We are home.
We are getting ready for work.
I had expected that I might feel a bit flat and sorrowful at this moment, because it has all been so spectacularly splendid. We have done theatre and exotic dinners and music and a great deal of drinking, but in fact I don’t feel sad at all. I feel full of good times, in a sort of stuffed to the brim kind of way, fortified against the year to come.
This is a very nice way to end the old year.
Also we are very tired. It is fortunate that our gainful employment is not especially demanding, because we are all completely exhausted.
Oliver is going to have the hardest time. He is off to go and stand in front of nightclub doors, looking menacing and wondering how old people are.
At least all we have to do is sit in a taxi and occasionally change gear. Listening to endless wittering drivel is not exactly exhausting. I think that tonight would be a very good night for pretending to be deaf. I do not think I am in a frame of mind for arguing with people about prices, especially the sort which involved the Extras button, nor for them going on and on about how they would have loved to walk really, to their hotel in the next street, but their bad knees are playing up.
Some of these people are almost too fat to squeeze into the back seats.
I am feeling a little that way myself. I had melon and cheese, pastries, eggs and hash browns for breakfast this morning. It was ages ago and it still has not worn off.
I am looking forward to getting back to my daily bowl of Mummy Bear porridge.
In fact I am quite looking forward to my daily diet. I have prepared apples and non-fattening egg cake for my taxi picnic this evening, and it is almost a relief. There is not an ounce of garlic-blended cream anywhere in sight.
All of these things are divine but once a year is enough.
We staggered in late this afternoon, much to the happiness of the dogs, who have been left largely to their own devices except for the thrice-daily visits of some dog-sitting ladies. They have sent me several depressing videos of the poopies escaping from their corral, with excited captions about how clever they are getting, and indeed it would appear that thus admired, they have indeed worked out how to tip excitedly over the little wall that has hitherto imprisoned them, and their droppings, in a large plastic-lined enclosure.
We have trodden on them, the poopies not their droppings, so many times since our return that they have all retreated back to the corral for the time being, and so we need not worry about poopy-accidents on the floor tonight.
We brought the trailer back from Lucy’s house, and Mark took it over to the farm, so he chucked the dogs in as well for a run on the way. This seems to have been a good plan, because they are also flat out now, and not bouncing all over the places excitedly. I am relieved about this. It is very nice to have the dogs around but they are tiresome when one is trying to unload enormous piles of laundry-stuffed luggage.
We have completed two loads of washing already. Oliver lit the stove and we have draped the clean washing all over the top of it, tomorrow it can be hauled back to the attic in readiness for the day when I might feel like ironing some of it. It might not be for a few days, of course although it all feels as though it is now over, Christmas is still looming large and I have still got a very lot to do.
I am not going to do it tonight.
Tonight I am going to sit in the taxi and ignore people wittering at me.
Everything else is tomorrow’s problem.
