I have been doing so much hill-stomping, running in the woods (fitness regime) and mad rushing about changing beds and doshing out breakfasts at ungodly hours of the morning that by rights I should be nothing but a frazzle. Instead I am blooming in all directions and mutating from flighty, trendy Londoner, into sturdy, countrywoman.
I am thinking of throwing out my Whistles frippery and investing in a stout, tweed suit and battleship-quality foundation garments. I can see myself now in my plus-fours, legs planted firmly apart, roaring at some poor, hapless townie: “Get on the bloody horse! And stop making such a bloody fuss!”
If only. In reality, for the most part, I’m totally shattered. I am blooming in all directions, but not necessarily in the way I would like, and my energy levels are not as fearsome as they should be - maybe that’s why I tank up with cream teas to keep myself going and that in turn’s the reason why I’m blooming in all - round and round it goes. In my defence I will say that I have had quite a lot on my plate - apart from pancakes, maple syrup and clotted cream.
I had been promising Hero and Tybalt a walk up Siabod for ages. Siabod is the name of one of the mountains that overlooks our house, and its summit affords stupendous views. I was determined to keep my word but general busy-ness meant that half the day had worn away by the time we got out of the door into the fabulous, summer sunshine. At first the children didn’t need any prodding; far from it - they were the main drive. But it wasn’t long before the terrain grew more rugged and steep, and spirits and attention spans began to flag.
A pain barrier has to be broken and it’s a wrestle not to give in just before this point - especially when the image of a cappuccino and a chocolate biscuit with your feet up is beginning to flash with increasing insistence on the mind’s eye. But the endorphins kicked in at last, and whingeing was replaced by whoops of excitement as we neared the top. The kids jumped and somersaulted, while I, bouncing along on my plump little legs, puffed, whistled and squeaked behind them: “Wait for me!” terrified that the mists might come down at any moment and swallow us all up.
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Thankfully, we got down safely and in plenty of time to make preparation for His Nibs’s birthday party. This is a mega, annual event that Steve believes should be marked by a proper vigil the night before - a Steve’s Eve. He has the longest lasting birthday of anybody I know, and people came from miles away to join in, light fires and rejoice with the welkin.
Steve also believes that birthday means he shouldn’t do a stroke of work for at least a week. He breezes about radiantly beaming while I heave cartloads of laundry out into the garden and onto the line and swab the decks with sweaty brow and plum-coloured cheeks. Come the party I conked out at ten o’ clock - or at least I tried to, it wasn’t easy with final stragglers larking about into the small hours. I was terrified that my paying guests would be driven away. My bedroom is right up in the rafters of the building, yet I could hear every sound from down below. I swear I could hear disgruntled customers packing their bags and leaving in disgust (a little illogical, if I come to think about it).
The worst of it came when some poor, unwitting soul chose to use the newly-installed, downstairs water closet. I heard them go inside, and I won’t go into details but, suffice to say, I knew exactly what was happening. Finally the time came to flush and the old-fashioned chain clunked loudly and repeatedly, reverberating around the building.
Something was amiss, and it was a while before the author of the performance overcame his embarrassment sufficiently (even through the drunken haze it seems) to relay the problem to his mates. They were within spitting distance of the paying guests’ quarters and I could hear all their concerned mutterings. Clunk! Clunk! They tried again and again. “Can’t somebody just chuck a bucket of water down it?!” I asked myself in exasperation. After what felt like an hour some bright spark at last followed my thought.
Still, all’s well that ends well; the customers next morning were all smiles and had slept like tops. They even asked good-naturedly whether we’d had a good time and said what a wonderful stay they’d had. Not only that, I can also announce that the downstairs dunny is in full working order.
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