My chirping-tinnitus subsided at about half past eight this morning, when Mark loaded Ritalin Boy into the truck in order to drop him off with his Other Grandma on his way to work.
Mark had been out all day yesterday. He did not see Ritalin Boy at all apart from for a very few moments at about ten o’ clock, as I was insisting that he stayed in bed instead of galloping up and down the stairs again.
He rang me later.
“He didn’t stop talking all the way,” he said, in tones of disbelief. “When we stopped at the junction near Grandma’s the window was open, and even the people on the pavement were laughing because he was talking so much.”
I concurred that this was likely.
I got the children up, and we put Ritalin Boy’s bed back in the loft in tranquil silence.
Then we went off up the fell in the spring sunshine.
This was lovely.
The birds have noticed that it is spring, and are noisily promising one another perfect fidelity and devotion to eggs in exchange for some carnal knowledge now, please. Buds are slowly starting to poke their way through, and the sun was warm on our backs.
Oliver is fitter than all of us, and dashed enthusiastically ahead, followed by a barking Roger Poopy. He can run much faster than I can, and has begun running in front of us all and then waiting, looking smug.
We had a cheerful walk, and then when we came back something nice happened.
Mark rang to say that he somebody had paid him a couple of hundred pounds in cash that Ted had said that he might as well just keep.
This should go towards school fees, and indeed, most of it probably will, but it was an unexpected bonus, and so we thought that we would do something wonderful with it.
It is our wedding anniversary coming up, and it is the school holidays, and so we thought that we could celebrate.
This is very exciting indeed.
After some consideration we have planned a trip to Manchester. We are going to go in the camper van, for which there are loads of overnight parking spaces, and meet my parents for lunch.
We are going to have another trip to Jamie Oliver’s restaurant. Since our last visit I have learned more of his considerable fame. He is not just a writer, but a television person as well. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that, because you will be better-informed than I am. In any case, his pasta is jolly good and I am looking forward to another splendid lunch.
After lunch we will probably go to Waterstones, which is what we always do when we have a holiday, because everybody likes that best, and then in the evening we are going to go to the theatre.
We are going to the Royal Exchange to see Frankenstein.
This is not the sort of theatrical offering of the spoof and comedy variety, but an actual rendition of Mary Shelley’s gothic horror. Apparently it is gruesome. It is so gruesome that they recommend that you do not take your children unless they are over fourteen, because of it being unsuitable for gentle souls.
I thought that this would suit Oliver perfectly, it can’t possibly be any worse than Dead Blood Spray Horror Zombies, or whatever his current vile entertainment is, and also it is cultural to visit the theatre and will make us look good at school.
I booked it this morning, and made the joyful discovery that children’s tickets to the Royal Exchange are almost impossibly cheap, which is probably why our English teacher at school took us there so often. We saw some utterly brilliant things there, under his supervision, it was one of the highlights of my youth. He had a similar viewpoint about things being unsuitable. I saw Helen Mirren there, being the Duchess of Malfi. It was so scary that I had to hold my best friend’s hand.
I am looking forward to it now with huge excitement, what a nice thing to do after all the rushing about with Easter drunk people.
I can hardly wait.
The picture is Oliver running ahead. The two shadows are me and Lucy. Oliver is a small skinny patch of colour leaning against the gatepost at the bottom of the hill.
