I have been painting.
I have finally reached the blessed state where almost all of my housework is done, and it isn’t time to start again until tomorrow, and so this afternoon I sat down at my desk and started painting the Advent calendars again.
It is slow going.
It would undoubtedly be easier had I made the decision to limit my childbearing and had fewer of them, but since I can’t think of one of them that I could bear to be without, I will just have to get on with it.
I haven’t just been painting, of course. I had a long telephone call with the accountant, who must be one of the most patient men on the planet, he could teach remedial children in a state school on a sink council estate, if only any of them ever fancied learning accountancy.
We had a prolonged chat during which he explained carefully exactly what I had done to deserve my tax bill, and I asked stupid questions. In the end we parted satisfactorily, however, leaving me to ponder the tiresome mystery that is His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. I don’t think it is one of His Majesty’s finer projects, to be honest, in fact it makes him not much less of a rotter than the tiresome monarchs of old, and frankly I would rather have jus primae noctis and handing over a couple of laying geese than our current system.
On the balance sheet between us and His Majesty, he owes us more than we owe him, about twice as much, actually. This does not matter, however. We have still got to fork out, so then he will have three times what we owe him, which he fully intends to hang on to for as long as he can possibly get away with it, probably until the next Peasants’ Revolt. This will not be very long on Oak Street if he doesn’t think hard about coughing up in the near future.
I listened to all this and sighed, wearily, although fortunately it has not precipitated a crisis, since Mark is still labouring hard on extracting black gold from the North Sea, and our finances, whilst not filling the basement with gleaming chests of treasure, are at least stable, and will be a lot more stable once the King shells out. It is very nice to be in such a fortunate position. We have had many years when the presence of a tax bill has led to sleepless nights, panicked telephone calls and consumption of whisky. It is rather splendid to just groan, set it aside and think that I must get around to paying it.
I am not going to hurry up to pay it. I don’t see that the King should have it all his own way. He is not short of gleaming chests of treasure as it is, although I note that our current set of beloved leaders are set on wasting it as determinedly as the last lot.
Enough of the King, and our fractious relationship.
The rest of the day has been rather splendid. The house is warm, now that I have closed the window upstairs, and the enormous stockpile of wood is beginning to be very useful. This morning’s walk was briskly chilly, the day was wet and breezy. There are toadstools everywhere, there are some particularly spectacular red ones at the moment. I did not know what they were and had to look them up, it turns out they are called Sickener Mushrooms. I was not surprised by this, a less appealing snack I would find it hard to imagine, but they are very beautiful, gleaming bright in the damp grass between the rusty bracken.
Roger Poopy’s paw seems to be entirely recovered, and once again he is belting around like an idiot. Rosie jumped in the tarn this morning, and he charged along the bank, barking at her and refusing to let her out, until she jumped out with an unexpected turn of speed and bit him.
He has almost finished taking his drugs. I will not be sorry when that glorious day arrives.
It is hard work to remember twice a day that I need to endanger my fingers.
