I can hardly find the words to tell you what a happy event my breakfast was this morning.
Of course I did not have breakfast until I had dutifully walked over the fells, pegged the washing in the garden, and paid the weekend’s takings into the Post Office.
There was not much point in pegging the washing outside, because it was another mistily damp day, but there was lots of it because of the clean sheets, and so I thought it would be worth a go.
The sheets were not dry when it was time for me to get ready for work, although I was pleased to find that they were drier than when I put them there, and so they have been left over the stove. I will make the bed when I get home.
After all of that I had my porridge, which was absolutely divine.
Peculiarly, I had stopped being hungry by then, and was merely feeling a little wobbly and tired. When I had eaten my porridge the effort of digesting it seemed to be so huge that I did not want to leap up and start dashing about. Instead I leaned back in my chair comfortably and fiddled about with the bank accounts for a bit.
I have invested some of our pension funds in a company called Tesla. I am entirely sure that you will have heard of them. It is a company that makes electric cars. I do not like electric cars, I think they are awful, but I am prepared to concede that the technology might improve with time. Also the chap in charge of Tesla seems to be quite bright, and so in the end I made the important decision to entrust him with some of our retirement fund. I might write to him and explain what I have done in order that he does not start taking stupid risks. Also perhaps he should know that I do not want an electric car because the battery goes flat all the time, you can hardly go anywhere at all, perhaps he might think about inventing a petrol one again.
After that I felt as though I had done enough cataclysmic things for one day, and went downstairs to make my taxi picnic for tonight.
I can eat anything I like now that I have had a day of hungry travail, and I made not only my sandwich, but a tub of Greek yoghurt with dates chopped into it. This is almost the nicest food in the world, although there is no possibility whatsoever that it could be considered good for people who are worried about getting too fat. Dates have got about a thousand calories in every one, and yoghurt can only possibly be eaten if it is the splendidly thick and creamy Greek sort, none of your low fat rubbish, and it turns into lard the second I have swallowed it, as thoroughly as if I had added rennet and packed it on to my bottom.
Also russet apples are back in season, which has improved my life more than I can say.
After that I was going to get on with the Advent calendars, but Oliver woke up, so I dashed up to hoover Lucy’s bedroom now that it would not disturb him.
It seemed very cold upstairs. I do not go up there very often, and was surprised by the chill, poor Oliver must have been freezing, and I resolved to crank the fire up.
I changed my mind when I discovered the reason, which was that Lucy had left her bedroom window wide open, and it was blowing about in the considerable draught.
Imagine a window considerably bigger than a metre square, flapping open on the third floor in an October breeze.
It has been like that for a week.
I asked Oliver about it when I came down, and he agreed that it had been terribly cold, but that he does not like to grumble.
He was busily fixing my car.
The gearbox seals seem to have perished, and gearbox oil is dripping out. The exact same is happening to Oliver’s car, so the alley at the back is getting a bit oily. We can’t fix the seals until Mark gets back, so we needed to put more oil in.
I was very proud of him. He knew what the gearbox looked like, found it, removed the bits that were in the way and undid the nut. Then I helped to squirt the oil in with his new gearbox-oil-squirting tool.
He is getting to be very useful.
Sometimes having children is a huge relief.
