Wrong Dressing Gown

We are home.

We are home, and unpacked. The washing is spinning in the washing machine, the dogs are emptied, we have had pasta for dinner, and we are ready for bed.

I am wearing the Wrong Dressing Gown, because we had to leave our actual dressing gowns still going round in the washing machine when we left in a frantic hurry. We came back to find that they did not seem to have come to much harm for their two-day sodden incarceration, and so I have pegged them in the garden and left them for the sun to find tomorrow.

I am wearing my Spare Dressing Gown, which is all wrong, but since it is exactly the same dressing gown as the Right Dressing Gown, and, for that matter, the Camper Van Dressing Gown, it is not too upsetting and I am coping.

All of our dressing gowns have a different pattern but apart from that they are the same. I do not like things to be unpredictable, even if I know they are going to be unpredictable. My sympathies are absolutely and entirely with Steve Jobs, who owned a hundred and twenty identical black turtleneck sweaters, and made sure they had been left everywhere where he might need to dress in a clean sweater. This, to my mind, is a perfect way of dressing, although somewhat dependent on predictable weather. I live in the Lake District, and so would have to leave a hundred and twenty identical thermal vests alongside them, just in case.

Anyway, apart from the Wrong Dressing Gown, which, incidentally I know is wrong not just because it is a different colour, but because the tie cord is slightly different and has a different number of seams along it. I can feel this around my waist and it is a constant reminder of the wrongness. I am trying to ignore this but I will not be sorry to go to bed in a minute.

Apart from that the evening is splendid.

We started the day in the Scottish sunshine with a stroll around some Dundee parkland. Roger Poopy had been longing to get up, because he knew that we were still outside Pepper’s new house, and so in the end we gave in to the longing whimpers coming from under the bed, and went out.

They charged about the sunny lawns and fought over Pepper’s ball. They rolled in some bird poo and hurled themselves on top of one another, and wagged their tails like enthusiastic fans on a hot day, and poor Roger was very sorry when we had to go. He lay on the floor at my feet and sighed deeply, more or less until we got to Perth, after which he forgot and fell asleep.

We had a very contented journey, listening to Watership Down on the story machine. Of course I have read it, many times, but it turned out that Mark had not. Listening to a story for the very first time is an enormous joy, and Watership Down is one of the most splendid. If you have never read it, then you should. It is charming and shocking and terrible and enchanting all at once, and even though I know it well it has still been a great happiness to hear it. There are still hours and hours left, which is even better, it will see us back to school again I should think. There is no pleasure like a truly brilliant book, and although I do not think Richard Adams had been paying attention to character arcs or redeemable flaws, it did not seem to matter. It is still magnificent.

Also I am pleased to tell you that it might be that Mark’s invention to make the camper van use fuel more efficiently has worked. When we finally got home it turned out that we were still in credit, and so Mark can afford some more fuel to go to work tomorrow.

Oliver sent us a message this evening to tell us that he is happily settled back at school, and that everything is all right. I do not need to worry about him at all, although I think that probably I might, a bit, anyway.

I will get round to it once I have got us properly settled back at home and Mark off to work tomorrow.

I am going to take my dressing gown off and go to bed.