I got soaked this morning.
It looked as though the day had promise of being fair and benevolent when I set off for my walk, and so I did not bother with all of my beautiful new rain-proof outerwear, but ambled off in my shorts and gilet. Perhaps predictably, though, by the time I was at the furthest point, right at the top of Grandsire fell, the Weather Gods had changed their minds, and the heavens opened.
I was thoroughly rinsed.
It wasn’t exactly unpleasant. There was no wind at all, just the persistent, soft rustling of the rain on the long grass, occasionally interrupted by my swearing. It was grey, and quiet, and still, and rather nice, in a lonely, mountainous sort of way.
All the same, I wasn’t in the least sorry to get back down. I was wet then, so I thought I would dash round getting all of my outside stuff done before I settled myself into the warm and dry, and so I trudged off to Booths and then to the library.
I have taken Rory Stewart back to the library. I enjoyed his company very much. He is terrifically well-informed, although perhaps rather more of a socialist than I am. I did not really glean that from his book, but from his podcast with Alastair Campbell. Inspired by the book I listened to a couple of episodes in the taxi when my Audible book ran out, and although they were interesting, I thought they had a definite tendency to skip hastily over things they didn’t want to approve of. Anything uncomfortable was sloshed away with a bucketful of political correctness, so if your politics are anywhere to the right of good old Nigel and his Reformist mates, don’t bother. It will just wind you up.
In its place I have acquired Charles Spencer’s misery memoir about his youthful experience of a boys’ boarding school. I was especially interested in this, because as you know, I have also dispatched children to such institutions, and was curious to know what he thought.
I read some of it over the top of my porridge.
Either he went to a particularly ghastly school, or he is only recollecting the bad bits. I could not quite work out which, but here is a spoiler, he didn’t like it. He seems now to be a firm believer that all children should be looked after by their mummies, which might not have worked out too well for him, since his own wives got drunk and left him with embarrassing regularity.
I think that not only boarding schools, but all schools, were pretty grim back in those days. I don’t think that state schools were havens of gentle mercifulness either. The world has moved on, and a jolly good thing too. My offspring, when asked about their boarding school experiences, have got nothing more shocking to report than the time when some friend of Lucy’s gave another girl a Death Stare during French class, and the time when Oliver was upset because he had taken the wrong sort of biscuit at Low Tea. Both of them are absolutely unequivocal that it was a marvellous time, and Oliver was very sorry indeed to leave this year.
It might be that recollections may differ. Either that or the aristocracy is rethinking its stiff upper lip policy now they have discovered lucrative publishing contracts.
After the library I swept and tidied up, and did the thing I most wanted to do, and dashed up to my computer. This was not unadulterated bliss, because before I could start writing my story, I had to deal with Royal Mail, not our nice postman John, but with some indifferent person who was probably in an Indian call centre and so had more pressing life-issues to worry about and who did not give a hoot about my First World hiccup, and who in any case knew almost nothing about the parcel the post had lost and that I wanted back.
I waited in their queueing system for forty minutes.
The lady assured me that my parcel would be dispatched back to me as soon as they had found it, and that I need not worry in the least, which although not exactly reassuring, was at least hopeful, and whilst I was on the phone, something splendid happened.
My friend emailed me to tell me that she was reading my story, and wanted to talk about it, so could we please meet up on Zoom.
I was very pleased indeed, and we occupied a thrilling half an hour talking about motivations and characterisation, and I was so completely inspired that I left the call and wrote two thousand words without stopping.
I have been writing all afternoon. I am going to have to desist now and get ready for work.
There is no better occupation for a very wet day.
