Wounded

I have discovered that a statue is to be erected to Mary Read and Anne Bonny.

They were, as you know, lady pirates.

I had always thought of pirates as violent predatory scum, and am surprised to hear that this fashion in thought has changed.

I imagine that some future generation, whilst tearing down statues of Tony Blair and David Cameron, will erect memorials to Myra Hindley and Rose West, for their courageous challenging of the shockingly patriarchal stereotype that only men can be child abusers and serial killers.

Oh brave new world.

In between being unimpressed with current fashions in statuary, which incidentally I was in every way, because not only is the idea rubbish, the statues were rubbish as well. They had funny shaped heads and holes in places where non-combatants do not expect to have holes. They looked like people in the way that anagrams look like words, all of the bits being there, but put together by a panicking dyslexic.

As I was starting to say, in between all of that, I have been anxiously preparing for our court appearance tomorrow.

You will not be surprised to hear that the time has changed, again.

Instead of appearing at ten in the morning, we have been put back until twelve.

I found this out about half an hour ago.

Obviously this has caused a whole new paroxysm of indecisive flapping. Lunchtime tomorrow is quite late enough for us to stay here tonight, and so strictly speaking, we do not need to travel until the morning.

We could sleep in our own bed, get up at the usual time, and travel up in the car.

This would work brilliantly if only it did not equally mean that by morning I would be in such a state of mad flapping about, that everybody would get very upset and shouty.

Actually I mean that I would get upset and shouty and that everybody else would slope off out of the way, grumbling amongst themselves.

Also we need the camper van in case of prolonged and tedious waiting. This goes much better with a cup of our own tea, in our own cups, with our own biscuits, and a book.

I worried for ages about what might be the best thing to do.

I have spent the day organising everything that might facilitate a departure this evening. I have brought firewood into the house for the children, and purchased doughnuts and crisps in order to reassure myself that they will not starve to death.

I have even hoovered and tidied up, so that if we are delayed for any length of time we need not be troubled that they are living in circumstances of abject squalor.

The children said that it would be a good thing if we did depart this evening, because they wanted to watch Marvel films on the telly in peace.

In the end I decided that it would be the least troubling thing to do, and so Mark is putting water into the camper van tanks even as I write these very words.

We have decided to take the dogs with us. As it happens, when Roger Poopy went out for his afternoon mad dash with Pepper he caught his foot on something, and it bled. This alarmed the Peppers very much, because of not wishing to bring back a bundle of broken bits instead of a complete dog, and so they nursed and cherished him back to health for a little while until they brought him home.

This convinced him that there must be something the matter with him, and by the time he lay down miserably on the cushion in front of the fire he was looking very woebegone.

Eventually we took the bandage off his foot to have a look, which meant that he could snuffle about and lick it. This cheered him up no end, so we let him get on with it. I know that dogs are not supposed to be allowed to chew their own legs off when they are hurt, but it seems to have worked. He is now self-importantly injured, and is limping rather proudly, checking first to see if anybody is watching.

He is limping too much to charge about with Pepper, so they are coming with us. Also it will be handy to have some watch-dogs in the camper van whilst we are in court, even an elderly one and a disabled one. There is nothing wrong with their bark.

I am going to go and get ready. When next I write to you it will all be over. I will have been a witness for the Queen.

Have another picture of Roger Poopy. He has stolen Pepper’s new caterpillar-bed.