Well, and so we have a Trumpian White House again.
I know this is a completely unfashionable sentiment, but I am pleased. The government that wrecked Afghanistan and abandoned its women to tyranny is gone, and with any luck, the world will be a safer place.
I will watch with interest.
In the meantime, affairs in Windermere seem to be proceeding almost completely untroubled by events on the international stage, world-changing as they might be. You would not know about such a seismic global shift if you were merely wandering around the Library Gardens, which, incidentally is my next job. I am hoping it will be more tranquil than last night’s amble, which was a bit of an Event, because it turned out that Roger Poopy does not at all like fireworks.
I realised this shortly after it went dark. I was painting in my office, and he became alarmed by the bangs and flashes, even though they were miles away, and kept trying, scratchily, to get on my knee.
You will be saddened to hear that I am utterly heartless. I was having no truck with his terror and told him to get down and go away. This is not exactly as ruthless as it sounds, because if you acknowledge that a dog has something to be frightened of, they will believe it and carry on being frightened. I told him that he was a tiresome neurotic idiot and to get in his basket, and eventually it worked. He lay in his basket, and after five minutes of jumping and whimpering, he got bored with it and went to sleep.
It was a different matter when we went on our walk, though. The bangs were louder outside and he decided to be frightened again. He spent almost the entire walk whimpering and trying to jump into my arms, being yelled at to get down.
This state of affairs lasted until he noticed a cat in the distance, when he promptly forgot all about the fireworks and careered away, barking his head off.
Dogs are muppets.
In other news, Oliver called me last night. He had been given an electronic baby to look after for the night. It cried when it needed something, and he was obliged to stop whatever he was doing and feed it, or burp it, or change its nappy, or simply cuddle it until it stopped yelling and nodded off. He sent me a video, which I have shared with you. I do not know if you will be able to get it to work.
The baby’s name was Emily, after Norland’s glorious founder, and when he took the electronic baby back to college this morning, he had scored 100%, so it appears that my genes will be in safe hands whenever he decides to reproduce.
At the very least the nation’s children will be well nurtured.
I am off to work now. I am looking forward to this evening because I have taken steps to make a Radical Change. I have been reading all sorts of unlikely garbage in the august Daily Telegraph about plastic containers being bad for you because of tiny fragments of microplastics, or something, and although really I don’t actually believe a word of it, I have long been aware that when it comes to our taxi picnics, the presentation half of the battle has been the half I have been losing.
We have long been shoving our dinners in plastic tubs to take out to work, and this week I have made a change.
I have purchased some glass containers with plastic lids, and am experimenting with using them.
Please do not be alarmed. They are a robust type of glass, rather like Pyrex. I had a Pyrex baking dish for years which I hated because it was impossible to get clean, and the wretched thing never broke.
I filled two of them this evening, one with slices of melon, the other with pancakes and sushi, and I can hardly tell you how surprisingly different they felt.
They felt streamlined and upmarket and luxurious, and even looked smart and elegant.
I was very pleased indeed. I don’t suppose for a minute that my picnic will taste any better because of them, but it certainly feels as if it will.
I will let you know how I get on.
