Oliver is still contemplating a foray into the newly-opening world of mobility.
He has saved a thousand pounds from his slave-labour washing dishes in the Albert, and is wondering if this would get him a car that James Bond might admire.
Mark is sure that it will, although they might need to do some repairs to it before it can actually be driven anywhere. I have repeated my Firm Line about not purchasing any cars that need to be brought home on a low-loader, and they are both frowning thoughtfully, and contemplating their next options.
Oliver has also observed that there is no point in having an expensive car and then having to sleep in it because you have spent all your money and can’t afford an hotel.
Fortunately it is not an immediately pressing difficulty, because he is going back to school now, and so the problem will have to be shelved until half-term.
We are, indeed, on the motorway even as I write, just south of Glasgow, in fact. It is ten o’ clock, so we are unlikely to reach Gordonstoun tonight, but we are chugging along quite cheerfully. Oliver has retired to the back to read his book, and the dogs are irritatingly asleep next to me.
Indeed, it is possible to be irritating even whilst you sleep. Roger Poopy likes to sleep with his head on my knee, and is failing to be deterred either by the presence of a keyboard, or by my occasional bursts of impatience and bad language.
I have occupied the whole day in preparing for this journey, although mostly I was not so much organising the travelling as leaving presents for myself when I get home. We will be coming home to a beautifully mopped kitchen, fresh sheets on the bed, a fridge laden with nice things for dinners, and the dishcloth soaking in bleach in the sink. There could be no greater paradise.
I think that probably the nice things in the fridge had better be eaten by Mark, though, because I have a suspicion that I am becoming portly.
Dungarees are both a blessing and a curse from the point of view of rotundity, in that they are never tight. It would not matter if I developed a body shape similar to a rugby ball, I would not know. This is delightfully comfortable at all times, but not much of an early-warning system when it comes to being round.
When I wore jeans all the time I knew that I had become excessively spherical because they began to be uncomfortable around the top. Now that this no longer applies I suspect that I have failed to notice an outbreak of increasing girth.
This has become marked over the last few weeks when we have had the visiting dog, and I have not been able to get outside to walk. I have missed daily walks with an impatient frustration, but I have probably not eaten fewer chocolate buttons in compensation, and I am now wearing the extra ones all around my waist.
I have decided that some action is necessary.
I have become Sparing with my dietary intake. It turns out that this is not actually all that difficult. I just need not to eat things and do something else instead.
Following this principle this morning I did not eat anything until I had been shopping, hoovered and dusted, fed Mark and Oliver, baked some biscuits, cooked the sausages, washed the pots and started on the packing.
By that point I was so hungry I knew I must have lost at least half a stone, and rushed downstairs to see if I had earned a chocolate button, but we ate them all yesterday, so I had to eat a piece of cheese instead. I know that cheese makes you fat as well, but I was over a barrel, because I had packed everything else.
Also I accidentally cooked chips for everybody’s dinner, so I might have to start again at the beginning tomorrow.
We are making jolly good progress through the dark northern night.
I think James Bond might jolly well admire the camper van.
