It is getting very late, and I have only just got round to starting to write to you.
This is because we have a very chatty taxi driver on the rank at the moment. His mother-in-law is visiting and so he is going to be on the rank for the next few nights.
We do not hang around talking if it is raining, but it isn’t. It hasn’t exactly been sunny today, indeed, it has been cool and even had a few splashes of rain, but this evening was warm and still, and perfect weather for taxi drivers to hang around telling you what they think about Uber drivers.
We are still plagued with the horrible Uber drivers. We have just watched one park across the road, eat his pizza in the car, and then throw all of the rubbish out of the windows before driving off.
I have written a complaint about him to Wolverhampton council, who are the rotters who have given him a licence, but without any hope at all that they will read the letter, be suitably horrified and then take immediate and appropriate action.
Anything less than putting him in the stocks for a week would not be sufficient in any case. I would even consider supporting the return of capital punishment for such heinous offences, what a ghastly toad.
Hence we are all rather pleased to watch to observe the glorious ascent of Our Andy to the dizzying heights of potential governance, not least because whilst he was still King of the North he campaigned with vigorous determination to put a stop to the activities of Wolverhampton Council and their villainous mates at Uber. He was ignored by our beloved leaders in London at the time, obviously, but we knew he was On Our Side, and cheered him on enthusiastically.
Hence I have not shed a single tear at the departure of the tragically booted-out Mr. Starmer, especially if he takes some of his more brainless chums along with him.
I am telling myself, hopefully, that things could not be worse, and have got my fingers crossed that it is true.
I did not in the least mind occupying the entire evening chatting, because I was feeling rather tired and elderly after a busy sort of day. Oliver and Emily are home, along with a sack of washing, and of course it was Clean Sheets Day, which always involves a lot of dusting and hoovering in its wake.
I am pleased to tell you, by the way, that I did order some new sheets in the end, and they arrived this morning. They are not going on the bed, of course, they are far too nice for that. There is not a single hole in them anywhere, so they can stay in their bags to be hoarded and treasured in an unspoiled sort of way until Mark comes home.
They are very beautiful indeed. I am feeling very pleased with them.
Apart from that I have been cooking, if you can call the manufacture of ice cream cooking, which it isn’t really. I did cook sausages for Oliver and a chicken for anybody who wants it, which will probably be Guffy and the dogs now, because Oliver and Emily are off to Blackpool tomorrow. Emily is from the south, and so of course she has never been to Blackpool. I waxed lyrical about the delights of doughnuts and the Tower, but she just looked a bit doubtful, because of course she is middle class really, and might find it something of a culture shock.
Oliver knows all of the most exciting things to do in Blackpool, at least the ones that can be done by an eight year old. I am not sure he has considered Blackpool’s lively nightclubs, perhaps I should tell him about them.
It might not be a good idea.
It would be very sad if they spoiled their exciting holiday with a shocking hangover.
Have a picture of a dog pack.
