Goodbye.

Number Two Daughter has gone.

We had a day of last things, the last coffee in bed, and she buzzed off to the gym for a last happy clean and jerk with her friend Jade, then we all assembled for lunch at the little bistro across the road.

This may not have been the best idea. I am not sure that cocktails at lunchtime are ever a good idea, especially for people who have not yet retired.

I had a kir royale,  and Number Two Daughter had a bellini, and Mark had some gorgeously sweet concoction with Baileys and amaretto. The children had hot chocolate, which came with mountains of sweet whipped cream and prompted Oliver to wish that I would make him one at bedtime every night, which I suppose I might if I were there, school wins on that one.

After that we ate enormous lunches with pudding and staggered back home, where Mark and I went to bed.

This was a sensible idea because of the sleepiness brought about by lunchtime drinking, but also Number Two Daughter’s friend came over for a farewell coffee. Since she was just popping in before the start of her shift as the local police lady it does not do to be seen getting ready for work after having consumed a delightful mixture of exotic alcohol.

In any case we had a late night last night. We finished work early because of a marked absence of people needing taxis, but the police, who know the hours we keep, dropped round just before midnight to take a statement about yesterday’s Liverpool villain.

We sat sociably in the kitchen for a while, chatting and slowly polishing off a glass of French red, although not the policeman, obviously. It turned out that their number-recognition police cameras had completely failed to find my car on the way down the motorway, this may turn out to be a useful attribute one day, perhaps it works with speed cameras as well. This was why we had not been stopped in a thrilling flashing-lights police drama, so it is a good job that my criminally inclined passenger had not turned out to be an indiscriminate homicidal maniac.

Anyway, after the consequent late night, we were woken up by the phone ringing at eight this morning. It turned out to be some poor call centre lady who had not expected quite such a grumpy response, but it woke us up, and hence we were more than ready to return to slumber once we were full of olives and pizza and cheesecake and wine.

Number Two Daughter finished the last of her packing whilst we slept, and eventually woke us up to say her farewells.

We all went out with her and hugged one another goodbye, although it turned out not to be entirely final, because I had to drive after her with some things she had forgotten later on.

The dogs were very sad indeed, they know that suitcases are a bad sign for continuity, and moped terribly. Mark and I got ready for work, and I am ashamed to say that I cried my way through an entire handkerchief, only to stop when Number One Daughter called, restoring my spirits with a bracing absence of sentimentality

The back door will not open to her cheerful call again. We won’t be machine-gunned by the dogs. There are no trainers on the doormat for Roger Poopy to fill with breadcrusts and stolen grapes.

Even though it means the end of scrambled egg pans after breakfast we will still miss her. It could be for a very long time indeed.

I am very glad she has gone, it is the most magnificent adventure, and not to do it would have been unthinkable. She will become braver and wiser, and have the most satisfying storehouse of memories to take with her into her old age.

All the same, we are sad that she has gone. We will be very quiet without her.