Goodnight and thank you

It did start.

We are in some woods somewhere in the north of Scotland.

Everywhere is white. I mean really white, the sort of frost that puffs out twigs and leaves, making them look twice their size in a frosty, wintry sort of way.

Probably that is what happens to Father Christmas.

It is very, very cold.

I am having a small worry because we smelled gas when we got in, and Mark thinks we might have a leak. The gas pressure is now very low, it takes the kettle ages to boil and it has taken the shower water for ever to get hot. Mark says that this is just because the bottle is cold. It is only supposed to be minus two outside, but it feels a lot colder and I am just a bit scared that the problem is caused by all the gas having leaked out, and we might run out of heating before the morning and awaken as frozen corpses tomorrow, our hair and beards white with the frost, like failed Everest climbers.

I will let you know if that happens. If it does and we are not dead we will have to drive to the garage down the road to put some more gas in it. This will be horrible because we will have to dress in cold clothes, it will be like a time travelling journey back to the nineteen seventies, the days when you had to take your clothes into bed with you to warm up before you put them on and there was frost inside the windows.

All of this talk about Good Old Days is complete rot. Climate change and central heating are modern miracles. Be grateful.

Anyway, we have made it.

Of course we were late. Fortunately we were woken up by a kindly angel this morning, who realised that we were oversleeping dreadfully, and who helpfully disguised himself as a man coming to read the water meter and rang the doorbell very loudly, several times, until we let him in. I was not at all grateful at the time and made cross noises about it being still the middle of the night, but changed my mind when I realised that it was eleven o’clock and we had planned to leave at half past one, so it was an act of splendid good fortune after all.

Hence we did not leave at half past one. Oliver drove himself into town for his orthodontist appointment whilst the rest of us dashed about stuffing hats and coats and sausages into different cupboards in the camper van, and instead of going into town with him, we left when he arrived back home.

He does not really need the orthodontist any more because of not having a brace on his teeth these days, but he had gone for a check to make sure his teeth were all still suitably middle-class and respectable. It was very useful that he could take himself there, because it meant that we could carry on faffing about for another hour.

Obviously, several hundred miles later, the end result was that we did not pull into the parking space in the woods until long after midnight. We cleared up the cat sick and had cheese and crackers for dinner.

No wonder gypsies have lurchers and not cats. They are not good travellers.

Still it has been a nice journey, occupied by listening to the endlessly magnificent story of the Far Pavilions, which is not only captivating, it is very, very long. We have been listening for two trips to Scotland and a trip to Kettering, and we have still got thirty hours left to go. It is such a wonderful book that we are very pleased about this, and every now and again pause it so that we can sigh in admiration at a beautiful turn of phrase, or nod contentedly and murmur our agreement.

Mark is in the shower. I hope the gas lasts. If it doesn’t and I am a frozen corpse by morning then I have enjoyed knowing you.

Goodnight and thank you.