Oliver is home.
He arrived yesterday afternoon. It is ages since we have seen him, and it was lovely to be reunited. He is tall and broad and smiling, barely containing a healthy bounding in his youthful stride.
I was not dashing about when he arrived. I was sitting on the sofa in the conservatory, with the dogs and Guffy the kitten, reading.
I never, ever do this. We have filled our house with comfortable places all designed for quiet half-hours when one might curl up, contentedly, and read, but the realities of life inevitably intrude, and between housewifely tasks and exciting projects, like the current camper-van construction, somehow there never seems to be the time.
Also, despite a distinct absence of religious sentiment in my upbringing, I seem to have acquired enough of the Protestant work ethic to feel profoundly guilty at such hedonistic self-indulgence.
I should not have been loafing about reading, because the oven is still greasy and the windows need cleaning, but it all just seemed too difficult. I had the sort of headache that comes with insufficient quantities of sleep and cups of tea, and thought, rebelliously, that I would continue with my Being Nice To Me project, and remedy this with some idling in the sunshine, so I did.
Hence, when Oliver arrived, it was to find me basking peacefully on the sofa, with an empty teacup beside me and two snoring dogs tucked under my feet.
There was a kitten as well, but she was not peaceful. She was stalking unguarded bits of dogs and occasionally pursuing a wasp through the flower bed.
She caught the wasp in the end, much to my horror, but she did not seem to have been stung, and crunched it up with interest.
It was an outstandingly happy afternoon, I can tell you. There are few activities more pleasing than a good book and a cup of tea in the sunshine, and I resolved that I would wrestle harder with my troublesome conscience on future occasions.
I had another cup of tea when Oliver arrived, and we played hunting games with the kitten and the cat lure. Roger Poopy also likes the cat lure, and in the end I got get up of having to fight him off and planted it in listened to stories of his adventures, before having to make myself ready for work, rather regretfully. His journey home had turned into something of an adventure, because the brake caliper on his car had jammed, and became shockingly hot. This happened to us in the camper van once, and caused a small fire which we had to put out with the kettle.
Oliver’s car did not catch fire, rather to my relief, but it is in urgent need of repair, so on Monday he is going to take it to the shed, which is where all of Mark’s tools have been abandoned, and have a go at fixing it for himself.
I think this is very brave, how splendid to have so many capable menfolk in our family.
He accompanied me over the fells this morning, this sunshine is absolutely splendid. The mud is slowly solidifying, and springtime is bursting out in brightly joyful patches all over the place. New leaves are unfolding and blackbirds are trilling in every treetop. Rosie is celebrating the springtime by coming into season, and Roger Poopy has remembered to fall in love with her all over again, much to everybody’s irritation, because every excursion is being interrupted by pauses to boot them apart.
This is a regrettable necessity, poor Roger. Dog coupling is a protracted affair, resulting in yelps of pain if he realises they are being left behind and he is obliged to conclude in a hurry.
We are not sympathetic about this.
We have contemplated taking Rosie to visit the nice gentleman poodle again, although we are not yet decided about this, one kitten is being more than enough trouble for one household.
Half a dozen poopies might just be a bit much.
