Swan song

Hurrah for York, although actually we are not anywhere near York itself really. We are in Escrick, which is a small red-brick village a short distance from the excitingnesses of York, being the castle and the museum and Dick Turpin’s cell. It would be a tiresome nuisance to get from London to York in a single night even now, especially if there are roadworks.

Still we are in Escrick and having a lovely time.

It has all been terribly tragic.

It is, as you know, the swan song for Lucy’s old school, being Queen Margaret’s School for Genteel Young Ladies. You could take your pony with you and play lacrosse and learn to speak Latin, so obviously Keir Starmer wants rid of the place, and he has succeeded.

We came down here this morning, laden with picnic. This involved a lot of dashing about and flapping, so we will draw a veil over that part of the day. I cooked sausages just before we left and managed to keep them almost warm until we got here, so we had a picnic which featured sausage sandwiches and cream cakes. This was excellent although I think I probably put on about a kilo of extra fat and have felt rather uncomfortably rotund ever since.

It was a happy picnic, though. The sun shone warmly, indeed, the grass was so dry that it was clear that the sun has been shining warmly for quite some time, not in the least like the Lake District, where Elspeth sent a message to tell me it was raining again. I did not mind this because it is good for the garden and also I am not there.

We sat under the trees and listened to the sports day. We did not feel any great enthusiasm to watch it, Lucy was never especially interested in Sports Day even when it was compulsory and there was a chance that her house might win the trophy. This has not changed at all in the intervening years, and so we sat at a discreet distance away where we could listen to cheering little girls without being troubled by any social pressure to participate.

There were lots and lots of Old Girls there, strolling around in flowery dresses and catching up on post-school adventures. I recognised some of Lucy’s friends, and the Latin teacher, and the choir mistress, but most of them were from times long past.

The day finished with a service in the chapel, which was as beautiful and tragic as might be expected under the circumstances. The chaplain of Lucy’s day is gone, but the service was taken by an Old Girl who has become a vicar, and we gazed at the soaring chapel roof and listened to the angelic voices of the choir, and everybody cried. I was all right until the choir began their last solemn outward procession, and we realised that they were all crying and the whole chapel burst into applause, even though you are not supposed to clap in church.

Lucy and Jack stayed to drink Prosecco with the other Old Girls, and we made our way back to the hotel where we are staying, which is just across the road. It is called the Parsonage, and will probably have some difficult times now that there are no parents of girls coming for half terms and exeats and holidays.

We went for a swim, which was ace, it is ages since I have been swimming, and I was surprised to notice that it was considerably harder than it used to be, it must be because I am sixty now. Then we all reassembled for dinner, which was jolly good, I had a Caesar salad which was supposed to atone for the sausages and cream cakes, but obviously it didn’t really because of being mostly cheese and bacon, the lettuce was a bit of an afterthought, so I am probably even fatter now than I was at lunchtime.

I hope I can still fit in my trousers tomorrow.

Mark is snoring next to me. It has been a very busy day.

It is the most shocking tragedy. All of those sad little girls, crying as if it were Prime Minister’s Question Time.

I hope Keir Starmer gets haemorrhoids.