The problem with the unforgiving minutes is that there are simply not enough of them, and you have got to waste so many being asleep.
It was half past ten before we woke up this morning, and we extended the coffee lie-in for a little while because it is Mark’s birthday, and there were cards to be opened and presents to be marvelled over.
He had, of course, forgotten that it was his birthday, so it was a surprise.
I gave him a book that I knew he had wanted, but the girls had clubbed together for a very nice single malt and a voucher we can use to pretend we are middle class, to have afternoon tea, with champagne, at a smart hotel on the side of the lake.
We were both pleased about these, because they are to be shared as both of our presents. My birthday is coming hot on the heels of his in a couple of weeks, and in any case he would hardly go for afternoon tea by himself, or drink the single malt, come to that. Some things are much better shared, although I am not sure that whisky is one of them.
The single malt was an especially nice one, from the Abelour distillery just by Oliver’s school. We have been eyeing it up covetously in the House of Bruar for ages, but decided that it was too special and lovely to be afforded just for drinking at breakfast time. Instead we regretfully bought the Orkney one, partly out of loyal affection for all products Orcadian, but mostly because it was twenty quid cheaper.
My parents sent some cash, which I will help him spend later, I have got lots more ideas than he has about this sort of thing. It was in a useful sort of bag that he thought he could chuck over his shoulder and fill up with screws and other handy things whilst he was climbing towers at work. I approved of this idea, because surprise screws in trouser pockets are not doing the washing machine any favours. I do not like our washing machine at all, it is rubbish, and is going to be replaced as soon as we win the lottery, but I would prefer not to lose it just quite yet, and the occasional spanner clattering around the drum is not helping matters at all.
Mark’s mother sent a cheque, which I will also help him spend, in a birthday card she had made herself, and Oliver rang whilst Mark was opening it all, to tell us that he is fine, yes, good, okay, bye, in the way of teenage boys, which made us both glow with joint parental pride.
We had to get on with filling up the unforgiving minutes after that, and went rushing out to empty the dogs and carry on rebuilding the camper van.
It is coming on painfully slowly. I only had an hour before I had to dash off to start getting ready for work. This was just enough time to screw the cupboard doors back on, which I was pleased to have done, but there is still so much to do.
Mark carried on by himself, and after a while was interrupted by the Peppers banging on the window, pretending that they thought it was an ice cream van, but really to bring him a Lakeland slate covered in gorgeous cheese and biscuits, and some wine, for his birthday.
They had made the biscuits themselves. I was very impressed. Home made biscuits are my absolute favourite, especially when made by somebody else. Mark will not get to keep that part of his birthday present to himself either, we are going to share it when we get home from work.
All in all it has been a splendid day, and I have enjoyed it every bit as much as Mark, which is one of the good things about being married.
It is nice to share.
Have a picture of the conservatory. I think I may have underestimated the space we would need for the tomato arches. We are having difficulty getting in and out through the door.
