said Nigel, would you like that in big notes or small ones? The change might be a bit heavy, but perhaps you could pop back with your wheelbarrow, since you only live round the corner. That’s a good idea, I said, just give me the notes for now and I’ll pop back for the rest in a minute. Splendid, said Nigel, and don’t forget that you need to use up all your old stamps before they go out of date in January.

I went home for the wheelbarrow but realised that Mark had taken it to the farm, and in any case it would have been difficult to fit it on the back of the motorbike, so I stopped robbing the Post Office and went to a wild party instead. You could tell it was wild because it was on Helm Close, which is where all the wild parties are. I know this because of being a taxi driver, and I wouldn’t usually go to a wild party on Helm Close because I would have to get a taxi home afterwards and they are really expensive.

Also I have never actually been invited to one, although Swampy did once invite me to come in and look at his collection of Blackpool memorabilia and listen to him playing Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside on his one-handed organ. I declined, so I shall never know if that would have been wild or not. I told him that he should tape it on his mobile phone because Paddy would be very interested. Paddy was very cross with me about that later, which made me laugh.

This was a properly wild party with no Blackpool memorabilia at all, and lots of drugs and drink and crazed dancing. I don’t usually do crazed dancing because my hips are not as good as they used to be, and Mark doesn’t do it either because of his bad knee, but I did not notice because of the drugs and drink, which was fortunate.

Then I got back on my motorbike and went home to bed. I had a shower and emptied the dogs and put the kettles on top of the stove so that we would have hot water for tomorrow, and came up here to write to you.

I thought, what an exciting day. I must be a very cool person indeed to have such a life of non-stop adventures. Tiresomely, though, we have run out of jam, so I don’t know what we are going to have for breakfast tomorrow.

There. Is that exciting enough for you, Oliver?

PS. The bit about Swampy is true.