It is a wet Sunday in the Lake District and I am sitting quietly in the dark on the taxi rank.
I am not in the least unhappy. I have got Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G playing on the radio, a flask of chai and some time to write to you. There are not very many customers, and so I am not being interrupted very often, and the incessant rain has meant that taxi drivers are not winding their windows down to talk to one another.
You might like to know that I have resolved the difficulty of my radio not turning off by simply tuning it to Radio Three, which I like very much, apart from the irritating talking bits, it is one of the few things that the tiresome BBC are not currently messing up. I can always turn the volume down if they are playing something that I don’t like very much. Also I have found, rather to my surprise, that customers talk far less if there is music playing.
I feel that this is to be encouraged.
In the meantime I am trying not to think about food.
I have, over the last couple of weeks, been supplementing my weight-loss efforts by not eating anything at all on Sundays.
This is not only helping to prevent my becoming excessively portly, it has the added bonus of giving me a mild feeling of sanctimoniousness, as if the day when everybody else goes virtuously to church is being marked by me as well, fasting in order not to be left out.
Of course it has got nothing to do with Sunday being everybody else’s day in church. The incentive is that Sunday is an especially short day, given the prolonged length of Saturday. I did not wake up until almost one o’clock this afternoon, which did not leave a very lot of day for being hungry.
I got up to discover that the heavens had opened, and a blustery wind was blowing little squalls of chilly rain up and down Oak Street, and was very pleased to remember that I had spent all of yesterday afternoon sawing up the firewood the builders left, what a fortunate decision that was. I could laugh heartily in the face of the icy downpour. The hearth is full, and we have bone-dry firewood to see us through until Mark gets back, we will be warm and contented, hurrah.
I took the dogs out over the fells, and such is the power of suggestion that I was uncomfortably hungry all the way round, despite the fact that I never, ever eat breakfast until I get home anyway.
It was a very wet walk. I was glad that I had dubbined my boots, how wonderful to be the sort of sensible person who does things like that.
They were soaked by the end anyway, because I was wearing my shorts, and the water ran down my legs and filled up my socks.
When I got home I thought with some satisfaction that at least I did not have to waste time preparing dinners and washing up, but it turned out in the end that Oliver was rushing because of being late for work, and he apologetically left a pile of dishes in the sink. He won’t be back until morning, so I had to wash up anyway.
Not cooking meant that I did, indeed have some leftover time, although instead of dashing up the stairs and hoovering Lucy’s bedroom, I made a cup of tea and retreated to my desk to paint the Advent calendars, because the year is creeping on alarmingly, and the deadline is approaching.
November is a last-minute panic every year.
I am now trying hard to think about anything other than the dinner that I have left at home in the fridge. I am trying to convince myself that not eating is a Good Thing, that it will be giving my body a chance to flush away toxins and consume all of its potentially cancerous cells, whilst handily making me thin at the same time. I know this is true because I read it on Facebook, what a marvellous thing the mighty Internet is.
I am not especially convinced.
All the same, it will mean that if I do want to eat anything hedonistically calorific during the week, I will be able to do so with a clear conscience.
I shall keep thinking that.
Roll on breakfast.
PS. Number Two Daughter ran the Toronto Marathon today. She has now run more marathons than any of my other children. I am very impressed.
She said that she did not run very fast, but I can absolutely promise you that she ran a lot faster than I would have done.
