Goodness, how it rained this morning.
I had optimistically thought it would probably be a passing squall, and when considering my attire for my dog-emptying walk over the fells, I compromised with my usual jacket and just my waterproof trousers. My waterproof coat keeps me magnificently dry, but rustles irritatingly whilst I walk. It is all very well having the water rolling lavishly away instead of soaking in and dribbling icily down my back, but there is no point to a walk if one cannot hear the birds, and the sheep, and the noisy bloke over at Matson Ground with the chainsaw. I do not like replacing all of these wonderful natural-world noises with the scratchy sound of water-resistance, and so I left it behind.
In consequence, of course I was drenched by the time I got on to the top.
I did not mind really. It has been so cold this week that my fingers have never quite recovered in between outings, and have begun to get chapped and split around the nails, and so I was not exactly sorry that it is now warm enough for rain.
Even though I was wet through, it was still warmer than yesterday. Also the fells were not full of families dragging their noisy and reluctant children off for half-term holiday walks, which is one of the splendid things about wet days. I did not see a single soul this morning, not even a sheep, and the cows were huddled in a dreary wet knot behind the wall next to the tarn, and ignored me.
It stopped raining in the end, which was even better, and I stopped scurrying and sloshed along quite contentedly.
I filled the fireplace up with the last of the firewood when I got home. It is not quite the last of the firewood, but it is the last of the firewood that I want to use up. I have still got a stack left to tide me over in case of emergency, but that is for emergencies, which this is not.
It does not matter. Mark will be home tomorrow, and will rush about doing manly things and load the back of his taxi with some more. Of course I am perfectly capable of trailing off to the farm myself if I need more firewood, but some things are very definitely unsuitable tasks for ladies and in any case, last time I tried to start his chainsaw I couldn’t pull the stupid stringy bit hard enough to make it go. You have to put your foot on it and then pull the string, after getting the right code on the twiddly arrangement of buttons, and then if you have got the code right and also have muscles like Tyson Fury it will finally growl into terrifying life. Also if you have not remembered to put the brake on then the chain starts whizzing round and you have got to get your foot out of the way sharpish.
I like the rest of using the chainsaw, when you slide it through huge tree trunks and they just fall apart, but the starting bit is not fun.
Hence I am looking forward to his return. Of course there are lots of other reasons why I am looking forward to it, but not having to look anxiously at the dwindling firewood stack will be a relief.
Oliver emerged at around lunchtime. I was not expecting him any sooner than this because when I had an old-lady bathroom visit at around five o’clock this morning his light was still on and he was flying Apache helicopters around a war zone. He seemed to be very contented. He has had a very busy term so far, and is enjoying doing not very much apart from bombing rebels for a few days.
I left him preparing a picnic of crumpets and ham to take back to his helicopter and dived upstairs where I was supposed to be writing my story, but fortunately after only about five minutes of frowning at the computer, Elspeth telephoned, so I stopped bothering to try and put my feet up on the desk to gossip instead.
This is a really lovely thing to do with a cup of tea on a wet day, and every now and again I looked out of the window at the wet grey world and felt very pleased with my warm slippers and comfortable chair.
I resolved my guilt by sewing some buttons on dungarees whilst I was talking. We talked a lot, and by the time we stopped I had done loads. I think I have only got another three or four pairs to go. I have got quite a lot of dungarees, and they have almost all got plastic-diamond buttons on now, how splendidly stylish I shall be in Cambridge next week.
We will be setting off on Wednesday. I am looking forward to it very much indeed.
Mark comes home tomorrow, and I have got gate fever already. I do not at all want to spend the weekend at work, although obviously we will have to because of not having enough cash to blow on the second-hand-bookstall if we don’t.
It will come soon enough, I suppose.
It is going to be splendid.
