It is Halloween.
I know that this is supposed to be the night when the veil between the worlds of the dead and the living becomes thin. This makes it maybe just possible to hear the words of the dead as they come closer to us to try and soothe us with their gentle presence.
It is clearly apparent that nobody dead has got anything that they would like to communicate to me, nor have they been especially soothing. I know this because when I got irritated on the telephone to the bank this morning, no reassuring shade hovered close, whispering words of tranquillity and encouragement.
In fact I lost my temper and hung up.
I have done all sorts of hopeful things, like lighting a candle and walking round the Library Gardens in the dark on my own, and even hanging about on the children’s stairs in case Oliver’s ghost was feeling chatty, but all to no avail.
If there are any dead hanging about Windermere hoping to inform somebody that the fortune is hidden behind the clock on the mantelpiece, or that it was All Uncle Albert’s Fault, they have not troubled to disturb me.
It is also the end of the year, the end of the farming year. Harvest is gathered, cows are less generous with their milk and are being brought indoors, barns and hay lofts and wood sheds have been filled.
It is too early to kill your pigs yet, especially since global warming, but you are probably cleaning them out for the next-to-last-time. If there is anything else you haven’t achieved by now, forget it because it is too late and you will have to put it on the list for springtime.
I do not have any pigs to worry about these days. I am at work. This is because it is Halloween, and every pub in Bowness has decided to celebrate the presence of the dead by having a party.
I suspect that this not out of any post-harvest autumnal high spirits, or indeed any wish to cheer the dead up a bit. It is intended to encourage local young people to come out and spend their wages instead of watching the television more economically at home, which is what I imagine most of them would otherwise be doing on a Tuesday evening.
It seems to be working. There are people everywhere, most of them wearing white face paint and what seems to be black lace underwear, despite the seasonal chill in the air. Also there seems to be a disproportionate number of young men dressed up as Spider-man. I have got no idea why this is appropriate. As far as I knew his mission was to save Gotham City, or New York, or Barrow-in-Furness, or somewhere similar, from the peril of wicked villains wishing to create disaster and chaos. I was not aware that he was considered especially spooky, scary or otherwise good at communicating with the dead.
The good news of our day has been that the lodger decided to dispense with the services of her driving instructor and find another, largely persuaded by the discovery that his pass rate was rubbish. I was very pleased about this, and although I bear him no ill-will, I can’t help but hope that his car bursts into oily flames and disappears in a shocking roadside inferno for ever. Please note that I am charitable enough not to insist that he is in it at the time.
Apart from wishing misfortune on the wicked driving instructor, I have not achieved very much with my day. I have cleared up, washed the sheets and made some cherry and coconut shortbread. Mark was helpful for a while, but ruined it by yawning and deciding that the best plan for the afternoon would be to go back to bed, which is what we did, even without the sheets.
It is a good job that we did, because tonight’s parties are due to continue until long after bed time.
Three hundred intoxicated Spider-Men.
I can hardly wait.
Have another picture of the Lake District.
