The rain has stopped.
It stopped this morning and stayed almost completely stopped until I hung my washing out. I decided that I would ignore the Weather Gods and not pay any attention, the way you do with an especially irritating toddler, and sure enough, ten minutes later it had stopped and everything was flapping nicely again.
I have had to do another load of washing since, because when we got back from the walk over the muddy fells, the wicked, wicked dogs rushed upstairs and jumped on Oliver’s bed.
They spent an hour in disgrace in the conservatory afterwards, but it did not get the black paw prints off the white sheets, and Oliver had to strip them all off and change them. They are still in the washing machine even as I write.
I am pleased to tell you that I have spent quite a lot of the day writing my dissertation. I have been working myself up to this, and yesterday I did all of the housework in readiness. I made a couple of jars of mayonnaise, then we went over to the farm in the howling gale and lashing rain to chuck some firewood into my taxi, and I sawed it all up later.
We made the dogs run behind the car.
When we got back, we dumped the dogs in the house with stern warnings about the things they were not allowed to do, which was everything other than lie on their cushion in front of the fire, and went to Booths.
Hence today I have got lots of firewood, and ethical yoghurt, and everything that I need for an idle and dissolute day, so after I had trekked over the fells I settled down with a huge pot of tea and my computer.
I wrote almost two thousand words, which was splendid. Probably I will have to rewrite most of them when I look at them again tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. Rewriting is easy, I can do it with one hand whilst I am eating toast in the morning, unless something turns out to have been the most ghastly drivel, and I have to delete it and start again.
I never really delete stuff. I have a file where I store all of my out-takes, in case they come in handy later, which of course they never do, really it is the most ridiculous sort of clutter. All the same I can’t quite bring myself just to dispose of my masterfully composed whitterings, and so they stay there, using up space on the hard drive until some day when I will pretend to be a sort of literary version of Marie Kondo and chuck them all out.
My tutor confessed that she does this as well.
Thank goodness for computers. It would be dreadful to have to store all this stuff in a cupboard.
I haven’t done any of the other work but there is still time. I don’t have a class until Wednesday.
In other news, Oliver is having convoluted agonies about his immediate future. He has got three exciting choices in front of him, being the Army, the Police, and Norland. All of them offer thrilling opportunities and he cannot make up his mind. He is going around the house, flinging himself on chairs and groaning Who Am I? in a mildly alarming state of existential distress.
I have no sensible advice to give. When we checked the computer this afternoon the average Norland graduate is earning more, five years after graduation, than the average doctor, lawyer, dentist or engineer. The police will pay for his degree and offer him a salary whilst he does it, not to mention give him a uniform and the chance to try and beat Lucy to their joint career goal of becoming chief of police. The Army will give him a uniform and encourage him to run up and down hills carrying stretchers and bergens and other soldiers, which he really likes, five years at Gordonstoun have helped with that one. It will also offer the thrilling opportunity to go and get himself killed fighting some rubbish war in some country that most of us couldn’t find on a map.
I could offer no sage words of wisdom, and just sighed supportively. I am the worst possible person to advise under these circumstances, having never quite made my own mind up on the subject, and could only suggest that he asks his housemaster for some advice. His housemaster is a man of the world, having had a fairly glittering career doing something rufty tufty in South America for some James Bond type of organisation, although I suppose that might not give him much to contribute to a discussion about whether Oliver should become a nanny or not.
If anybody has any sensible ideas on the subject I would be pleased to hear them.
