Mark and Oliver have given up on Oliver’s car and disappeared to purchase a new one.
This was not because they were not capable of replacing the engine and gearbox, but because an extensive search for engines and gearboxes revealed that new ones, new in the sense of coming from a scrapyard, that is, would cost about eight hundred quid.
With that in mind they spent a thousand quid and purchased a new car, and they have buzzed off to Liverpool this afternoon to get it.
I have ignored all of this, loftily, having become cross with them. I pointed out this morning that all of their interactions with me over the last few days might just as well have been precluded by the phrase Hey, Google. Their interest in my activities and well-being has been more or less equivalent to that.
They were very apologetic but I am ignoring them both anyway, partly because I am not very interested in endless wittering about gearboxes, and partly because they are not here, so it is not difficult.
Instead I have got the dogs for company. They are not much better company. Rosie is in season, and they are alternately feeling very affectionate towards one another, and growling their heads off, swept away on a wave of brainless passion.
They were such a nuisance last night that I got cross with them before Mark was even out of the shower and shoved them in the conservatory for the night. They like the conservatory because of the heated floor, so they were not exactly heartbroken, but I felt that between the gearboxes and the growling I had had enough of social interaction for one day.
I pretended to be asleep after that.
They buzzed off in search of a new car this morning, leaving me in undisturbed tranquillity. I quite like my life like this. The dogs and I plodded over the fells, which was breezily sunny, and came home to get on with life.
I had done almost all of my most tiresome chores, and could get on with a productive and creative day, which I abjectly failed to do.
I was supposed to be putting the sheets on Lucy’s bed, which I forgot about until I tripped over them where I had left them to remind myself on the stairs. It was too late by then, so it will have to be tomorrow, I will have to put them somewhere where I will trip over a bit earlier in the day.
After not putting the sheets on Lucy’s bed I should have been painting Advent calendars, because time is running out and I am beginning to panic. I would have done this, except I discovered an email on my computer from one of my Cambridge tutors, enquiring after my writing activities and volunteering to send anything reasonable that I had produced across to her agent.
I have not produced anything for ages, reasonable or unreasonable, so I spent the afternoon doing a hasty edit of a story I wrote ages ago, which I eventually dispatched without optimism. I have got a story on Amazon at the moment, which has some very kindly reviews, one of which was written by Lucy’s boyfriend, and which is easily as creative as anything I have written, I will have to buy him a drink at Christmas. Other than that I have put so little effort into its advertising, ie, none at all, that I will be unsurprised if it does not sell another single copy.
I ought to do it really. I just don’t seem to have enough hours in the day.
After that it was time for work.
I was not sorry to be at work. There are no heavily-panting over-excited dogs here, and I do not need to feel guilty about either sheets or calendars. Indeed, there is nothing much to do, since there are no customers, except read my book, which is what I have been doing, whilst drinking my cup of tea and feeling contented.
I am being idle with a clear conscience.
