It is very odd to be on the taxi rank and not to see Lucy’s blonde head bobbing about amongst all the sleek black ones through the windows of the Chinese restaurant opposite.
It was very odd all day not to have her wandering about in her pyjamas, rubbing her eyes and yawning and drinking all the milk.
It felt strange not to have to get her work uniform washed and hastily dried ready for re-use.
I took her wages to the bank this morning to pay them in on her behalf. Tiresomely, all of the usual bank staff seemed to have taken the day off and I was served by a twelve year old boy with a ridiculous looking beard whom I had never seen before.
He told me, with all the self assurance of the young, that they couldn’t under any circumstances whatsoever pay money into her bank account unless I knew her account number, and no, knowing her name and address didn’t count, they would not be allowed to find her account number from that information and let me pay money in.
Of course this was the trigger for my very best loudly middle-class snooty behaviour, accompanied by my most effective I-think-you-are-a-buffoon expression, which I have practised in front of the mirror, much to the enjoyment of the rest of the bank: at the time, that is, of course they haven’t seen me practising in front of the mirror, some things are just personal.
I explained what I thought about the degree of security risk that would be incurred by permitting me to put money into my fifteen year old daughter’s account on which, in any case, I was named as an executor.
I did my best to convey the very strong impression that if he persisted in his refusal to accept the money on security grounds I would be obliged to remain in the bank for some time, and behave very badly indeed.
He caved after about thirty seconds, which was disappointing, and I paid the money in and swept out with what I thought was an impressive air of having struck a righteous blow for common sense in the face of institutional stupidity, although I don’t suppose anybody appreciated it, and I expect the boy behind the counter just thought that I was a miserable old boot.
After that I made a parcel of everything she had forgotten and took it to the post office, where the kind man behind the counter lent me some parcel tape and scissors so that I could take everything out, remove four pencils and parcel it all up again because it was just too heavy to go at the lower rate and I didn’t much fancy paying fifteen quid for it.
I dragged her sheets off the bed for washing, and collected socks and pyjamas from fluffy corners of the carpet, and chucked them all in the wash with her towels. I should have cleaned her bathroom really, but Number Two Daughter has laid claim to it and so I haven’t bothered. Maybe Number Two Daughter will do it.
Once I had hung the washing out I made another trip to Booths for all the healthy things Number Two Daughter persists in eating. After I had done that I made another trip to Booths, this time supervised by Mark, to get all of the things I had forgotten the first time.
When Mark went off to the farm I spent the rest of the day cooking. I am trying to cook healthy things that Number Two Daughter wants to eat. Last night she went to the gym and then took her snowboard off down to the indoor ski slope in Manchester. Mark stopped working when I eventually got back from York, and we sat in the kitchen and drank wine until we were giggly, which probably was not nearly as good for us but which was nice anyway.
I chopped sweet potatoes into chips and squirted them with the healthy doesn’t-make-you-fat oil spray that she likes and rolled them in ground spices and shoved them in the oven. I made a curry with a leftover banana and some low-fat yoghurt. I made a salad with tiny sweet tomatoes and peppers and grated carrot and just a hint of chilli, and baked some potatoes to fill in any holes in appetite in between.
After that I went and sat in my taxi and ate chocolate.
