I am pleased to say that the antibiotics have done their bacteria-slaughtering job, and I hardly have any excuse for self-pity any more.
The bubble in my mouth has subsided to a little hard lump, itself dwindling as the days pass, and I no longer have the unpleasant sensation that it is trying to shove my eyes out of their sockets from below.
Hurrah for modern medicine, that’s what I say.
Of course we are all at work. Oliver has been moved to one of the pubs beside the lake tonight, so I can no longer see his activities from the taxi rank, but it is so quiet that there are not enough people to raise a shouting crowd for a decent fight, and so we are not expecting to miss anything.
I do not know what has happened to all of the tourists.
Probably the financial innovations of our beloved leaders have alarmed them all so much that nobody is going on holiday any more. All elderly people, once a solid market for the Lake District Tourist Board, are hiding under their kitchen tables wrapped in blankets, and all rural people are frantically dividing up all of their goods and chattels between their children in case they accidentally get run over before the next election.
I have gone off this government, by the way, not that I ever thought much of them to start with. They are actually worse than the last lot, which is quite an astonishing achievement. The killing blow to my esteem was an article in the august Daily Telegraph yesterday, announcing their intention to re-impose MOT tests on classic cars.
This, of course, is presumably yet another policy with no point whatsoever except to make the middle classes miserable, like banning trail hunting and taxing school fees, because of course nobody else has a classic car.
Almost nobody else.
Although our membership of the middle classes could only be described as questionable at the very best, nevertheless we are still the proprietors of a fine classic vehicle, currently rusting gently in the square in the middle of Windermere, having its picture taken by passing tourists.
Poor camper van.
It is going to make its life very difficult. The average MOT inspector can’t even work out how to start the engine.
For the first time, I have felt the icy shiver as the dead hand of our governing overlords passes above me.
The rotters.
We are going to have to do some repairs to it. This might not happen very soon. Mark has been busy hauling firewood all day, and next week he is going to Lucy’s house to help with their DIY and car repairs.
I appreciate the firewood hauling very much. Our house is wonderfully warm at the moment. Mostly this is because we have got so much firewood now we can be as reckless as we like, and we need to keep the fire going because we have stuck the poopies in the conservatory and it needs to be kept warm.
The fire in the kitchen heats the floor in the conservatory, so that they all have warm little toes.
One of them was not very well this morning. It is the smallest of the litter, and it was staggering about feeling sorry for itself, and we thought perhaps it might have succumbed to some terrible illness, but it must have eaten something horrid off the floor of the conservatory, because after some anxious nursing it was sick on the kitchen floor, after which it started bouncing about with the others again, much to our relief.
Somebody is coming to choose one of them next week. They won’t be taking it until the week after, because it is still too little, and I can’t decide whether to be pleased or very sad. It will be terrible to lose them, it is wonderful to have their joyous, fluffy, leaky enthusiasm tumbling all over the conservatory.
All the same, it will be very nice not to have to start every morning by mopping the floors.
