I am not at work.
We are going to go out.
At least, I think we are going to go out. It is almost seven o’clock, and Mark is not yet home from work.
He hasn’t even called to say he is setting off.
Let me revise that. We are probably going out, if Mark gets home in time. If he doesn’t then I shall just slope off to the taxi rank and earn some more money.
The splendid weather has been very helpful for the taxi business, I can tell you. I was the only taxi out at work last night, because everybody has made their money already apart from poor Chubby, whose engine has blown up. You do not spell it Chubby, apparently, but Csaba. How that combination of letters says Chubby is a complete mystery to me, but foreigners do not spell properly, not even the Americans. Chubby is not a real foreigner, not like people from Kendal or Preston. He lives and works at one of the hotels just here in Windermere when he is not on the taxi rank.
Anyway, he is not out at work, and the other night-time driver, whose name is so unpronounceable that he is just called Z, has thought he would prefer alcohol to taxi driving for the last few nights. I am wholeheartedly in agreement with this, and so since Z is back at work tonight, it is going to be our turn.
That is if Mark comes home. He is very late.
I have not had a very productive day. I thought this morning I would take the dogs for a scramble up the fell, but regrettably this turned out to be rather more of a demanding exercise than I thought it might be, and by the time I got down, my foot was hurting like mad and looked as though it had grown a couple of tennis balls, one on either side of it.
The other leg is sore as well. It is having to do a lot of extra work to compensate for the idle and ineffective one, and it is grumbling like mad.
By the time I got back home my feet and legs were aching, and I was feeling very sorry for myself.
Fortunately, I was at work until two in the morning, and then up again at seven with Mark, and so felt justified in sloping off back to bed for an hour, which helped.
After that I did not bake the biscuits, which was what I was supposed to do. I did not at all like the idea of standing in the kitchen for ages, so I hobbled around doing all of my domestic chores, and then as soon as everywhere was satisfactorily tidy, I made tea and went upstairs to investigate literary agents, which was the perfect chore for the afternoon, because you have got to sit down.
It takes absolutely ages. First you have got to find an agent who is looking for the sort of story you have written. It is absolutely no good at all writing to somebody who says they are looking for a gripping but witty romantic plot written by somebody of a diverse background for young adults, because they will just look in horror at my dragon-related outpourings. There were some agents I had never heard of, some who had been recommended by university tutors, and some who say Diverse, but do not mean Weird Old Lady.
I have elevator pitched and blurbed and synopsised as per the instructions, it took me hours and hours, at the end of which I had written to two agents. I really liked the sound of one of these, and tried my hardest to write an engaging covering letter, but now I have pressed Send I think probably she will just think I am mental. This cannot be helped.
I hope she likes dragons anyway.
Mark has called. He is on his way home.
We are going to go and have a curry.
