Mark is on his way home.
I am very pleased.
It was all very nail-biting. The conditions, it was explained, were absolutely marginal, and it might or might not happen, then the first helicopter finally made it to the rig at around half past ten. It would probably make it back, they were told, assuming things didn’t get any worse…but you never know.
In the end he got off at about half past twelve, just before the weather was forecast to become savage again Tragically, the helicopter couldn’t get back, and the poor blokes who were hopefully waiting to leave on the third trip are still marooned there, with no break in the weather even hoped for before Tuesday.
By great good fortune that was not Mark’s fate. He landed in the middle of the afternoon, and he is making his way down now through the Scottish highlands even as I write.
Of course this has led to some flapping about, because no matter how much I thought I was ready for him to come home, of course I wasn’t. Mark eats things with considerably more gusto than I do, because of working outdoors in the freezing cold all the time, and so food had to be made ready.
I cooked potatoes and sweet potatoes, chicken and a joint of ham, the last of which can be sliced up and used as sandwich filler. Then I replaced his shaving things – which I put away during his absence so I don’t need to bother dusting them – and tidied up.
Of course none of that addressed the actual project of the day, which was to collect firewood. Even though Mark is coming home, and presumably looking forward to rescuing me, heroically, from the cold, it would seem idly churlish not to have bothered, and after the dogs and I had been on our walk we chugged over to the farm.
It was terribly cold. There has been an icy wind all day today, biting my nose and ears even under my hat, and making the dogs charge about and roll around excitedly, barking at imaginary rabbits.
I did not take very much wood. It is difficult to get very much in the back of my car without making the most awful mess, some things are really better done by a person with a tow bar and trailer, but I filled the boot as far as I could, and we chugged off home again. Well, I chugged off home. The dogs pegged after me, tongues hanging out, pounding along the road with the weary determination of a lady runner who knows that one of the other competitors is transgender.
When I got home I was cold and wet, but I knew that if I went in and peeled my boots off I would never put them on again, so I let the dogs in to curl up as close to the stove as they could, and sawed up the firewood in the yard.
I should have swept up the sawdust afterwards, but I couldn’t be bothered. I should have swept the conservatory as well, but I couldn’t be bothered to do that either, not even with Mark coming home.
I was contemplating my wicked idleness when the telephone rang, and it was Elspeth, who had been having a very successful afternoon, and was going to call in for a cup of tea.
There could have been no more cheering outcome to the day.
Elspeth teaches outdoor things like walking up mountains and making whistles out of sticks, and had been occupying her day explaining to people that ladies do not find it easy to go for a wee when they are walking up a mountain, especially when they are a teacher leading a group of tiresome teenagers.
She had been offering practical advice on the subject, which I thought was very splendid indeed, what a magnificent thing to put on your CV. She thinks that she might get a laminated sheet printed.
I was both enchanted and admiring, what a wonderfully useful and entertaining way to occupy your later years.
Not for Elspeth all this wearing purple matched with a red hat, which, incidentally, sounds fine to me, and spending her pension on brandy and summer gloves.
This is not the place for me to repeat her practical advice, by the way, in case I have any readers with delicate sensibilities. If anybody really wants to know then you will just have to drop me a line.
I am sure she will happily send some laminated instructions.
