Well, it is only the afternoon, but I am on the taxi rank once again.
I have had a day of children.
Of course they are not really very much children, except in my fond motherly imagination, since the youngest is twenty, and the oldest is starting to worry about wrinkles. In any case, they were not all at home, just Lucy and Jack and Oliver.
The others are busily occupied practising for world championships and being the most successful lady gas engineer in Canada. That is a bit rubbish, incidentally, considering how liberal and politely left-leaning the Canadians are, I would have thought they would be better at teaching girls to do really well at boys’ things rather than just telling them that what they need is an expensive and hideous operation to turn them into boys instead.
Number Two Daughter does not mind this, and has pointed out that since Canada is terribly liberal then she can have practically any job for which she might apply, because not only is she an absolutely brilliant engineer, she is also a gay immigrant and thus fulfils everybody’s diversity quota as an added bonus.
The children who have been at home have been splendid company for the day. Oliver and I took the dogs out over the fells, whilst Lucy and Jack, who were making the most of being on holiday, went out for their breakfast, and we reconvened together afterwards to be sociable for a little while before they had to go home.
This turned into a very useful sort of conversation, because we got round to talking about Christmas, and agreed that nobody really minded very much about going to the pantomime this year. We have done this every year, for as long as we can remember, but as Lucy remarked, it might be better to wait until there are some more real children in the family again. Even Ritalin Boy is grown up now.
I conceded reluctantly that we have all got a bit old for Nerf wars around the hotel. People smile tolerantly when we are rushing about playing amusing games with a bunch of children, they just look a bit shocked and grumpy when they realise that we are all around retirement age.
I was relieved about this really, although a little bit sad, obviously, because although all the children have grown up I am not sure that I have.
After that we talked about what we might do at Christmas itself.
Lucy, who must have been reading a self-help book about Thinking Outside The Box, was as thoroughly un-boxed as a new Lego set on Christmas morning, the sort that makes you wish you had put your slippers on.
She had the inspired idea that we all meet up here and spend the time together, but instead of everybody flapping about with Christmas presents, we did the thing that these days is called a Secret Santa, where everybody buys a present just for one person.
I thought that this sounded both economical and wonderfully hassle free.
She also suggested that instead of me cooking a massive Christmas dinner, that everybody bring something with them, a bit like an enormous indoor picnic.
I liked that idea as well.
Suddenly Christmas is sounding as though it might be rather splendid.
When they had gone I looked round and realised that the day had slipped away whilst I had been busy daydreaming about wintry skies and log fires, and I was going to have a mad dash to get out to work.
I was flapping about when Oliver stepped into the breach.
He did it all.
He stripped Lucy’s bed and emptied the cat litter and hoovered everywhere and hung out the washing, and in the end I was not late for work in the least.
I was very grateful indeed, because he was supposed to be going to the gym.
I have got splendid children.
