The day was very short indeed, because we slept for almost all of it.
This was because we did not get to bed until almost six this morning, but we had made enough money to pay the electricity bill and the council tax, so we did not care. We crawled into bed and slept the sound sort of sleep that virtuous people sleep, presumably because they don’t get woken up by bailiffs and the police bashing on the door.
We felt brilliant when we woke up.
Oliver rang whilst we were having coffee, and was astounded to discover that we were still in bed even though it was the middle of the afternoon.
He has not drowned during his sailing adventures, and has kept a diary which he has promised to read to us when he comes home. I am looking forward to this very much, although he will have to read it fairly quickly because he only has one night at home before departing for two weeks in Italy.
We got up, and I did the usual day things whilst Mark went into his shed to bash bits of rusty metal about. He is making a heat exchanger, and it needs to be finished quickly because of being an important part of the new heating system.
He has explained this to me three times now, and I have been pretending to be interested and appreciative, but of course as soon as he says something like screw-fitting or ball-joint or pressure valve, the understanding part of my brain flags up that it has blundered out of its league and just switches itself off, presumably to prevent overheating. This happens every time even though I am trying to concentrate.
Anyway it is some bits of rusty metal welded together which will be fitted to the tank as part of the new water system. There is a very good reason why which I have also had explained to me, but I do not know what it is.
He did this and I ambled around the park in the warm autumn sunshine, throwing the ball for the dogs and bellowing at them when they were tiresome, which was surprisingly often. Roger Poopy’s father has been limping along for the last few weeks now, hobbling painfully around in a state of advanced decrepitude which has made us look doubtfully at him and wonder if it might be time for a swift bullet between the ears. We have not done this but fed him lovingly on pieces of cheese and ham and tried to encourage him to keep plodding bravely on for a little while longer.
He has repaid us by growling bad-temperedly at the other dogs and at anybody who kindly tells him that he is a good old dog, and tries to stroke him. He dawdles so much when we go out that he quite often loses me and forgets whether he is going out or coming back, and totters off in the wrong direction.
Nevertheless he becomes incandescent with fury if I stop and talk to anybody, and will rush at them and bark frantically, making threatening little darts at their ankles until I hurry up and carry on with our walk. Then he can dawdle behind quite contentedly, and his favourite thing is to wait until I am a long way away, preferably on the other side of the park, and then go for a poo in the middle of the cricket pitch.
I think Rosie must be starting to come into season again, because today he cheered up entirely and galloped about the park as if he was revisiting his puppyhood.
He still took no notice at all of anything I said, because of course he is still deaf.
I was not sorry to get them back home.
In fact dog-emptying, followed by getting our picnic ready, was just about the only thing I had time to do today, because of wasting so much of it asleep. It seemed to be no time at all before I was dashing back off to the taxi rank again.
I am looking forward to next week very much, because we have reached the time of year when really it no longer matters if we go to work in the evenings or not. The nights are getting longer and our frantic season is drawing to a close.
I love the autumn and the still quiet of the evenings. Everywhere smells of the falling leaves, and of soil, and of the fading of the year.
It is time to slow down and to light the candles.
