Goodness, it is cold.
I managed to remember my hat this morning, but I was still cold.
There is snow on the tops of the fells, and the wind is carrying the smell of snow with it, although the weather forecast thinks we will not have any down here. I am not sorry about that. I like snow very much, but tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and I am hoping for a busy night at work.
That is all I am hoping for. Mark does not celebrate Valentine’s Day even when he is not on a sinking oil rig, and I am not at all sorry about that. It seems to me to be the most expensive fuss about something that most people know perfectly well anyway. I liked the old idea of sending anonymous cards if you happened to admire somebody secretly, and indeed I have had a few whose authors for ever remained a mystery, including one, many years ago, which included an extremely revealing set of stockings and underwear, which I unwittingly opened in front of my mother. I never found out who sent it, and I would probably have filled their ear in if I had.
Anyway, I most certainly don’t see the point in getting a Valentine’s card from somebody whose feelings I understand perfectly well. If Mark wishes to discuss the finer points of his emotions there is always the telephone, which has the added advantage of being free, if you discount the extortionate monthly charge that OneCom impose.
Do not ever get your telephone from OneCom. Ever. They are wicked thieves.
Hence my expectations for tomorrow are limited to hoping that lots of other people will be trying to convince their other halves of their deepest devotion, and have booked a trip to the Lake District just to drive the point home. Once here they will almost certainly spend the whole weekend arguing, but as long as they get a taxi back to their guest house afterwards, that does not matter in the least.
I had a couple last night who were having the most shocking row. The girl was crying, in the dreadfully viscous way that sometimes happens when you have not equipped yourself with a pocket handkerchief, and the bloke was shouting at her. I thought at first he was being horribly unkind but when he got out for a few minutes and she started to talk to me I decided that probably I would have shouted at her quite quickly as well. As it turned out, neither of them had any money and had to be escorted to their room by the hotel manager in order to retrieve some cash that they had, fortunately, left there. Usually I would just trust people to go and get cash but they were so tiresomely noisy and belligerent that in the end the manager intervened, helpfully.
I left the girl with the disgustingly leaking nose, the glued-on eyelashes and fingernails, and the quite surprisingly sausage-shaped lips to be consoled by the receptionist, who was not at all grateful.
It is very nice being a taxi driver and to have one’s relationships with idiots concluded after about ten minutes.
I have paid some attention to my own personal appearance today.
I have been for a haircut.
This was not my own very lovely hairdresser, who did not have an appointment available for the next three weeks, but some enthusiastic juvenile called Harry, who chatted enthusiastically and told me all about a smart wedding which he is going to attend this summer. He is going to dye his hair and wear a green suit.
This sounded very exciting, and I listened with great interest, although somehow it sounded like an awful lot of fuss, and I was very glad that I have not been invited anywhere requiring blonde hair and a colossal expense on clothes. It is quite troubling enough to be going to Cambridge, where the dress requirements have been spelled out in minute detail, even including the type of shoes that are permissible, being nothing that reveals toes, no high heels and no boots, and they have to be black. The dress has been described in similar detail, although you can wear any type of underwear that you like.
I have got short hair now, so I hope there are no dress regulations about hairstyles. It is very short indeed, and my ears are feeling the chill once more. I do not think I look beautiful with short hair, but do not care because it is so much easier to have on my head than the long floppy sort, needing no attention whatsoever, and never getting in my eyes or tickling my neck.
Still I am going to be very glad of my hat on my walk in the morning. It is going to be an early walk because I am going to the dentist afterwards to have my cracked filling mended with a new one.
I am trying hard not to think about it.
It is tomorrow’s worry.
