I am all by myself solving problems.
Quite apart from the under-the-bonnet headlight switch nuisance, my taxi has disobligingly managed to flatten one of its tyres.
I had to keep stopping last night to blow it up. Fortunately I have now got a DIY air blower which plugs into the cigarette lighter and blows the tyre up even if I am on the taxi rank. I am glad about this because the garage in Bowness charges £1.50 for air, which I think is a bit expensive considering it is hardly a scarce commodity.
This morning, after our walk, I squirted the tyre full of some dodgy-looking stuff called Xtreme Tyre Weld. I do not know why it might have been called this, presumably by somebody who found spelling challenging and who had suffered from some extreme punctures, although the time I had an extreme puncture, on the way back from Gordonstoun with Oliver once, there was no tyre weld in the world that could possibly have fixed it. This was because by the time I managed to get anywhere near home, there was absolutely no tyre left, just a rim which was making a terrific racket as it scraped and ground along the road, leaving sparks flying in our wake. That could justifiably have been called an Extreme Puncture, and no amount of tinned foam could have fixed that, so maybe their marketing department needs a visit from the Trades Descriptions Society.
By the time I had finished I had got squirty foam absolutely everywhere, like the aftermath of the custard pie fights in the pantomime. It was even all over the dogs. I am sure some of it went into the tyre, because I had squirted it so determinedly that I had sore fingers by the time the can was empty, but it was a messy business, I can tell you.
I blew the tyre up again and hoped. I am going to have to save up some cash and buy another one, but I think I will try and leave it for a bit longer. This one is nowhere near bald yet, apart from at the edge, and it would be a shame to waste it.
When I got back I had a host of chores to do, because it was my day for watering the conservatory, and then I had the upstairs bedrooms to be done. Oliver, Jack and Mark have all departed now, and of course there is clearing up to be done in their wake.
I had already washed Jack’s sheets, so I put those back. Then I stripped Oliver’s sheets and threw all of the sheets and towels downstairs, then I did all the rest, the mirror wiping and hoovering and loo-bleaching. By the time I had finished I was beginning to feel rather like the housekeepers must feel in the big hotels round here, weary of cleaning up after lots of people who are all having more exciting adventures than I am.
I did do that job once, briefly, very briefly because you will not be surprised to learn that I do not have the right sort of attitude for it. My only abiding memory was of the head housekeeper telling me that I had to be extra-careful with one bedroom because Lord Somebody was sleeping in it that night. I did my usual mildly slapdash clean anyway, and she beetled around after me tweaking and fussing. The next morning when Lord Somebody had moved out I was sent to clean it again. He had collapsed on the top of his bed without even bothering to pull back the duvet, and been sick in his wastepaper basket. It was the only occasion when I have ever been amused by vomit, and I would not have been amused even then had there not been a substantial plastic liner in the bin.
The other thing I remember is that we had to read all of the feedback tick sheets left in the bedrooms and dispose of any that said anything rude about the housekeeping. Bear that in mind if ever you wish to complain about an hotel.
Still, it is almost done now. The toothbrush mugs have been washed, the loo rolls replaced, and respectability has been restored ready for the next set of visitors, which I think will probably be Lucy and Jack some time next week.
It is very lovely having visitors but I am very much looking forward to the day when I will be a visitor somewhere.
It will be lovely just to leave it all and walk away.
I will make a point of not being sick in the wastepaper basket, though.
