I am sitting in a queue of traffic feeling extremely stressed.
Obviously, for the easily alarmed, I am not driving. Even whilst sitting in queues I am not inclined to fill in the unforgiving minute by writing lengthy pieces of prose as well as staring out of the window, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and feeling my heart rate accelerating even though the car is not.
Mark is driving and I am panicking. That seems to be a reasonably fair division of labour.
He is welcome to the driving because it is entirely his fault that we are late.
He pretended that the MOT garage took three and a half hours and incorporated a visit to Autoparts for the collection of replacement bits, but I am perfectly well aware that the visit to the MOT garage also involved lengthy hanging about and talking about either Land Rovers or V8 engines or motorbikes or even boilers with the MOT inspector, who Mark finds to be a kindred spirit.
The result of this was that we are late, although I should add that both cars passed their MOT tests. Oliver’s car only just scraped through because of a hole in the exhaust, which Mark had to fix when he came home. This did nothing for our punctual departure.
We re on our way to Manchester, where we are meeting my family and going out for dinner.
We are going to dump the dogs at Lucy’s house, check ourselves into an hotel, and then arrive late and unpopular at the restaurant where we are having dinner.
Nobody will consider that this is Mark’s fault, but I can jolly well tell you that it is, really.
I am not really cross about it because it is such a relief to have two cars which are once again MOT holders, and I have dispatched the paperwork off to the council with some relief and pride.
Mark’s car did not even have any advisories, which surprised even the MOT inspector.
Whilst the cars were at the garage I amused myself with the packing, and giving Roger Poopy a haircut. He did not want a haircut, and at first resisted furiously, and there was some gritted teeth and wrestling. Then suddenly he surrendered and pretended to be dead. This was mildly alarming at first but actually made the whole process an awful lot easier, because he went completely limp, and I could just lift his paws up to trim the tufty bits between his toes without needing to jam one elbow into his chest to keep them extended.
It was done in the end, and I dashed round hastily clearing up revolting mud-encrusted dog-hair, there are some things which are not lovely to return to after a day or two of leaving them fuming gently in the hot sunshine.
The washing had dried beautifully. I flung the towels into the bathroom and hunted out our respectable clothes and by the time Mark and Oliver came home to crawl about underneath cars I was almost organised.
Then the rush started. It was an agonising panic to see if we would make it in time.
One of the nice things about being a reader instead of a writer is that you only have to wait until the next paragraph to find out what happened next. I am still stuck in traffic. Your stress levels might be rising at such a cliff-hanger, but not nearly as much as mine…
So…
…we arrived at the restaurant at 6:58, which happened to be perfect timing for a dinner booked for seven, and strolled in nonchalantly as if all the speeding and flapping had happened to somebody else.
There was a bottle of wine already open on the table, which instantly improved my stress levels, helped along by the second bottle, about ten minutes later, then the third and fourth.
In all, it turned out to be a very nice evening, and after the second glass I had forgotten that I was ever stressed at all and was telling garrulous stories and laughing like a toddler who has just watched somebody fall off a ladder.
We don’t get together very often.
It was ace.
I am in bed in our hotel now.
My next move, I think, will be to pass out.
