I got completely soaked on our walk this morning.
I mean really soaked, the sort where you peel all of your outside clothes off and dump them in a heap when you get home, and then realise that you are still dripping and had probably better peel a few of your inside clothes off as well.
I hung my trousers over the fire to dry and ambled around in my underwear for a while. This did not matter, because I wasn’t expecting visitors. The Jehovah’s Witnesses came yesterday, and fortunately John the postman had already been this morning, before I had gone out.
I had been busily emptying the cat litter when he arrived, so we hung about the back yard and chatted, occupying a satisfactory ten minutes imagining all of the things that one might spend one’s cash on if only one had not recklessly had children. I did not know the postman had grown-up children, he does not look old enough, but everybody is starting to look like that now that I am reaching my advanced old age.
I like our postman very much, he is a one-man bulwark against any old people in Windermere ever spending their days in silent isolation.
Talking of cat litter, which I expect you have forgotten that I was, I have just got the smallest possible hope that Guffy might be getting a bit better.
I have not had to mop up a single, solitary cat accident all day, so either she is getting better at hiding them or the bunging-up cat food is working.
I do hope it is working. I do not want even to think that we might have to do something dreadful to tiny, excitable Guffy. This is a horrible possibility, but I do not think that a house endlessly dripping in misfortunately-squirted cat accidents would be a nice one to live in.
Actually it would be a place I would avoid even for popping in for a cup of tea.
I have lit a candle to the Cat Gods and mentioned it to them.
We will just have to hope that they were paying attention.
In other news, once I dried off and re-attired myself in my trousers, I got on with the Day’s Task, which was to prepare everything for the Bank Holiday.
Mostly this just meant lots of cooking.
I cooked sausages and Chinese chicken for Oliver, and a large plain chicken which can be sliced up for sandwiches. The bones and gristly bits will make the dogs very happy for a few days, and Oliver won’t eat it all, so Guffy can help him, it will provide a bit of variety to cheer up the Bung You Up cat food. I made coffee chocolates laced with whisky, and vanilla ice cream, and banana and peanut protein shake, also for Oliver. After that I sliced up lots of fruits and salad things which will be dull to eat but virtuously good for me.
I don’t suppose Oliver will eat any of those.
It took me all day.
All of this effort will mean that once we get into the swing of Bank Holidaying I will not need to worry about catering for either of us, but can simply hurl things into boxes and dash off to the taxi rank.
I am hoping that there will be hundreds of tourists and I will resolve some of our pecuniary difficulties.
It might be that I will be too busily occupied to write much, if anything, in these pages, so if there is an unexpected silence please do not imagine that I have been abducted or run over or contracted Hantavirus.
If I do not have time to write to you then it will be very good news indeed.
