We had a lovely evening last night.
It started rather later than we had anticipated because when I was writing in these pages at teatime, I noticed an article in the online version of the august Daily Telegraph telling us that one of the big oil companies was going to stop selling fuel to garages, except those on motorways where they make lots of cash out of it.
I rushed downstairs to tell Mark, and we thought that this was probably something that we ought to worry about.
Even if there turned out not to be a problem in the end, just the article alone would almost certainly lead to endless queues at petrol stations. At this point the local garage would very probably run out altogether. It does this occasionally when we have sunny weekends and lots of tourists.
Obviously the Government always hopefully tell you not to go out and buy fuel at times like this, because of panic buying and queues and Keep Calm And Carry On. We knew that they would say this, but we make our entire living out of the use of fuel, and we were jolly well not going to take any chances.
Mark bashed the taxis back into a usable state, and we dashed down to the petrol station where we filled both taxis brim-full of fuel. Then we recalled that for the first time ever we had left the camper van’s diesel tank empty, because on the way home from our Peterborough drinking adventures, we were so very late that everywhere was shut by the time we finally spluttered off the motorway.
We filled that up as well. We can always siphon it out in a dire emergency.
After that we were free to indulge our hedonistic passions. We drank cherry-and-gin cocktails before dinner, and cooked pasta and bacon into which we could add olives with a clear conscience, because the children were not home.
We settled ourselves in front of the wonderful television, which we have not watched for so long that I had forgotten how to get it to work, and some complicated button-twiddling and shouting at it happened.
The gin probably helped with this.
We did not watch a film, but all three episodes of a three-part series on Netflix, called Mrs. Wilson. This was supposed to be based on a true story, and was the story of a lady who most improbably failed to notice that her husband was married to three other ladies as well as her.
I mean at the same time, not one after the other.
She must have been the most startlingly unobservant wife in the country, apart from the other three, obviously, all of whom must have been equally ignorant, since it is not much of a proposal: I’d like to marry you, would you mind having a time-share arrangement with my other three wives?
I would notice if Mark spent longer than usual out on a taxi run, never mind if he was popping out to spend three quarters of his life being married to other people.
I can’t imagine why he might want four wives in any case. Mark has only got one and most certainly he would not want another. He could not afford another. He can barely afford the one that he has got.
Despite all of this, she did not appear to suspect a thing until he died, at which point there was something of a squabble about who was going to choose the hymns for the funeral.
I would have let the other three choose the hymns and fork out for the undertaker whilst they were at it.
Anyway, it was fascinating viewing. She decided to become a nun in the end, for which decision nobody could exactly blame her, and as the credits rolled there were lots of pictures of his real children, who are not only grown up but somewhat elderly now, and some concluding details to the real story.
It was a splendid evening, and improved again by not having to set the alarm for this morning, because Mark was not going off installing rural broadband. We had to get up anyway, because of trying to fix the taxis, so it was not a prolonged shirk, but it was jolly nice not to have to rush.
You will be pleased to hear that he has managed to fix both taxis into a usable state. Mine has still got an engine light on, although he has fixed the fault. According to the mighty Internet, it will go off when somebody drives it really hard and it gets thoroughly hot and noisy.
It is my Challenge for the evening.
I am sure I will be able to sort it out.
