I have had a scowling sort of day in front of the computer.
However, I am very pleased to be able to tell you that at the end of it I have managed to insure our taxis. Actually that was one of the nicest bits. I had a very comfortable half an hour with my feet on the desk and a cup of tea in my hand, saying No to an insurance salesman who was going on and on about whether or not I had any claims or convictions.
I have got all sorts of convictions but they are not the kind that an insurance salesman needs to know about. They are the sort of thing that you have to bite your tongue not to say when people start going on about what sort of sexual equipment you ought to have if you are going to tick the box marked F, and various others relating to Nigel Farage.
We will not go into details here. I will only upset some of you. It would be better if you just carried on thinking that I think exactly what you think, whatever it is. It is always happier that way.
I have even managed to send the certificates to the council, so that we are completely and absolutely, airily and confidently legal. This is always a satisfactory moment.
I have even – sharp intake of breath – paid for them.
Actually Mark has paid for them but it comes to the same thing.
In between I have got up out of my chair, because the august Daily Telegraph is always reminding me that it is not good for the elderly to stay sitting on one position for too long in case our legs go rotten, and dusted the bedroom.
I have even hoovered, because of course Clean Sheets Day is upon us once again.
The day has been so misty and grey that I did not even bother hanging the sheets outside. It did not rain on our walk this morning, but it was decidedly damp. I ambled around very contentedly, marvelling at the silence and definite absence of tourists, of anybody else, actually, and mourned a little for the now-expiring shaggy parasol mushrooms.
Of course the news you will be frantically scanning these lines to see, is the outcome of Oliver’s Army adventuring. I did not start this diary entry with tales of his adventures, not because I wanted to keep you in suspense, but because when I started I didn’t know. I have been waiting in a state of anxious anticipation, and have been writing about my own far less thrilling day in order to distract myself from looking at the clock and wondering if he had been asked to start already of if he had just been run over on his way back to the car park.
It turns out that neither of these eventualities was the problem, and that the Army just likes its applicants to hang around, presumably as a sort of early preparation for the massive amount of hanging around they will have to do once they have actually signed on the dotted line.
You will be very pleased to hear that he has passed so far.
He does not have a hole in his heart, and he is not too thin.
After his Full English Breakfast and a large cup of coffee he managed to tip the scales at 61 kilos, and so for the first time in our lives he is actually heavier than I am.
The doctor rabbited on doubtfully about a patch of eczema on his elbow, which Oliver said you could barely see, and there was a terrifying moment when he thought he heard a murmur in Oliver’s heart, but a scan of some sort and a computer printout revealed that there was nothing sinisterly troubling, and he has passed.
He has got to have an Occupational Health assessment to make sure that he will be thoroughly able to manage the rigours of Army life, which should happen in the next twelve weeks, and after that it will be the Fitness test.
He is a step closer to fighting the Russians.
How pleased I am.
