I am going to write this really quickly so that I can go to bed.
We are having a night off, largely because last night I sat on the taxi rank for ages and ages and did not do a single job. I do not mind this at all because I have got plenty of things with which to occupy myself, but it is not great if you need to go shopping the next day.
I went shopping this morning and had to use the magical jackpot card from the bank. The butcher laughed when he saw this and said straight away that I must have had a quiet night last night.
It is nice shopping in the village, although it takes ages because of the amount of talking involved. The postman was in the butcher’s shop as well. The butcher makes him a cup of tea every morning when he has reached the end of our street. I went to the post office with things that Oliver had forgotten, and avoided the bank, because that always takes ages and leads to remarks about my financial recklessness.
After that I cleaned out my taxi. Mark usually does this for me, but he is far too busy at the moment, and I needed to feel as though somebody loved me. Mark has been otherwise occupied for ages, and I have begun to feel as though nobody cares. I thought I needed to prove myself wrong, so I took my taxi down to the garage at Troutbeck Bridge and scrubbed it thoroughly.
This was wonderfully satisfying, in a soapy, squirty sort of way. I have driven to York and back a couple of times this week, as well as all the usual tootling about, and the car had become so utterly grime-encrusted that I could not see out of the windows any more. This does not usually bother me very much, because it is a taxi and everybody just gets out of the way, but it is nasty and gritty on my fingers if I have got to open the boot.
I liked the car washing machine very much, and tried all of the choices. The High Pressure Cold Rinse and the Hot Foamy Scrub were my favourites, but I also liked the Low Pressure Wax, which smelled interesting, and the Low Pressure Hot Wash, which worked magnificently. There were others, which escape my memory, but they were all entirely rewarding, and now my taxi is gleaming-clean, except for a couple of bits under the back number plate that somehow I have managed to miss.
Mark cleans them in the alley at home, but I thought it would not be nearly as much fun.
I did the inside in the alley at home.
I hoovered it out, which was an anxious moment. I had hoovered the children’s bedrooms before I went shopping, which proved to be such a rigorous challenge that the hoover overheated and refused to work any more. I was holding my breath in case it had given up for ever, but it hadn’t and it was quite all right once it had cooled down.
I washed the dashboard and scrubbed the remains of Oliver’s now firmly-set Rolo off the front seat and swept up horrible horrible bits of burgers and chips out of the back seat. I threw away some Pearlescent Shimmer Eye Liner which I discovered underneath the mat and put some of the nicer bits of jewellery in the house in case Lucy wanted them, which I don’t suppose she will really. Mostly it was bracelets and odd earrings.
I emptied the glove compartment and the drawer in the boot to see what I had been saving, and then put everything back again anyway. There were peppermints and toothpicks and other people’s taxi cards to be given to irate customers who want to know who my boss is. There was hand sanitizer for when the customers are especially vile, and Germolene for the occasional personal injury, a couple of screwdrivers and some paint that almost matches the colour of the car, and tissues and headache drugs and half a dozen biros, none of which worked. I replaced those. There were overalls and a High Vis jacket, some insanitary-looking plasters and spare china cups in case we forget ours, and, for some reason best known to Mark, a large lump hammer.
It is lovely. I squirted the seats with the special Disneyland Hotel perfume, and felt thoroughly loved. I shall know, next time I get in it to go to work, that somebody truly cares about me, enough to make my taxi pristine and sweet-scented and lovely, for my satisfaction alone.
This is because nobody else is likely to get in it, probably not until February.
I don’t mind this. I have got some new books.
I still haven’t told Mark about them.
Have a picture taken from the Library Gardens on our walk this evening.
