I have just had an email from National Car Parks promising me that Exciting Changes are coming.
I have had an email from Lucy Cavendish college warning me that I have neglected to put my name in the room-allocation ballot
It’s all happening here, I can tell you.
The august Daily Telegraph informs me that Boris has promised everybody, hand on heart, that he did not tell any fibs, and the bat flu rules were really too complicated for him to understand, which latter is probably true at least.
School has sent me a message telling me that next term Oliver is off on an unsupervised walking expedition somewhere in the Cairngorms, and accompanied this with a kit list which would probably cost me about two thousand pounds if I took any notice of it.
All in all, I am not exactly pleased to have my computer back, it is no less full of irritating drivel than it was when last I saw it.
I have switched it off and shoved it in the camper van, ready for when we set off, which will be happening in about ten minutes’ time, as soon as Mark has finished in the shower, and so probably I will have to finish writing this on the road. The nice thing about having my computer back is that at least I will be able to do this. I have not in the least minded its absence so far, but probably it will be more convenient now that we are on the move.
I can hear Mark clattering around now, so he has probably finished. I have put his clothes on the bed for him, so he will be able to dress himself without too much trouble. The dogs are waiting downstairs, anxiously, because Rosie had an accident this afternoon, and I told them they were too wicked to be taken anywhere, and they could jolly well wait by themselves in the conservatory until we came back.
I did not mean this but they think I do.
The nice thing about having dogs instead of children is that it does not matter in the least if you completely mess up their psychological well-being, because they are never going to be Prime Minister.
I have made apple cakes and packed the camper van. I have cleaned the kitchen and put Mark’s clothes on the bed to make absolutely sure he does not get confused.
I have left my boots on top of the stove for the whole day but they are still soaked through from yesterday. I had to wear a pair of Oliver’s old boots this morning, and they were too big and heavy in all the wrong places.
They are wet now as well.
We are now somewhere around Carlisle.
I had packed the van, but it needed to be moved around the back of the house where the water tank could be filled, and obviously the Weather Gods didn’t want to miss an opportunity, and the heavens opened. The camper van is now filled with wet coats and rain hats as well as my already-sodden boots.
We have neighbours in the holiday house next door, who started to drive down the alley whilst we were filling the water tank, and told Mark, irritably, to move the van because they wanted to drive past. Mark told them, rather firmly, that he would not, and employed some taxi-driver Anglo-Saxon, because they could perfectly well have gone round the other way. They didn’t, and sat there crossly, tapping their fingers on the steering wheel whilst we filled the tank and flapped about locking the house up, by which time they could have driven round the other way, gone into their holiday house, had their dinner, watched a film and started to wonder about getting ready for bed.
I think probably they just weren’t very good at reversing.
Ah well.
We are almost in Scotland.
The title has two meanings. My uncle in America died last night. I liked him very much, and was very sorry indeed to hear about it. If we had won the lottery we would go to the funeral, but of course we haven’t. I have tried to message my cousins and my aunt, but for some reason the computer won’t let me, so in the unlikely event that they read this, I would like to tell them that we are thinking about them, and he was a very lovely chap.
