I have filled almost all of the unforgiving minutes today, although not, you will be unsurprised to hear, with distance run.
The sun shone, which makes all things effortful easier, not least the escorting of the dogs over the fells in the morning, which is immeasurably nicer when it is a warm, breezy amble in shorts instead of a muddy trudge with rain dribbling down the back of my macintosh.
We had a brief adventure this morning when we were strolling down the valley between the two fells, and Roger Poopy caught sight of his friends the labradors in the distance, hurling themselves enthusiastically into the tarn in pursuit of a bobbing ball.
He was delighted to see them, and charged down the fell, barking his head off as he went, much to the astonishment of the Galloways, who were also loitering about at the tarn, and who contemplated the noisy hooligan in their midst and wondered whether perhaps they should give chase.
They had just begun to trot interestedly after him when he noticed them, in a shocked moment of terrible alarm, and began to run away.
I did not have the smallest intention of calling him back to me at that point, not having any wish to attract an entire herd of galloping cows, and sloped off out of the way towards the gate at the far end.
Rosie is terrified of cows, and came to hide behind me, quaking.
Roger Poopy galloped along the edge of the tarn, frantically trying not to look as though he might make a tasty breakfast for a hungry cow, and in the end, in desperation, threw himself in.
He does not like water, especially cold water, and I could practically hear his silent shriek.
He dog-paddled bravely across and rejoined us, shivering.
He dried off quickly in the sun, but it had all been a bit exciting, and he was very pleased to collapse on the sofa, smelling of pond-weed and cow dung, when we got back.
I left the dogs to their own devices in the sunshine then, because my taxi needed some new tyres. New tyres are in Morecambe. This is something of a troubling journey at the moment, because the turbo on my taxi is not working very well, and it slows down terribly on hills. Fortunately there were roadworks for most of the way, with a blessed fifty miles an hour speed limit, and so I was spared the frustrated fury of other drivers, and cruised with some relief, philosophically contemplating the conclusion that there was no such thing as a nuisance, just the story that one told oneself about it.
It was quiet at the tyre garage, and so there was time to chat with the nice lady who fits the tyres. She showed me all the pictures of their new house, with their very first garden, and their very own shed, and we shared the happy satisfaction of domestic contentment, before returning to our respective male-dominated careers.
After that I did all the usual faffing about things like shopping for ethical lettuce in Booths, who didn’t have any, so in the end I had to get some dubiously provenanced lettuce from the Co-op instead, and then rushed home, because I was running out of day, and there was a wobbly ladder awaiting me.
I have painted the front door, also my hands, my feet and my hair, with the first preparatory coat of sage green, and I have added a photograph so that you can see how beautiful it is going to be in the end, if you have enough imagination to ignore the smeary bits and remember that the second coat will look better. In any case, I am sure you will appreciate its tasteful wonderfulness just as much as all of our neighbours seem to.
Obviously I did not need the ladder for the front door, not even the bit at the very top, for which I could manage when I stood on tiptoe. I needed the ladder for the scary bit above it, the roof over the top of the door.
This was hard work. I had to put masking tape over the pink bits so that I would not smear green all over them, but it didn’t work as well as I would have liked, and I might have to do some small modifications tomorrow, or at any rate before Mark sees it.
I was almost ready for work when my mobile telephone buzzed, and it was Lucy. Her old school is having a Farewell Day before they finally close down, and we are all invited.
Of course we are going to go. It will be in a couple of weeks’ time, and there will be wine, so we will have to stay in an hotel.
I spent the next hour trying frantically to book the hotel, and made myself late for work, because there is only one hotel anywhere near the school, and if every single ex-pupil turns up with their entire family it will be very full.
It will be full for the last time, of course, because its main customer base was the school, prospective and actual parents, turning up for sports and speech days, exeats and holidays, not to mention teachers and the sixth form sloping off for a sweet sherry at lunchtime.
I wonder if Keir wretched Starmer thought of that when he started on his nasty campaign of upsetting the middle classes.
I managed it in the end, after messing the booking up not just once but twice, and having to have a long and embarrassing confessional telephone conversation with a very patient girl on the hotel booking desk. This is what happens when you do the More Haste Less Speed thing, you book the wrong dates and the wrong numbers of people and then the wrong deposit and then have to ring back and explain you forgot to ask about dinner.
I am looking forward to it, in a masochistic sort of way. It will be a trip with many happy memories, even if the outcome is a heartbreakingly sad one.
This ghastly government.
