It has rained.
I am trying to tell myself that this is all right because it has been a very dry summer, but actually it hasn’t been very dry and it certainly isn’t any more. I have not walked over the fells for almost a week, and was not pleased to discover that once again, they are slippery with mud.
Also the windows in my taxi are steamed up and the dogs smell awful. There is a reason nobody has ever created Wet Dog Flavour scented candles.
It has rained for almost the entire day, commencing when I was about halfway over the fells without a raincoat. I do not know if my boots will have dried by tomorrow morning. They have been propped up over the stove all day but I am not optimistic.
I have occupied almost the whole of the day talking to Lucy and Jack, who arrived last night and made their first acquaintance with the wine rack whilst I was out at work.
They have come to discuss the plans for their wedding.
You might remember that they are getting married in November, at the restaurant across the road from our house. Getting married, as we all know, is a complicated affair, even if there are only a handful of guests and no serious complications. When Mark and I got married I thought that I had got everything sorted out, but it turned out that I had forgotten to arrange transport to the church. I did not realise this until I was about to walk out of the front door, so it was a jolly good job that Elspeth and her husband were there to give us a lift.
The church was only a few minutes’ walk from our house so it wouldn’t have mattered very much if I had walked, apart from the curious glances and the puddles.
Lucy and Jack can walk to their wedding. It is hardly much further than the parking space for my taxi.
It is a very lovely restaurant. They have sent us the most magnificent suggested menu, the sort where I have got no idea what half of the suggestions actually are and have had to ask for a translation. The nice thing is that once I have understood, I would probably like to eat everything detailed therein. It all looks marvellous, and I have promised myself several preliminary visits in order that I have thoroughly sampled everything first.
We have occupied today working out the details and composing the invitation. I have got to make this look pretty in the next few days, and get it sent to everybody. Regrettably it turns out that this responsibility lands with a thump on the Mother Of The Bride. That is to say, really it is the joint responsibility of the bride’s parents, but I can’t imagine that any bride’s father, ever, ever, has been frowning at a guest list and a computer and saying things like: Do you really think we should ask Aunty Hilda after all the fuss at Christmas? I’m a bit worried that it might upset Gordon. Well, what about Miriam and Geoffrey? He does get a bit racy when he’s had a few. And there’s Cousin Frances. She’ll be ever so offended if we don’t send her an invitation, but I really don’t think we can, not since the business with Matthew’s bicycle. I couldn’t look him in the face. What do you think?
Most Fathers Of The Bride make an excuse and slope off to the pub at that point.
Mark has sloped off on to an oil rig, which has the same effect but is rather more lucrative.
The result is that I have been poring over the guest list with Lucy and Jack and contemplating seating arrangements and an order of events. The latter is complicated, and will involve some precision faffing about, but we think we have arranged affairs to our satisfaction.
I am glad about this, because I have already got a headache. Lucy, Jack and Oliver went over there for dinner this evening, but I thought it wiser to leave them to it and came out to work.
It is peaceful here on the taxi rank in the rain.
