I have discovered that the problem of not being able to write on these pages only occurs when I try and write on my laptop.
When I write on the big computer in my office it allows me to add a post. I do not understand why since the chap on the telephone told me that I would not be able to add any more posts ever for the rest of my life until I spent lots of money on a new online storage cupboard, which I have not done because it is too anxiously confusing.
I do not know if this will work because I am writing it on my laptop. When I get home from work I am going to try and install it on the website via my actual computer, and see what happens.
It might or might not work. I am sorry to be tedious.
Fortunately Oliver is home now and will be able to make helpful noises about understanding how the mighty Internet actually works. He knows what Instagram is and everything, so he can advise me. I know what Instagram is but have never managed to work out how to use it. Whenever I look at it I can only ever see out-of-date pictures of Number Two Daughter and Oliver’s old prep school. Hence I do not bother about it.
Oliver does not bother about it either. He says it is designed to make you waste your life in pointless scrolling.
I do not want to waste my life but I would not mind filling the odd ten minutes every now and again, when I am on the taxi rank and have finished my book.
Oliver and Emily arrived home from their adventures around the Glorious South last night, and today Mark has departed for the wilds of the frozen North. I thought that I would miss him very much but actually he had hardly been gone five minutes before I had composed a long list of Things To Do and was beginning to feel enthused about getting on with them.
I will not have as much time for Thing Doing as I usually have, because of course Oliver and Emily are here and so there will still be laundry and cooking, but I have thought that they could perhaps be prodded into helpfulness occasionally, which might make life go with a bit more of a swing.
There are so many chores lurking in the Guilt Folder of my mind that I really ought to be getting on with them, organising some more Internet might be a good starting point.
Watch this space.
In the meantime, however, we have been busily getting along with life, and I am pleased to announce, I think, that yesterday we purchased a new taxi.
I only think I am pleased about it because there are many slips between cup and slurping, and I do not want either to count my chickens nor mix my metaphors, especially since it actually broke down on the way home, although fortunately Mark fixed it.
I can’t yet use it as a taxi because my current taxi has still got some miles to go before it collapses, exhausted and panting, like Black Bess when she staggered in to York after Dick Turpin’s unsympathetic dash from London. Hence we have parked it behind the camper van, in the shed, along with lots of other things that we really are going to get round to doing sooner or later.
It is exactly like my current taxi, which I like very much, except it has been driven for two hundred thousand fewer miles and nothing in it is worn out.
We had to drive all the way to Halifax to get it, and then it needed repairing in a minor roadside emergency, and by the time we got home last night we were so fed up of taxis that we did not go to work, but stayed at home and watched a farmer called Jeremy Clarkson who has got a series on Amazon explaining how you keep pigs. We have kept pigs, and so were fascinated, and thought with vague wistfulness that it might be quite nice to get some more one day.
They are on my list of Nice Things To Do When We Retire, which is like a To Do List, except more expensive. We had better put Fix The Camper Van on it I think because at this rate it is going to be ages before we actually get it done.
My list says Buy A Horse as well.
We will do it one day.
