Still at it

We are still on holiday.

We should not be on holiday, because we are in the Lake District again, and really really we should be at home and beginning to turn our faces back to the uphill labours of life once more.

We did not do this.

Instead, we got halfway up the motorway, decided that we really did not want the holiday to be over, and turned our steps to the farm instead.

Obviously they were not steps because we were not walking. Obviously I know this and am not entirely stupid, although I concede I might be drunk. We did not want to go home, not because there is anything wrong with home, but because the whole project of emptying and tidying and cleaning the camper van, followed by reloading it for its next adventure, which will be Scotland in a couple of days’ time, was just too difficult.

Hence we are still idling. We are in our field contemplating our own intoxication, acquired since we arrived, also obviously. 

This is a brilliant sort of holiday. It is too dark to feel guilty about not doing anything responsible and sensible, which is what we ought to do since there are a million unattended chores here. Also we are almost home and hence do not need to conserve anything, like shower water or the end of the box of wine. Also it is our own field so if anybody is going to become irate and bellow Git Orf Moi Larnd, it will be us. Also we are miles from anywhere in the Cumbrian wilderness and hence can wander about in the camper van undressed without needing to worry if anybody is looking. If anybody is wandering about here at this time of night peering through windows they are so completely weird that they deserve everything that they have the misfortune to observe.

There isn’t anybody, by the way. We know that because we have got four dogs and they go mental at the smallest passing fox, never mind a weirdo looking in through the windows.

We have got four dogs because of Number One Daughter going to Sardinia. She did not want to take their dog who does not have a passport or speak Sardinian, so he has come with us. He seems to be perfectly happy. I am in bed. Mark is in the shower. The door is open and the dogs are hunting rabbits up and down the field outside. There are no sheep, which is misfortunate because we could do with some sheep for dinner, although possibly not this weekend. Butchering a sheep is an time-consuming process.

We have driven up from  Surrey today, which took ages because of stopping to empty a lot of dogs, and because of the southern roads being ridiculously full of people. We are listening to Vanity Fair on the story thing, which is utterly brilliant. It is one of my all-time favourite books, but Mark has not read it, and so he is laughing for the very first time at all the right bits. This is a great happiness, because is making me laugh all over again. It has been a splendid journey.

I am going to sleep now.

You will be very glad to hear that Oliver has passed loads of GCSEs, although I am struggling to work out what grades he has got because they have changed them all into numbers. This is supposed to be more informative but obviously is much less informative because nobody understands it. Anyway, his highest mark was for English, which is probably just genetic, and which was an eight. Then there was a seven, also for English, but the other sort, being the understanding poetry bit, some sixes and a couple of fives, meaning eight passes in total, so he has done just splendidly and represented the family with honour. We are very proud, all of these children and not a single duffer amongst them, what a relief that has turned out to be.

Anyway, that is more than enough writing. I am going to pass out now. 

Did I mention that I might be slightly intoxicated?

Ah well. It is a holiday after all.