I have been to Asda, and now we don’t have any money left.
This is not exactly an unfamiliar experience, indeed, I would go so far as to say that on the whole it is the usual state of affairs. Today’s experience was especially excruciating, however, because I didn’t buy anything exciting at all, and it still cost me three hundred quid.
Three hundred quid on soap powder and sausages. I didn’t even buy gin or anything thrilling. I don’t mind being broke when I have got a cupboard full of treasures to be enjoyed later, but three hundred quid just on boring stuff is an entirely depressing experience.
I came away with a gloom in my heart and a hearty irritation with the world.
Admittedly some of the boring things were for the purpose of Oliver’s return home in a couple of weeks’ time. I would not normally purchase six pizzas, for instance. In fact if I did not have a teenage son I can’t imagine any circumstances under which I would purchase any pizzas, still less Asda’s Most Especially Dull Variety, because he does not appreciate olives or mushrooms or anything exciting.
I bought fuel as well. We have always made the joke about the camper van that a full tank of fuel would double its market value. This now appears to be more or less true. I was not in the camper van, I was in the taxi, and so I will be able to persuade the Inland Revenue that at least they will not need to tax me on it, but it is not the point, and I came home feeling like a victim of extortion.
I did intend to cut the dogs’ fur, because they are horrible, as I think I have mentioned, but I did not because today was wet, miserable and cold, and it seemed an unkind act.
It would have been the second unkind act of the day, because I put Roger Poopy’s rascally father on a lead for the road-based bit of our walk this morning. I had not intended to go on a long walk, because I had so much to do, but by the time I got to the far end of the park, the mountains were calling to me, and so I just kept on going, which was not a good move because it was raining hard even then. It rained still harder up on the top, and I was soaked by the time I got home.
Roger Poopy’s father was very upset indeed. I mean really upset. The roads are his very favourite bit of the walk, because they are where every other dog wees upon every single lamp post, and there is so much to sniff and to be savoured that he becomes lost in the joy of his olfactory adventure. I don’t think any of his other senses work very well any more, and smell is pretty much the last survivor.
Hence he dragged along mournfully, with his shoulders sagging and his head drooping, until finally I released him on the side of the fells, and he belted off at high speed and refused to come anywhere near me for all the rest of the walk. This made it difficult to recapture him when we finally got back down to the last traffic part of the walk.
I managed it and imprisoned him, but he was so morose by then that he growled at absolutely everybody that walked past us, making them jump and step hastily out of the way.
I told him that he was a rotter and that nobody would love him any more if he carried on like this, but he did not seem to care, and retreated to his cushion in high dudgeon when we got home.
I do not know what we are going to do with him.
In other news, I have written my critical analysis of Alan Dean, and edited and edited and edited until I think that probably it is fit to be handed it.
I will be glad of that. I can get back to Symon the Black then, and perhaps find time to write the one about the bears.
