Travel bodge

And so here we are.

We are in the bar at Madingley Hall, and I have got a glass of wine.

I have not had one of those for ages and I am going to enjoy it very much. I have not started it yet. You will probably be able to tell when I have, because we have also not had dinner just yet. I am worried about the wine because of the diet, but I suppose I could consider today a day off, probably tomorrow, Saturday and Sunday as well. This does not really matter because since I haven’t got any thinner I am unlikely to get fatter again. I think I am just naturally rounded in shape, like a cricket ball, or perhaps a goldfish bowl. Some things are just beyond the powers of the world’s natural forces to change.

I can tell I am in Cambridge. Everybody else in the bar is talking about the most ethically sound ways to vote at the newly-announced General Election. I am not in the least worried about voting ethically, I can vote for whoever I like because it does not matter. No matter how I vote our resident twerp will be re-elected and I am resigned to this. I have written to him about lots of things this year and he always writes back making sympathetic noises but not doing very much. I have told him I will vote for him if he reduces all tax to zero, and bans electric cars, heat pumps and Wolverhampton taxis, but  he has completely refused to take any action on any of it, except the Wolverhampton taxis, about which he wrote a stiff letter to the Minister for Transport, who ignored him.

We have spent almost all of today driving down the long road south. That is, we got up and then I spent ages agonising about what to put in each suitcase, because of course everything was hanging in the camper van wardrobe and had to be hastily reorganised into something portable. I had got one suitcase for Cambridge and one suitcase for Gordonstoun, and then, in a moment of panic, had to borrow a third one from my long-suffering parents to contain everything that was going to be necessary for both, like shoes and hairbrushes, although Mark does not need a hairbrush these days.

I would have thought a suitcase would be the thing they would be most pleased to donate, as long as I promised to use it in the very near future, but they have been unfailingly polite and welcoming.

After that there were lots of bags with other useful things in them, like emergency biscuits, most of which Mark has eaten because I am trying to be thin, and then, in a moment of inspiration, we remembered all of the things that needed to be taken home.

It would have been a terrific nuisance if I had left all of our going-to-work stuff behind in the camper van.

It was quite bad enough leaving the poor camper van, almost worse than leaving the dogs. At least it did not rush after us, barking and looking tragic and imploring. It just sat there, wetly, in the pouring rain, looking rusty and lonely, and forlorn.

Mark promised it that we would be back soon with a new axle as a present, but it was looking too downcast to take any notice.

After that we headed south in my mum’s little car, which actually goes quite nicely, certainly compared to the camper van. It rained all the way, and we could not get the radio to play our current story, so we had to talk to one another, which was all right because I like Mark.

We managed to get all the way here without misadventure so far, which was a jolly relief, I can tell you, we have had enough misadventures for one week. It is not raining here, although everywhere is sodden, and we had a lovely walk around the gardens, which were wet, and warm, and heavy with scented blossom.

We are waiting for Number One Daughter to get here and then we are going to go to the pub for dinner. Number One Son-In-Law was coming as well, but he has been called offshore because the oil industry is having an emergency, and they are short of cash, so Mark will have to pole the punt by himself tomorrow.

Gordonstoun after that.

In response to Elspeth, we had to book into a Travelodge because it was the only place left in Elgin with any beds, because it is the start of the holidays and all of the  hotels with aspiration and waiters in bow ties were full of international jet setting superstars and minor royalty turning up to collect their children.

I know it is undignified and cheap so we will have to make up for it by drinking and dancing and pretending to be middle class at the Gordonstoun ball.

I am only mildly concerned about getting the school coach back after the party.

I think we might ask it to drop us off somewhere else.

PS. I have now started on the wine.

Can you tell?