The first swifts are here. I am happy to announce that they are exactly punctual, May 5th is their Due Date, and they have arrived exactly on time, so you can tell that they don’t have a union or rely on subsidies from the Government.
I have been both pleased and surprised this evening to discover that the actual Coronation is not on Monday, when I am at Cambridge, but tomorrow, being Saturday, when I am not. I had thought that I would miss it, and have been most cheered to discover that in fact I won’t. We can get up in the morning and watch it all. It is not as good as being there, but I suppose it is too late to call Charles now and ask if my seat is still free.
Oliver rang. Gordonstoun is celebrating the Coronation in true Gordonstoun style, by getting up at seven and going for a run down to the sea, which is about a mile away, followed by a swim and then another run back.
Plus est en vous, he said, cheerfully. Yes, I said, absolutely. God save the King.
It is very quiet here. Miles and miles of Union Jack bunting is fluttering above peaceful streets. I don’t suppose we are going to make a fortune tonight, but I don’t mind, because of wanting an early night so that we can be up in time to watch the procession tomorrow.
I am also pleased with my world because I have had a magnificently productive day. I have written three thousand words of my story, in which I am beginning to tie up all of the last dramatic loose ends, although still have not yet finished. I have made a cheese and onion pie, some biscuits, some caramel shortbread and some fudge. I have done all of the laundry, cleaned the bathroom, swept and mopped the kitchen and the conservatory and shovelled up the stick that Rosie has infuriatingly chewed into a thousand tiny spears and left buried in the landing carpet. Maybe plus was en me as well.
I have not done my reading for Monday, nor, wickedly, have I researched some person I am supposed to be researching in order to write a biography. This is because I do not have the smallest intention of writing a biography of anybody. In fact I am not going to write anything until I have finished my story. I am struggling to tear my attention away from it for long enough to write this.
I like to leave stories on a high point, at a bit where I am absolutely itching to write more, but irritatingly, I haven’t. I ran out of day, and was obliged to leave it at a dull point where I am going to have to briskly skip through a long walk through a dark tunnel before I can get to the next terrifying adventure. This has got a dragon in it. I am looking forward to writing that bit.
It is going to be too long and will have to be trimmed down. Stories for young people are supposed to be shorter than eighty thousand words, and I am at seventy nine thousand now. I find this profoundly irritating, because when I was a child I was always very pleased indeed to get a good, thick book, and felt I was getting my money’s worth. The Hobbit is ninety five thousand words, and would not be published now.
I regret to say it is not The Hobbit, even though it does have a dragon.
I am going to go. I am not quite sure when I will write next, because tomorrow is Saturday, and on Sunday I am driving to Cambridge. If I don’t get there until two in the morning I will not feel at all inclined to start writing entertaining accounts of a lengthy chug down the motorway in an elderly camper van.
You will just have to Watch This Space.
