Incoming

I am on the taxi rank.

Mark will be back soon. His helicopter was late, but he had landed and was back in his car by half past five, so another few hours and he will be here.

He is going to come and sit on the taxi rank as well. He is not going to loaf about at home even though it will probably be quite late when he finally chugs back into the alley. This is because we are going away next week and every extra penny will be very welcome.

He can park in the alley again now. I am very relieved about this. I had been worrying a lot about that particular trouble, but it is over now and the whole thing has passed in less than the time of him being away on this trip.

I have been shopping in Kendal today. I did not buy very much, just dog food, which shockingly has increased in price by fifteen quid, but I was just about to set off back home when I thought it would be welcoming to have the house smelling lovely when Mark came home, and so I bought some hyacinths and daffodils as well.

Oliver came with me. He bought some new underwear. He does not wear Asda Boy Schoolwear any more but has become sophisticated. He is currently being sophisticated on the door of the pub opposite the taxi rank, where he is leaning and chatting to one of the other bouncers. It was very nice to have him with me, not least because he carried the dog food.

I came home to a telephone call.

It was the funeral director. You might recall that I went for an exploratory chat with them a few days ago, in the wake of which I thought, once again, that I would like to be a funeral directing person very much indeed. I could not tell you why this appeals so very much. Partly I think it is because the whole time around somebody’s death becomes muffled and silent and holy, a little bit like when it has snowed heavily. Everything stops and the world becomes quiet. I think it would be very splendid to earn a living by helping people organise their last arrangements for their dead person, and being part of their quiet remembering time.

Giving birth seems to do a bit the same, even when it was Rosie’s poopies the whole house became still in that very hushed, important sort of way.

I wouldn’t like to be a midwife, though. Giving birth leads to a lot of clearing up, even after a dog who eats all of the disgusting slippery bits.

I was very thrilled to find that I have got an interview on Monday.

Even better than that, there is a little more to the story. I was so busy thinking about how much I would like to have a funereal job when I had the preliminary chat that I entirely forgot about adding some trivial details which, with hindsight, I should have told them.

The trivial details were my email address and telephone number.

I realised this when I got home, and sent their Head Office an email, hopefully, and then decided that probably they wouldn’t call anyway and sighed and forgot about it.

Yesterday they sent an email to me anyway.

It turns out, readers, that they had somehow discovered these pages and found my email address from here.

After the guilty surprise of that had worn off I was very pleased indeed. This means that they already know exactly what sort of a hapless reprobate I can be and they have still thought that it might be all right to interview me anyway. I do not have to look uncomfortable and go Umm when they say to me What Do You Do In Your Spare Time?

Most people do not want to employ somebody who might write scurrilous stories about them, not that I ever would. You have got to be a complete dyed-in-the-wool toe rag before I can bring myself to be malicious about you in these pages, although one or two taxi customers have managed it, we all remember the chap who stole my keys and threw them over the hedge.

Anyway, they are going to give me an interview at least. I am going to give it my best shot.

Roll on Monday.

PS. The house does smell lovely, especially since I have hoovered up all of the muddy dog hair and finally got round to dusting.

Also Mark is home.