Last night was enlivened by somebody leaping in my taxi and demanding to be taken to Liverpool.
It came as no surprise, when I was halfway down the motorway, when Number Two Daughter called me and wondered if I knew that the police were looking everywhere for my customer who was wanted for an assault.
This failed to astonish me in the least, as the customer in question had looked terribly agitated, shoved a large handful of cash at me, and insisted we left without further delay, which we did, after a quick count up of the cash, obviously.
I explained to Number Two Daughter that since I had got cash up front it didn’t matter what the police did, and she called me back shortly afterwards with the thrilling news that they were following my progress down the motorway with the motorway cameras. This was most unwelcome news, because it meant slowing down to the speed limit, which is a complete nuisance when you are in a hurry in the middle of the night, not to mention if you happen to be being accompanied by a dangerous nutter.
Disappointingly the police did not do a motorway road block and dramatic midnight capture, and I deposited him in Liverpool without incident, in a place so dreadful that prison could only possibly be an improvement. I left him weeing against a steel fence and accelerated back to a sensible speed in order to make it back to Bowness in time for the late pubs to start chucking everybody out.
I did spend a few minutes contemplating my sudden understanding of the reason that people think the Lake District is a nice place to come for their holidays, something which has always puzzled me a bit. I have always thought that compared to Disneyland or even Blackpool the Lake District is a very dull choice, not a roller coaster in sight.
My brief insight into the Liverpool urban nightmare gave me a fresh comprehension of this decision. Compared to living in a tiny, graffiti-decorated house in a row of boarded up identical concrete slab-boxes along the side of a ten-lane howling freeway, the Lake District is actually pretty nice.
It is especially nice at the moment, because of the long golden twilight of autumn, and everywhere is coloured russet and orange. It smells glorious, the sharp acid of bare earth and falling leaves, and the faint echo of wood smoke in the evening air as we all start lighting our fires again.
Today was of course occupied with the usual busy weekend tasks, mostly concerned with making it possible to go to work. It is Number Two Daughter’s last night at work, and she does not seem to be in the least regretful or troubled about her departure, as far as I can tell she seems to be struggling not to make taxi driver hand signals after every departing customer.
She has packed and re-packed, and taken everything out all over the landing, and Roger Poopy has helpfully spread it up and down the stairs. He has formed a nest in the living room, in which he hides nice things that he finds, like dirty socks and bones and slippers, and also grapes, which he likes to collect but not eat. If he leans across from the bottom of the stairs sometimes he can reach the fruit bowl, and grapes are good things to take. He puts them in people’s shoes, which makes them cross, it is not good to find a chewed grape in the toe of your trainers.
It wont be Number Two Daughter’s trainers any more, she leaves tomorrow and it will be years until we see her again. If we win the lottery we will go and visit her, although not buying lottery tickets does not help the furtherance of this ambition.
I am not sad that she is going because she will have a brilliant life, much better than living on our top floor and driving taxis. I would not wish her to stay for a single minute.
All the same we will miss her very much.
Mark took the picture in the Library Gardens this morning. I love the autumn.
