I woke up late.
I had hoofed the cats out for the night for the first time in ages. The weather has been so dreadful that they have turned and fled every time I have tried to get them to leave at bedtime. Last night, although wet and stormy, it was not cold, and when I came home from work they were waiting on the doormat to rush away into the rat-slaughtering jungle of the Windermere night.
This meant that for the first time in ages I could sleep without being woken in the small hours by a furry paw lovingly patting my nose, or by the rumble of contented purring and a small, whiskery nose warmly inserted into my ear. I am grateful for their affection but it does not lend itself to peaceful sleep, and in its absence I slept the sleep of the utterly oblivious.
It was almost ten o’clock when I finally stirred.
I took the dogs for their morning cavort around the park. They found somebody else’s lost ball, which they were very pleased about, and fought each other for its soggy ownership all the way back.
I trudged after them, wishing that the umbrella extended down to my knees. The mud was extending up to my knees, and there was a sort of middle ground of wet trouser between them and my coat.
It was raining so hard that the park, last week a skating rink which could have happily hosted the Hot Ice show, could this morning have become a venue for synchronised swimmers. We are having some very weathery weather at the moment. The dogs plunged and rolled in the mud with every appearance of delight but I did not share it. I stumped round, grumpily, thinking uncharitable things about the Weather Gods.
This did not improve when I got home.
I chucked the dogs back into the house to wipe themselves clean on the carpets, and set about organising the firewood. Happily, the builders had left a giant heap of it next to the dustbin, half of somebody’s roof, I thought, only how anybody had ever managed to get any sleep for the noise of all those woodworms chewing I couldn’t imagine. I dragged it into the yard and stacked it all underneath the shed roof to dry out. Then I sawed some already-dry bits into stove-sized lengths until I was sodden and filthy, covered in a revolting gritty layer of woodwormy sawdust which was setting nicely into a sort of muddy concrete around my boots. It would not have been a good day to have fallen in the lake.
I was not at all sorry when I had finished, not that I had actually finished, I had just had enough. I emptied out the brim of my hat, which had enough water in it to keep the conservatory going for a day or two, and went to dry out.
The dogs had chewed their new ball into a thousand tiny fragments which had been liberally scattered all over the floor, along with the sawdust which had fallen in great sodden chunks from my person.
I had to change every garment from the skin outwards.
I stuffed everything in the washing machine, except my hat, obviously, which I put on the rail to drip into the hearth. A little pool formed underneath it.
I was just exchanging my garments for some comfortingly dry ones, when the telephone rang, and it was my friend Kate. She had been for a job interview and was Passing. I dashed downstairs for some hasty sweeping and tidying, and a few minutes later she appeared at the back door.
She was interview-polished, so I was glad I had managed to peel off my filthy garments, and at least looked like a civilised person and not just like a black version of a snowman.
We had cups of tea in front of the fire. My fingers and toes warmed up and after a little while I felt contentedly sleepy. It was very pleasant indeed. There is a splendid glow which follows outdoor labour in adverse weather conditions, and although I am not sure it is worth the effort to get it, it is at least some small reward.
I am in my taxi now, and the rain is still falling. It is so wet that nobody has decided to have a night out, and it is ten o’clock, and I have not yet had a customer.
I do not mind this. I am warm and dry and I have got a good book.
It could be a great deal worse.
