It is almost eight o’clock, and the world has become hushed.
I am sitting all by myself on the taxi rank and could be forgiven for imagining that the zombie apocalypse has finally come to pass, and that I am lacking only a mounting crescendo of background music before the first crumbling, eyeless fiend lopes its way slowly around the corner.
Oliver is bouncing. Not bouncing in the sense of tennis balls, or indeed footballs, if we are to be in tune with the zeitgeist, but in the sense that he is standing nonchalantly in the doorway of one of the pubs, attempting to prevent the entry of anybody who looks too convincingly like a villain, or indeed, like a Spaniard probably.
There are quite a few Spanish people living in Bowness. I do hope for their sake that their team does not play too well. It could lead to a most upsetting outcome.
Oliver has ceased his bartending employment. He politely explained to the manager that he felt it simply was not the career path for him, and did not add the bit about sticking the job where the sun doesn’t shine, which is everywhere in the Lake District at the moment anyway, and offered to return the T-shirt which says Guinness on the back of it. The manager declined and they parted upon good terms.
He thinks he will get another job tomorrow.
In other news, I have had a busy, if abbreviated day, because of course I did not wake up until I had already missed half of it. I rushed round after that, trying to make sure the washing was done and the conservatory watered and the floors mopped before it was time to come out to work again.
It was raining. It is a good job we have got a new dehumidifier otherwise I would be trying to dry myself on a wet towel tonight.
Somebody has just scored. I am not watching it, but the silence was suddenly shattered by an absolute cacophony of yelling and bellowing.
I am telling you this just so that you can feel confident that I am fully up-to-date with current events. That is a goal each now. By the time you read this I imagine that the result will be known and it will be old news, but at this very moment the excitement is still at fever pitch, except in this taxi, of course. In a minute I am going to have another cup of tea.
Mark has telephoned from his oil rig. He is having a nice time. They are doing overtime, the food is good and he has got a bottom bunk. This last is an important detail when you have reached the age that likes a handy bathroom visit in the middle of the night.
I had a busy evening last night, being Saturday, and it ended on rather a satisfactory note. I was the only taxi waiting gloomily outside the nightclub, ignoring the occasional yell and catcall being screeched down at me from the almost-outdoor smoking pavilion on the first floor. This is not at all unusual, people are just barking mad after they have filled themselves with drugs and alcohol, and I am never in the least troubled by any of it. Anyway, eventually a chap got into the taxi. He listened for a moment to the general intoxicated insults being hurled in my direction, and sighed and shook his head.
When we got to his house he got his wallet out and gave me fifty quid.
Have that and don’t go back there, he said. He went on to explain that the place was full of tiresome idiots, and that it would give him the greatest of pleasure to think of them all walking home.
I considered it for a minute and discovered that we had a similar satisfaction rating.
I went home.
I hope they all had long walks.
LATER NOTE. Alas, as we all know now, the Spanish won it. As it happened, all of the local Spanish had congregated in the pub opposite the taxi rank to watch it, and came out for a tactless display of jubilant celebration afterwards, involving a lot of singing Viva Espana, and flag waving, along with some very noisy shouting, some of which was not very polite.
Eventually the police cleared them away before the English fans, who were in a rather large majority, lost their self-restraint.
Poor England
