I went to Sainsbury’s today.
I was waiting in the queue at the counter, since all of the DIY paying machines were out of action, when I noticed something terrifying beside me.
It was a stack of mince pies, complete with pictures of Christmas tree decorations.
Readers, at the moment of writing, although probably not by the time you come to the moment of reading, it is still August.
That has got to be the most shocking example of getting ahead of oneself that I have ever seen, worse than the time when Roger Poopy charged at the gate before I had time to unlatch it.
I like mince pies, although admittedly not the ones in Sainsbury’s, but not I am not exactly pleased to see them in August, any more than I would be pleased with finding a beach football in my Christmas stocking. Actually I would be quite pleased to find anything in my Christmas stocking really, hyacinths planted in a nice bowl might be my favourite, just in case anybody else is getting away from the starting gate early.
My own mince pie mix still needs some considerable time to steep before it could be put into mince pies. I have only just shoved the plums into the brandy, although probably they had better wait for next year anyway. They are Elspeth’s plums, and they were not quite ripe enough because she had to pick them in a hurry before going on holiday, so they will need some lengthy soaking.
Apart from the trip to Sainsbury’s, which was necessitated by Oliver’s current eating enthusiasm, it has been a quiet day. I needed this to recuperate after yesterday, which turned out to be unexpectedly action packed.
Number One Daughter and Ritalin Boy popped round for a visit. Ritalin Boy had been staying with his Other Grandma, who does not have a full-time job and hence has had a houseful not only of Ritalin Boy but also his numerous cousins for much of the summer. I do not know how she finds the courage for the summer holidays, she has my undying admiration. If it were me I would book tickets to somewhere sunny and more tranquil for July and August.
Gaza, perhaps.
In fact it is probably not so bad these days. Ritalin Boy is scarcely a boy any longer. He is tall and polite and civilised. Indeed, he is now as tall as me. I like children when they reach this stage. They are less prone to misfortunate leakages and can talk about things other than Pokémon. He has the enthusiastic confidence that seems to come as an extra when you fork out your life-blood in public school fees, and chatted endearingly about his holidays.
They had brought the dog.
Tonka is Roger Poopy’s twin brother, except that they are not in the least alike. Roger Poopy is ginger, and wiry, and excitable. Tonka has a mass of black curls and a mournfully lugubrious manner which makes one suspect he might be permanently depressed, although as far as I can see he doesn’t have anything to be depressed about.
At least he didn’t until yesterday.
Number One Daughter said that he needed a haircut, and so we dug out the clippers.
They were in a hurry, so it had to be a hasty job.
Tonka does not like having his hair cut, and resisted.
The result was several pinkish smears, and a dog who knew that the world Had It In For Him.
Also my clippers only do Bald, and so he was cold afterwards, probably not surprisingly since we are already in the season for mince pies.
They had a long drive afterwards, and so had to hurry away, and I cleared up seawater-muddy dog hair from the conservatory and dashed upstairs to finish my lengthy letter to our beloved leaders, explaining about the wickedness of Uber taxis.
I did not get long at this before I had to go to work, and finally managed to finish it this afternoon. I have submitted it to my fellow taxi drivers for their approval, and have since spent a good deal of my evening listening, patiently, to their opinions about Uber, most of which are most certainly not fit to be committed to print and sent to the Government, although they might provide an interesting change from their usual reading.
I have agreed that I will represent them anyway, and am now considering some polite rephrasing.
It is a jolly good job that I learned this sort of thing at Cambridge. We had a whole lecture about political speechwriting.
It did not once mention the marital status of anybody’s parents.
I had better leave that bit out.
