I am sunk in gloom.
We bought a bumper for my car on eBay which looked just right but when Mark tried to fit it today, it wasn’t. It does not fit. We have now spent all our money and have an enormous and useless garden ornament. There is no point in sending it back because the delivery cost is considerably more than the cost of the bumper, so Mark is just going to have to go and visit the scrap man in Penrith again next week and hope that he can swap it for one which can be squeezed around the headlights..
I am weary of cars.
Probably not as weary as Mark is, but weary enough.
These things happen, and as it happened we had a fairly busy night last night. This morning we can pay off the credit card bill, mostly, and I do not have to shoot myself for another week.
Indeed, the night ended with something of an adventure. I was back a few minutes before Mark, at around half past three, and thought I would get a start on the bedtime process by taking the dogs out.
This was a noble and courageous decision, I can tell you, because of being still disabled.
I limped across the road to the Library Gardens, and the dogs belted off into the darkness, and I had just got past the front of the library, when I heard a noise.
It was a loud noise, coming out of a dark corner.
I stood still and listened for a moment before realising that it was snoring.
Clearly some intoxicated rascal had given up on the idea of remembering which was his guest house, and passed out under a bush.
I was mildly amused until I recalled an unpleasant encounter I had had a little earlier, with some extremely intoxicated, and extraordinarily unpleasant gentlemen. I had obliged them to leave my taxi in the middle of Windermere shortly after midnight, when it became clear that although they wished to go back to Kendal, they did not have any money.
One of them was already dripping with blood in consequence of having lost a fight a few minutes before.
I had booted them from the taxi, and then driven past them several times over the next couple of hours whilst they attempted to hurl themselves in front of my car, tried to flag every other car on the road, and generally yelled insulting remarks at everybody in general, and me in particular.
It suddenly occurred to me that the foghorn snores, coming from under the bench, might well be one of these drunken and affronted gentlemen.
This was not an acquaintance I wished to renew in the dark, by myself, in the small hours of the morning.
I thought I might run away, but of course could manage no more than a speedy hobble, which is not even sufficiently speedy to get me across the road at busy moments, and all the cars have to stop and their drivers sigh and tut grumpily.
It was not brilliant for escaping from outraged murderers either.
I belted off at almost two miles an hour, trying to whisper to the dogs not to go and investigate, and fortunately, the snoring was still continuing when I limped hastily across the road and back home, where Mark was emptying his work bag.
I was very relieved to have survived, I can tell you.
I have now come upstairs to start writing my assignment for college, but it has not happened. I have become discouraged, so I decided that I would write to you instead. I ought to be getting on with it because I have only got two weeks.
I will get round to it soon, probably.
In conclusion, I am guiltily pleased to announce that Oliver is not going to be a Colour Bearer next term. The Headmaster told him that he should fill in the form and apply again, but he has decided not to bother, and hence, to all of our enormous pleasure, we are going to go and see a theatre show at the end of the summer holidays, which will mean he is a day late going back to school.
This is utterly and completely irresponsible, but will not actually matter in the least, because all he will miss is unpacking and lots of lectures about revision and exam preparation. If he had been a Colour Bearer he would have had to be there, because there is an assembly in the morning at which the Colour Bearers have got to stand about looking grown up and responsible.
Instead of being in that assembly we will be in Manchester watching Derren Brown’s new show on its first night, guess which sounds more fun.
Derren Brown is not in it, he has produced it. It is called Unbelievable, which perfectly describes almost everything I have ever seen Derren Brown do, and it sounds very exciting. It is the opening night of a week in the provinces before the show goes down to the West End, because obviously you don’t want Londoners seeing all your early experimental disasters.
I think it is going to be wonderful, and the prospect of something nice in our future has cheered me up even though it has meant a small blip on our credit card.
We can always earn more money.
