Tip the driver

In the end the conclusion to my fifty fifth year on the planet did not go exactly to plan.

We had planned a Chinese takeaway, since they have now re-opened, as a splendidly effortless birthday thing to do. Also it would be a last lock-down party, because we have got to go back to work on Saturday.

Unfortunately, Mark came back from work late. When he came in he realised that we had run out of firewood and the house was freezing. He went to the farm to get some.

Once there, he and the dogs realised that the field was full of lots of marauding sheep needing to be herded back to wherever sheep live, so they did that before they came home. Apparently Roger Poopy is a good sort of sheep dog, although he was very surprised to have a request actually to chase sheep, when normally even swivelling his eyes in their direction leads to disgrace. Anyway, between them they rounded them up and sent them back where they came from. Then they filled the car with firewood and came home.

It was even later by then.

We rang the Chinese.

They told us that they were very busy because of the newly exciting adventure that a Chinese takeaway has become in our Brave New World. Everybody is so thrilled by the novelty of eating takeaway rice that the entire village has rung up for some, and it would, they explained, be at least three quarters of an hour.

It would have been almost ten o’clock before we even started having dinner.

I wanted an early night.  I have become tired, and I am worried about going back to work.

Mark said that we ought to get a takeaway anyway, even if it meant that we were going to stay up half of the night

…because, he said, it would take me ages to cook his dinner anyway.

The feminists amongst you will be pleased to hear that he realised the errors in this statement less than a fraction of a second after he had made it, but it was too late. It was a Freudian Slip and had revealed his true nature to the world.

Recriminations followed, which resulted in me taking the dogs off up the fell for a sulk, leaving him to unload the firewood by himself. This turned out to be quite a pleasant way to spend an evening, and peace was restored to my soul as I watched the sun set over the mountains.

We had cheese and crackers when I came home, but we were still late to bed.

He went off to work this morning, and I had a load of stuff to take to the tip.

Stupidly I left that until this afternoon.

It was three o’clock before I got there, and I sat in a queue of cars waiting for the tip to let them in, which they would not, because you might catch bat flu if there is somebody else putting rubbish in a skip at the same time that you are.

At five to four the security guard, because there are security guards everywhere in our Brave New World, told me, and the cars in front of me, that we would not now get a slot at the tip, and to go away because they were going to close.

I confess that I loathed our government with every fibre of my being at that moment. We have got to go back to work tomorrow, and my taxi is stacked to the roof with mouldy floor and kitchen cupboards.

Obviously there was no point in arguing, since the government was not there to listen, so I drove meekly away, like any good Soviet citizen.

I went to Asda after that, to brave the security guards and the empty shelves there. I managed to bag the last sausages, and had to keep an eye on them in my trolley all the rest of the way round, in case anybody was sufficiently overcome by jealously to remove them, but happily nobody did, and I drove home in triumph.

I am going to have to go back to sit in the tip queue again tomorrow. I think probably the rubbish problem that everybody is complaining about is nothing to do with visitors to the Lake District, and is just caused by frustrated locals fly tipping. I was most tempted to join them.

If you happen to pass a stack of mouldy kitchen cupboards next to the empty beer cans on the pier by the ducks on your UK mini-break to the Lake District, you can nod sagely to yourself as being in possession of a piece of inside information.

There is a happy ever after. The Peppers have offered to cook dinner for us this evening as a very last-night-of-freedom party.

I am going to set off very soon.

Have a picture of a candle. It has been lit in support of the two Mrs. Number Two Daughters, who are hoping for some good news about a job that will help them to stay in Canada for ever.

After today’s events I think this sounds like a very good idea.

LATER NOTE: We had a superb dinner and some ace wine and talked ourselves hoarse. I have completely forgiven the world for being unsympathetic and filled with difficulties. It has been the nicest possible evening, with lasagna and even pudding, and I think could be considered a very happy ending.

Also a very nice card came from Mark’s mother with some cash to buy chocolates and a poppy on the front that she had painted so nicely I think I will put it in a frame.

I have got a pink sofa and some perfume and a kettle and a door knocker and an impending hangover.

Happy birthday to me.