Drink

Another short entry, and once again for the same old cause: because once again I forgot about the mysterious vomiting ailment that plagues me whenever I drink more than two small glasses, and, alas, I am slightly intoxicated.

I am not yet unwell, I know from recent experience that I have got until about five in the morning before the Unpleasantness sets in: and that is ages off, so, live for the present, at this moment, life is jolly good.

I finished work at around midnight last night and took advantage of the magnificent benefits of being nocturnal in the modern age, and went to Asda. It is splendid to not have to put up with the hideous traffic jams around Kendal that make daytime activity so unspeakable. Kendal is a town built on two sides of a river, and recent flooding has made most bridges a health and safety concern, so they are all shut, and traffic-related stress is the new rural nightmare.

This is obviously not a problem at midnight, and I breezed through the town centre and out again in roughly two hours less time than it would have taken me at lunchtime. After that I was the only person shopping in Asda, and as an extra bonus the chap on the in-store rabbiting tannoy had gone home as well, so I did not have to listen to exhortations to consider cut price scones by the entrance.

Mark and Oliver were still killing zombies when I got home, but we had a fairly early start this morning all the same. This was because Oliver started back at school today and we needed to try and make sure that he would be tired enough to sleep when they gave them milk and biscuits and turned the lights out at eight thirty tonight.

He had a shower and a scrub and we trimmed the excess bits off him and poked all the revolting brown sticky out of his ears: then he put on his newly-pressed uniform, and it was time to go.

He was terribly brave right up until the last minute, we put his clothes in his drawers and Spiderman on his pillow and hunted down his towels and put his wellies in the boot room: and as we gave him the last hug he gulped terribly and his eyes filled up and his lips quivered: and then he was gone, off to the dining room for tea, leaving me desperate to rush after him and rescue him. I could have taken him home with me and put him in the local primary school and he could have come home at half past three every afternoon and had waffles and burgers for tea.

I didn’t. I went into the library with the other Form Two parents to listen to another scary lecture about moving up to senior schools. Oliver will not get in to Eton, and probably not Harrow, not unless he reconsiders his current approach to spelling at least, which seems unlikely, so I have got to arrange an appointment to talk to the headmaster who will help us find the best public school for him.

This is an anxiety-laden issue of which you will doubtless hear a very great deal more in the weeks to come.He doesn’t go until he is thirteen, but it has got to be sorted out and the hoop-jumping has got to start before he is eleven. Anybody can go to Eton, you only pay what you can afford, if your child is in the top hundred academic qualifiers, plays first team rugby, scores well at interview, is a skilled debater and at least Grade Five music and gets an outstanding report from their prep. Oliver is still only on his third note with the flute and his approach to debate has never progressed beyond the ‘so there’ level, so I am not currently holding my breath.

We left the lecture and progressed home, a touch gloomily, but we had the inspired idea of calling over to see our friend Kate on the way back, where we ate all her cheese and drank a bottle of wine, which cheered me up no end.

After that we came home, Mark to potter about tidying up, and me to write to you.

I am going to go and be mildly unwell for the rest of the evening. I will not trouble you with the details.

See you tomorrow.