We are almost migrated.

That is to say, the chap from the website provider called me this afternoon and asked if I would mind if he changed the password for the FTP. Since I did not have the first idea what he was talking about, I agreed, graciously, and he told me that my website would be completely and utterly migrated by Wednesday.

I said that I thought that would be lovely.

I don’t know if it will be lovely or not. I will just have to keep my fingers crossed.

In the meantime I have stopped thinking about website migration, because it is one of the least interesting topics dreamed up by mankind which might occupy an otherwise contented Sunday afternoon.

We have been occupied with more interesting activities.

We went out for lunch yesterday.

This was certainly an interesting activity.

I had not been quite sure if I was looking forward to it or not. I am never very good at social occasions at the best of times. I like listening to people and sitting in a quiet corner watching people very much, but of course you never get left in peace to do this, and it was a brand new sort of occasion for us.

We had been invited to have lunch with the local branch of Reform.

When I say Local, actually I mean Cumbrian, which covers a massive area, from Milnthorpe to Scotland, so we had an hour’s drive to get to somewhere reasonably central for everybody.

When I say Reform, I do mean that Reform, the ones with the turquoise posters, although of course Mr. Farage wasn’t there. I was disappointed about that, I would have liked to meet him.

I could not decide if I was looking forward to it, because I was not sure if I would like anybody. I was mildly concerned that it might be a rabidly nutter-packed event, or – worse – filled with people whose chronic dullness would lead to me draining six glasses of Cabernet and a couple of Glenfiddich just to alleviate the boredom, and then being too drunk to go to work later.

In the event of course the getting there was a huge panic, because it started at half past twelve, and after Friday’s usual late night, we didn’t get up until eleven. I flapped around frantically, wishing that I had been organised enough to iron the smart clothes that we wore in Blackpool. They were still lying in a crumpled but hopeful pile on my desk, and had to be hastily and incompetently flattened as an emergency measure whilst Mark put the washing on and filled the log pile in his dressing gown.

Of course we got there in the end. We were going to Appleby, which is a splendid little town some distance to the north of us, and which made us think that perhaps one day we would abandon the madding crowds of Windermere and head north to the more peaceful, and slightly less rain-soaked, slopes of the county.

It turned out to be a cheery little pub, with several encouraging log fires, and perhaps thirty people, milling about not knowing each other and looking mildly anxious. One chap was deaf, and was bellowing enthusiastically at everybody, which broke the ice, and in no time at all people were smiling and starting to think about being friendly.

It was a jolly good lunch. I ate so much that I have been feeling roundly guilty ever since, and we got chatting to some people we liked very much indeed. The chap who sat next to Mark was an ex-farmer who was currently involved in generating power from the methane that seeps out of compost, and I can think of no topic of conversation which would have gladdened Mark’s heart more. Mark enjoyed himself so much that he felt guilty as well, although not about the chips, more from a recollection that any conversation which he finds truly captivating and intriguing is very likely to get him into trouble later, for not noticing that everybody else is yawning and his wife kicking him under the table.

It was all very British. There was a raffle, and everybody who won kept politely putting their prizes back and saying, earnestly, that they would like them to be given to somebody else.

I am not quite that self-sacrificingly British, and hung on to the bottle of fizzy wine that we won.

Indeed, there were no rabid right-wingers, just a collection of hopeful and interesting people who also happened to like the idea of resurrecting the economy and getting children to sit down and pay attention in schools, and I thought that perhaps I might enjoy their company again.

I could become a Reformed Character.