Mud (and) Bath

I now have two chicks in the nest.

Oliver appeared this afternoon, having driven himself home all the way from the north of Scotland in readiness for our trip to Bath tomorrow. It seems such a very grown-up thing to do. We are more or less agreed that this will be his general method of travelling until his school days come to an end, not least because it reduces the massive costs considerably.

His housemaster has obliged Oliver to hand the car keys over during term time, not least because every other boy in Duffus House thinks that it might be a cool adventure to have their own transport to the thrilling night life of Elgin, and in my opinion I would like a better outcome to his school life than that of being an unpaid taxi driver for the last few months. Also he has got A Levels to think about.

We were pleased to see Oliver, and Lucy decided that she would stay another night in order that the two of them could avail themselves of our drinks cabinet and catch up on their mutual newsworthy adventures. I have left them to it, having organised pizzas for dinner, and am now on the taxi rank.

I felt guilty for being such an utterly unimaginative cook, but I am busy trying to earn a living, keep the fire going, write a novel and complete a Master’s’s’ degree. I have no creativity to spare for other people and their culinary preferences. I do pizza and sausages at the moment. That is the full range.

I was pleased to discover some small, considerably chewed mouse corpses in the yard this afternoon. Obviously I was sorry for the poor mice, but on the whole I would prefer it if they lived somewhere else, and until the cats returned our yard was very definitely short on apex predators.

I have been telling the cats of my appreciative gratitude, but it is more than obvious that they would not care what I thought  even if they understood what I was talking about, which they don’t. Their interest in my activities fades to None Whatsoever once I have filled their dishes with chicken in the mornings.

I think I might like it if the dogs felt the same. Roger Poopy has taken to coming dashing up whenever he hears me about to put my boots on, and bouncing about like a marionette whose operator has been sniffing recreational drugs. He can detect the sound of boots hitting the floor in the kitchen even if he is at the very top of the house three floors above.

He was disappointed this afternoon when he hoped I might be about to indulge them in an extra walk, this morning’s having been considerably shortened because of the lashing rain. I had to go on a Zoom telephone call when we came home, and as always, was horrified when I caught sight of myself in the eye of the unforgiving camera. I looked as though I had just come back from a three month holiday in the Ukraine during the monsoon season, and spent the next half an hour trying surreptitiously to wipe mud splashes from the bits of my anatomy that were visible on the screen.

Most of the bits of my anatomy that were not visible on the screen were both drenched and caked in mud, but they didn’t matter. Also I had just discovered some bird poo on my trousers, probably acquired whilst they had been on the washing line. My respectable trousers are turning into the sort of trousers worn-only-for-painting very quickly, I am afraid.

I didn’t take the dogs out again this afternoon, and Oliver did it when he came home. Instead I spent an hour in the yard, sawing up the firewood that the builders had thoughtfully left behind. Most of it was soaked, like everything else in the Lake District today, but I am going away tomorrow, so it will get plenty of chance to dry, and I stacked it carefully under cover so we will be able to be warm when we come home.

We have got to set off very early in the morning, by my standards at least, and so I am not going to work late tonight.

I am going to work until I have earned enough for a tank of fuel, and then go home.

That should get us to Bath tomorrow.

I have packed my most respectable trousers. Well, my second most respectable trousers, the most respectable ones are for Christmas and birthdays.

I hope he does well. We will be going to Bath quite a lot if he does.

Fingers crossed.