I am writing this from a yard, outside a garage in Kendal, where I have spread myself out on a bench in order to maximise my exposure to the afternoon’s unexpected burst of sunshine.
This might be a shortened entry because there is still a lot of day left to go, but I am expecting to be busy for the rest of it, and very likely will not have a great deal of interest in writing a diary, certainly not after the enormous dinner I have optimistically pencilled in to my agenda for later on.
I am sitting here because my taxi is currently undergoing its regular MOT health check. Fortunately the taxi rank has been very quiet and it has not done very many miles since the last one, because Mark has not had the time to look at it to see if any bits are falling off. I have got my fingers crossed.
The sun is shining, so I thought I would try and absorb some Vitamin D whilst I am here, there is no point in wasting an afternoon without some useful benefit at the end of it. Also I have just taken the taxi to Morrisons to wash it, because it will fail if it is dirty, and in consequence my feet and trousers are soaked from the excitingly wilful jet-wash hot foam brush, and I am drying out in the sunshine. I did not get quite as badly drenched as the lady in front of me, who had inexplicably chosen to dress in a mini-skirt and heels for the task. I watched her with some fascination, and not a little sympathy, and recollected that perhaps it is not always a bad thing to be an abject fashion failure.
I didn’t intend to wash it myself. In an outbreak of reprehensible idleness I went round to the garage where half a dozen Eastern Europeans will make your car look like new for twenty five quid, but they were all too busy and told me to come back tomorrow, which obviously I won’t.
Number Two Daughter called whilst I was between car washes, wondering why I wasn’t at home. It turned out that she had sent a bottle of gin for Mother’s Day, an innovation of which I wholeheartedly approved, what a very splendid thing to look forward to. I explained my absence, and she said she would ask them to redeliver on Thursday, which will be brilliant because I will not be at work on Thursday night, being at home on my own due to the hospital visit and Mark’s absence.
I have never understood why people feel that there is something lonely and miserable about drinking alone. Drinking alone is ace, not least because you don’t have to share with anybody, can eat chocolate as an amuse bouche at the same time, and it doesn’t even matter if you have got wind. You can read a good book or watch a film and generally be self-indulgent.
I am going to have such a glorious old age.
On that note the youthful chap reversed my car off the ramps and chucked me the keys. I knew it had passed because he was smiling, and my day was instantly flooded with metaphorical as well as actual sunshine.
The rest of the day is looking promising as well. I have got a car with an MOT and Mark is on his way home. As soon as he gets here we are going to chuck the dogs in the car and dump them at Elspeth’s and we are off to Barrow where we have booked ourselves into a splendid hotel for dinner. Drinking alone might be splendid, but drinking with Mark is even better, especially when accompanied by Chicken Chorizo Ballantine with a sweetcorn parmesan fricassee, and spinach and Parmentier potatoes.
I do not have the first idea what any of that lot might be, they could dollop chicken nuggets on my plate and I would be no wiser, but it sounds brilliant and I am looking forward to it.
I can think of no nicer way to prepare myself for tomorrow’s surgery.
