I think the rush is over.
We have had a half-term week of thousands of tourists, I almost wrote hundreds, but it wasn’t big enough. There have been thousands and thousands of people here, milling about aimlessly and cluttering up the pavements, bobbing on and off the boats and gawping at the Peter Rabbit exhibition. Tonight they are all gone, melted away like a dropped ice cream on a hot day, leaving only a sticky mess behind them.
If I am honest I am profoundly relieved.
They do not get out of the way of reversing taxis, dawdle around in the roads, and shout abuse even when you are just patiently waiting for them to buzz off out of the way.
I do not much like our current generation of oiks.
It is very nice to be sitting here undisturbed again. I am not making any money but I do not mind. It is very peaceful not to have to listen to their yelling and loud music.
All that is left is a handful of strolling middle-aged couples, none of whom have given in to the current fashion of going out dressed only in the sort of underwear that leaves not a single roll of rippling white fat to the imagination. They are respectable and quiet and they are not snuffling down fistfuls of kebabs and chips whilst they walk.
At long last the holiday is over. I am pleased to say that it has left me with some cash to shove in the bank tomorrow, several vapes, a pair of sunglasses and some stray chips under the back seat.
I have, as you know, occupied the time by working as many hours as I possibly could.
In between trying not to loathe tourists, I have been largely occupied with animal management. Our tiny collection of livestock seems to have needed as much attention as if they were a thriving smallholding full of chickens and pigs.
Of course there has been the ever-present difficulty of poor Guffy, whose recent trip to the vet and associated cat food expenses seems to have made no difference whatsoever. Her poo is marginally more viscous than it was, but just as revoltingly squirty, as I discovered when she came to sit on my knee last night.
It had been a long night, it was almost five in the morning, and Guffy was feeling especially affectionate, and her new Veterinary Special dinner seemed to have given her wind.
It took a while to scrub it all off my trousers.
It was not the only one. There are still squirted accidents splodged all over the place. She sleeps on a cushion on the windowsill, and a long trail followed her route across my desk and chair where she had rushed, too late, for her litter tray.
I have occupied a great deal of time with frantic scrubbing and mopping and lighting joss sticks and oil diffusers in a somewhat hopeless attempt to keep the house smelling welcoming and lovely.
The dogs have not helped the matter. Roger Poopy has been thoroughly moping since Lucy’s departure, and decided to cheer himself up by rolling in a large and disgusting pile of badger poo on our walk.
It was smeared all over him, dripping at first, then drying off in the sunshine as we walked. He thought this was wonderful, and strutted along with a spring in his step.
By the time we got home he was humming beautifully.
He did not endear himself to anybody by coming in to the conservatory and jumping on to the sofa. I shrieked with horror and dragged him off again, rather to his confused surprise, because of course he does not understand that badger dung is just about the most revolting substance in the Lake District, almost worse than the horrible puddles left behind in the churchyard by Bank Holiday customers after fourteen pints and a curry.
An hour with the clippers was followed by a bath, by which time he was bald, shivering and thoroughly woebegone.
I had no sympathy.
Rosie was rather surprised and smug to discover that no such fate befell her, because I was late for work by then, and was equally surprised to find herself dragged on to the trimming table the next day, when any reasonable dog would have expected that I had forgotten all about haircuts.
She had been wallowing in every muddy hole she could find and was almost as bad as Roger Poopy, but whilst he lies limp and suffering for his haircuts, whimpering occasionally in his tragic martyrdom, Rosie fights dogfully. She curls up as tightly as she can, tucking her paws in closely, and every inch of denuded skin has to be fought for.
I have to jam my elbow in her throat and drag her paws apart to get to her underneath bits, whilst she fights me, silent but grimly determined.
In the end it was done, and I took her upstairs to scrub the last of the mud away in the shower.
We were both exhausted afterwards, and she curled up closely to the still-shivering Roger Poopy whilst I got ready for work.
I took pity on them before I went out, and lit the fire.
I am not a complete villain.
* they are not men, of course.
