Mark has gone.
He is not yet offshore. At the time of writing he is chugging up the motorway, somewhere around Glasgow, I imagine. I am still holding my breath because there are an awful lot of things that can go wrong between Glasgow and Perth, and I have got everything crossed that the Gods are off on their holidays somewhere else.
I have considered holding what we used to call a God Distraction Ceremony, the sort where you take your clothes off and dance around standing stones with a bonfire, and hope that the Gods are so busy looking at you that they don’t take any notice of the important thing that you have got going on somewhere else. I am not going to do this because it is not dark yet, it is February and decidedly chilly, and I have noticed that the stinging nettles are up already, so Mark is on his own. I shall light a candle and hope that this is sufficient.
I have just this very minute had a reassuring text from some friends who are heading south from Edinburgh, telling me that they have just passed the camper van, still chugging along in a northerly direction, so So Far So Good.
All the same I am not going to uncross my fingers just yet.
This is not helpful when you are trying to type a dissertation, which has been my activity for the afternoon.
Actually it was not my dissertation, but its title and synopsis, which had to be submitted to the examiners this week, probably so they could get excited about it, like I do about the publication date for the new Cormoran Strike novel, not that there is one due for ages. The last one came out in September, and I had ordered it in advance, and I haven’t finished it yet. I am reading it very, very slowly, a few pages at a time, to see if I can stretch it out until the next one is due. I would be sorry not to have something splendid waiting to be read.
It has been quite difficult to write a synopsis when you are not exactly sure what happens in the end anyway. Some pencil-chewing has gone on, except it was a keyboard, obviously.
I am supposed to be heading down to Cambridge this week anyway. Apart from the obvious objective of advancing my learning, it is the English Department dinner, which according to the menu includes Taming of the Stew, with the Great GatsBrie and Huckleberry Gin, all of which I thought sounded irresistible. If I manage to make it I will be off on Thursday, going via Lucy’s house because I thought she might enjoy having some dogs to keep her cats company for a couple of days. I am excited about it, I don’t know if I mentioned that I am studying at Cambridge for a Master’s’s’ degree in my spare time. Well, I am.
I have not done much writing today. Mark very kindly hung around and helped with the housework as a sort of going-away present, for which I was exceedingly grateful, because it means that I now have a clear run at the week. I do not have to do any hoovering or even dusting for several days.
We have a dust extractor on the stairs, which I emptied this morning. It had collected so much dust that it was practically having an asthma attack. I brushed it out in the yard and the dust peeled off it in great thick sheets. I hope I am better at writing a dissertation than I am at housework.
Anyway, it is all done and I have got a free space hanging enticingly in front of me. All I have got to do is to keep the dogs nicely emptied, the woodpile nicely filled, and plenty of peanut butter and jam sandwiches simmering on the stove.
Obviously I have got to earn some money as well.
I had better go and get on with it.
