I am writing this in a snatched ten minutes before we go out so it is likely that either it will be very short or I will have to finish it later.
We have got to the end of the day, and this time, really truly this time, actually definitely, we are going to be saying goodbye to Mark who is off to sea.
He is going tomorrow. I am trying not to think about it. It is still a long time away.
He has spent today doing all the last things that he meant to do ages ago but did not get round to. I have now got a full woodshed and a fixed taxi and everything will be all right at least until he gets back again.
Probably.
We are not going anywhere exciting this evening. We are going to go to the Indian restaurant again. This is because we all like that and it is pretty much next door. Certainly the walk to get there is less than two minutes, which suits me perfectly. I do not have the smallest intention of going somewhere where I might have to rely on getting a taxi. They are expensively unreliable and do not bother to be polite.
Mark and Oliver went off to the farm today, and I stayed at home to do all the things that I should have done ages ago, and haven’t, like dusting and hoovering. Usually I do these things on Clean Sheets Day but I didn’t, I can’t even remember why, too idle, probably. I got them all done today, although it was a close run thing, because my friend Amanda called for a prolonged and interesting chat on the Zoom thing inside the computer, after which Abdul’s Taxis rang me to say that he had overbooked himself and would I please dash across to one of the local hotels to collect some passengers who urgently needed to catch a train, so I did that as well, partly out of sympathy but partly because of the tenner, obviously.
In any case, it was more interesting than hoovering, which isn’t saying very much.
When Mark and Oliver came back Oliver sloped off upstairs to sleep it off, and Mark and I buzzed off to Elspeth’s.
Elspeth has got a minibus which is due an MOT and wanted Mark to look at it to make sure that it would pass. He said it was all right, so if it doesn’t pass now then probably it will have been our fault for not paying proper attention, but sometimes life is just like that, and I had a happy half an hour gassing to Elspeth with a cup of tea and some home-made cake whilst Mark peered underneath the minibus.
It was very good cake.
It is now very late at night and I am stuffed full of butter chicken with pilau rice, and various kinds of satisfactory alcohol. I am feeling very portly indeed. It is very nice to eat a great deal, especially when you can round the evening off watching Clarkson’s Farm and drinking things.
I like Clarkson’s Farm. He is not trying to prove that women are oppressed or that capitalists are wicked, although I think he is not very fond of his local council. Tonight he was keeping pigs and making jam. It is difficult to believe that he was so badly informed about jam manufacture, and he seems to have made about a hundred jars of jam out of a single pan of blackberries, but apart from that it is lovely to watch somebody doing the things that we have done. We kept pigs as well once. I like pigs. They are clever and friendly, and one of ours was hopelessly in love with Mark. She broke the solar panel trying to get in through the kitchen window.
We were in complete agreement that we are very glad not to be farmers, I do hope the Government was watching it.
I am going to bed. It has been a lovely evening, but we have got to get up early.
I am still not thinking about Mark leaving.
Tomorrow is ages away.
