Well Behaved Family

When we took the dogs out last night their behaviour had undergone a miraculous change.

Our dog has always been reasonably well behaved in a slapdash sort of way, but Molly has been a total nuisance ever since she arrived, charging about into the road and taking no notice of anybody, and generally being a dog that has never in her life had good off-the-lead behaviour expected from her: and of course our own dog promptly joined in.

When we went for our late-night dog emptying stroll after work last night everything was quite different. Both dogs were brilliantly well behaved. They trotted obediently across the road with their noses virtuously at Mark’s ankles, edging back when they got a bit too far forward and being shining examples of good-dogness.

I was astounded, and of course wanted to know what he had done to them whilst I was in York.

“It’s like being married, really,” he said smugly, “You have to be kind to them but make sure they know who’s boss.”

I took my revenge this morning when I told him to his complete horror that I had given Lucy permission to dye her hair purple to go on her canoeing holiday in the Ardeche next week, which she wanted to do before she left, because there would be boys there and she wanted to look her exotic best.

“Where are the boys coming from?” he wanted to know grumpily.

I didn’t know, because there were lots of schools going to be there, canoeing and having adventures, but I told him that I thought probably a boys’ borstal in Liverpool.

He thought about that long and hard for a while.

“Could be worse, I suppose, ” he said at last, “could be Sedbergh.”

I have indeed promised Lucy that she may if she wishes dye her hair purple, as long as it washes out before she goes back to school in September, as I think the august portals of Queen Margaret’s Splendid Educational Establishment For Genteel And Otherwise Aspirational Young Ladies may well be forever closed to persons whose shade of hair does not match the prescribed criteria, i.e., black, brown, yellow or red at a push. We are going to call my hairdresser on Monday morning and see if something reasonably short term can be arranged

We decided this at a House Meeting this morning, at which we drew up some optimistically unlikely family goals for the summer. We would, we thought, raise enough money to pay the school fees and the mortgage and fund our usual annual family holiday camping in Number One Daughter’s garden. We like that idea very much, because of course it is nice to see them, but also their house is tidy and pretty, the weather is warmer down there, and last year we made friends with a fox in their garden.

Lucy would dye her hair and help Oliver do extra school work and learn his tables and spellings.

Oliver would build another go cart with Daddy and go camping and shooting at the farm again, and work hard and not grumble about extra school work and pass his Common Entrance Exam when he is thirteen.

We would all do some exercise and also remember to take the dogs for walks, and we would all keep the house tidy and clean and remember to bring in the washing when it rained.

We were pleased with this ambitious project, and if we manage to keep it going we will be a shining example of a Perfect Family, albeit with mildly dysfunctional hair colour.

As I write these words they are all downstairs practising the three times table and washing the pots up after dinner and squabbling. Lucy is supervising. It is nice to hear, although a bit distracting, and I am having to control my interfering impulse not to shout down the stairs: “No! Seven threes are twenty one!”

It turns out that the only one of them who can reliably remember their three times table is Lucy, much to my amusement.

I am going to have to go downstairs and interfere.

It is so very lovely to have my family under my feet.