I am very sorry to announce that the wonderful heatwave is over, and this evening it has rained again.
We had been very excited about it, the heatwave, not the rain, obviously, so much so that today when Mark went to work he forgot to take his padded boiler suit and jersey. He regretted this, and rang me up to tell me that he had actually been shivering in the very chilly wind.
It lasted for two whole days, which is not bad for the Lake District, and I can tell you that it was wonderful. I washed our heavy dressing gowns and they dried on the line that very same day, instead of taking two or three days the way they usually do.
Last night, as you know, we went off to swim in the tarn instead of going to work, and I was jolly glad that we did because it would be too cold if we had left it until today. It was a frantic hot-day rush because all of Oliver’s luggage was strewn over Lucy’s bed. I had not even got round to making it since her last visit, and Lucy was chugging up the hot motorway even as I was dashing up and down the stairs with armfuls of towels and sheets.
She had her final university presentation yesterday morning. She had to talk for seventy five minutes about something policey, and then answer questions about it. It was a lot hotter in Northampton than it is here, and it all sounds terribly uncomfortable.
She arrived ten minutes after Mark came home from work, and we hurled everything into the camper van and dashed away for the evening.
Of course it was glorious. Nothing is nicer than a warm evening swim after a sweltering day, wallowing in the cool water and watching the sun sinking slowly behind the trees. We ate an enormous picnic and splashed across to the island and back, and shouted at the dogs. The dogs did not want to swim and belted up and down the shore trying to find somebody else who might be prepared to share their picnic.
We were exhausted when we got home, and collapsed into bed, and even then it seemed a hideous abuse when the alarm went off this morning.
This was the worst for Oliver.
It was the Dreaded Day.
Regular readers might recall that in order for him to achieve straight-toothed perfection with his brace, he needed to have four teeth removed.
The first two had to go today.
It was not at all nice.
He was admirably, wonderfully brave, although white-faced and grim. It is not too terrible to have a tooth removed when it is full of toothache. It is quite another to have somebody wrench healthy teeth from your head.
He did not think he wanted to go with Lucy to the gym afterwards. He thought he would play games, quietly, by himself in his bedroom for the rest of the day, which he did, until it was time for him to go to work.
I did cooking things. I have been trying for weeks and weeks to get everything done on my list, and today I have managed it. I think that tomorrow I will have a clear day.
I made biscuits and prawn toast and fudge and chocolates. I mended Oliver’s school shirt and washed all our swimming things.
The house is tidy now. The fridge is full. Everybody has been fed and laundered and the dogs are empty. I am on the taxi rank, and tomorrow I have hardly got anything to do.
I am going to open my new computer.
I can hardly tell you how much I am looking forward to this. It has been dancing provocatively in front of me for weeks now, but I have simply not had the time to open it and try and understand what it does. This sort of project takes ages, and lots of tongue-sticking-out concentration.
When I have done it I am going to write a bit more of my story.
I am very excited for tomorrow.
