I am writing this in a terrible last-minute panic because the middle of the night has arrived, we had hoped for an early night, and Mark has taken a booking to take somebody miles away in the taxi, and I have forgotten all about writing to you.
However, I am very pleased to announce that I have finished the Advent calendars.
That is to say, I have finished the painting. There is still some sticky glueing to be done, which if you are me always has the potential to go horribly wrong and also to cover me and the carpet, the office and the dogs, in glue.
Except not the dogs because they are still forbidden to climb the stairs. They have had no more accidents, but they are still banished, and are lying mournfully on the cushion in front of the fire, sighing heavily occasionally. They have been Good Dogs today, and we have told them so, but it has not lifted their gloom, and they are not feeling very happy with their world today.
I still think that this serves them right. I would not permit anybody who pooed on my nice carpet to come upstairs again, not even if it were the King himself. I am quite sure that this would not be something he would be inclined to do, although there is a legend of doubtful truthfulness about some primitive foreign dignitary who once did exactly that on the carpet at Buckingham Palace.
We had hoped for an early night because Mark’s taxi has got to go for an MOT tomorrow, and we are going to go into Kendal and mooch about doing exciting things like purchasing new socks. Mark needs new socks. He recklessly threw a pair away this week after he had worn them whilst he discovered one of the dogs’ accidents, although he said they were old and worn thin in any case.
The early night is not going to happen now.
I do not really care. I have finished the Advent calendars and I am feeling very pleased.
Apart from that, Mark has spent much of the day bashing his taxi about, trying to find out if there is anything much wrong with it. He doesn’t think that there is, although MOT inspectors can always surprise you if they are feeling creative. Whilst he was outside the builders were also clattering about in their yard, and they donated an uprooted oak floor which they said we could use for firewood, but which he has saved in case Lucy would like an oak floor in her kitchen. He has piled it all into the trailer and taken it across to the farm. When we go on our exciting middle-class jaunt of thrillingly sophisticated hotels and idle cocktail drinking next week, we will be dragging a trailer filled with firewood behind us.
I have suggested that we leave it at Lucy’s with the dogs.
I have also cooked some sausages and some chicken, because Mark never seems to stop eating, and had my usual walk over the fells with the dogs. It is cold at the moment, with a watery winter sun low in the sky, and a chill little breeze which endlessly threatens to whip your handkerchief out of your hand and send it flapping away over the mud and tufts of brown winter grass.
I came back to a lovely surprise.
There was a fat parcel sitting on the doormat.
It had been sent by Number One Daughter, and it was a very splendid fleecy jacket, warm and soft exactly like a real dead sheep.
When telephoned she said that there had been no reason for its dispatch other than that she just thought I would like it, and she was right about that, I liked it very much.
I shall wear it for our jolly outing next week.
