There is absolutely no feeling of self-indulgence in the world to compare with loafing about a beautiful bedroom tidied up by somebody else, having just had a scalding shower with scented soaps in a polished bathroom, enveloped in splendid fluffy white dressing gowns.
Add ‘eating Hotel Chocolats’ to that list.
Add ‘not having any children’ to it as well.
We love our children very much, and their company is brilliant, but it is an exceptional joy to do something nice by ourselves.
Of course they are away at boarding school, so they are often not there, but that isn’t nice time, that is working as hard as we can time.
This has been nice time, pottering about museums looking thoughtfully at things and talking to curators and not once having to say impatiently, “I know I said in a little while, no it isn’t that long yet, look at the museum, for goodness’ sake,” and not having anybody making realistic sick noises when Mark kisses me in the hotel lift.
Today was the end of the holiday, you will not be in the least surprised to hear that we did not get up early and go swimming.
In fact we loafed about in bed until the very last possible moment, and eventually dressed rather hastily and dashed downstairs, in the sort of way that you feel you are dashing downstairs when in fact you are strolling along the corridor to get the lift to the dining room, where we fortified ourselves for the day with quantities of scrambled eggs and bacon and mushrooms and sausages sufficient to build up our fat reserves until the next opportunity for idle gluttony.
After that we stayed in the warm conservatory for a while, looking happily out at the sunshine and drinking coffee and speculating with interest about the lives of the other breakfast guests.
Mark talked a bit about Tudor cattle and I wondered how the hotel managed to be so successful with their house plants, and in the end we ambled regretfully back up to the bedroom to pack.
We almost had a domestic when the suitcase was just ready to close and Mark thought that perhaps he would wear a tie after all, but it was settled amicably and we dragged our huge suitcase of almost completely unused clothes down to the car park.
We had to check out at reception first, and I had to try and look as though I might be the sort of person who was halfway through a really long holiday instead of just the sort of person who was hopelessly indecisive about shirts. I had a sudden horrible anxiety that the girl might think that we were elderly costume fetishists with a bag full of French maid outfits and nun’s habits, but of course couldn’t think of a single way to let her know discreetly and jovially that we were not. In the end I just had to try and produce what I hoped was a normal and non-alarming sort of smile and look as dull as I could. Then Mark left a large tip, which he always does, but which under the circumstances may not have helped.
After we left the hotel we had a relaxed and holiday-contented drive to North Yorkshire to Oliver’s school, which was looking windswept and weather-battered, perched above the flooded farmland on the side of the hill.
We had just made our way in when a grinning Oliver bounded up to us, clutching Spider-Man and ready for home.
He has grown, not taller but older somehow, and I was taken aback again by his ever-increasing self assurance, it is so exciting to see the children growing in ways I could not have managed to teach them myself.
He told us about valley games and the Chocolate Game, where when you throw a six you have got to put on a hat and gloves and eat as much chocolate with a knife and fork as you can, until somebody else throws a six, and at which he was so successful that he felt sick afterwards, and he said that the exams had been all right, except maybe Latin.
We had a very cheerful journey back and reunion with the dogs. We put our new candle in the living room and thought how lovely it was to be home.
It is all over bar the washing.
