I am pleased to announce that Mark is home, and I am writing this whilst he is in the shower, so it might turn out to be short if he finishes soon. I do not mind this. It is almost two and I am ready for bed. I am writing to you in my dressing gown.
All the same, I think we are ready.
The trip to Manchester is not some time in the dim and distant future, drifting vaguely ahead of us like a promise of Heaven or of a rational Government. It is now, tomorrow. We are going in the morning.
I have had the busiest of busy days. I took the dogs over the fell this morning, but it seems like a hundred years ago. It was not raining, but I was so busy ruminating about my pre-Christmas tasks that I almost completely failed to notice, and it was not until I was halfway down from the second fell top that I suddenly looked around and realised how very silent and beautiful the world was. It was misty, and still, every blade of grass had its crystal beads of water, and apart from the birds and my footsteps, there was not a sound.
I tried to remind myself about being present in the moment, but regrettably after a few minutes I forgot again and was soon engrossed in wondering whether I ought to pack the dogs’ upstairs cushions or their downstairs one with their luggage for the kennels.
They are going to spend three days in dog jail. Poor dogs.
They will survive, or if they don’t we will just have to get another.
Lucy is bringing her cats up at Christmas. This is because we still have rat issues. I have purchased a further six devices that make the invisible rat-scaring noise, but I do not know if they have worked or not.
I know that cats work. For the first time ever since their villainous kittenhood I will be very pleased indeed to see Lucy’s cats.
That is not for a week or so, though. At the moment I am
There is glitter everywhere. Quite a bit of it seems to have adhered to me, but there is also plenty left for the carpets, and to make my desk irritatingly gritty when I try to move the mouse about, but I do not care, because the Christmas cards are done. They are stuck together and covered in glitter, written and posted. I have managed it.
I started off this morning by wrapping all of the boxes of chocolates. Oliver and Emily carted them all off to the Post Office, which make them unpopular because there was a massive queue, and anybody who turns up with two enormous bags full of parcels is not going to make themselves popular. When I went yesterday the letter box was so full of letters that I had to shove my hand through the slot and try and push them down a bit so I could squeeze mine in.
Nigel at the Post Office is beginning to get weary and short tempered.
Mark has just emerged from the shower, so I am going to have to cut this short. I will conclude by telling you very quickly that I have packed all of our smart clothes, drunk a glass of gin, and am thoroughly ready for bed.
Manchester tomorrow.
I am starting to feel very happy.
