“It’s not as if we haven’t got enough else going on,” I say, “you know, new job about to start, house move upcoming, I’ve got various other projects to do, and the kids keep moving in and out, and in and out again… and now this.”
“I know, the timing is rubbish,” my wife agrees.
“Are you quite sure, though?” I say.
“Yep. There’s absolutely no doubt.”
“Ach…” I say.
We’d just got back from a short holiday, squeezed in before the madness of new jobs and house moves really kicked in, a quiet week in the Lake District in a tranquil cottage in the middle of nowhere.
“This is not actually the middle of nowhere,” the eldest pointed out one sunny morning, as we lounged on the grass in front of the cottage.
“Well, no,” I said.
“We’re literally about a mile from a village,” she said.
“Yeah, I know, but…”
“And that village is only a short distance from…”
“Yes! Ok, I know. I didn’t actually mean the middle of nowhere - there is nowhere in the UK that term really applies to - I know that. I just mean it’s peaceful here. Quiet. You can’t see anyone.”
“I can see someone right now,” the youngest said.
We all turn to look. In a field, a few hundred yards away, is a man.
“He’s there to check on the sheep,” I said, with the confidence of one who has seen sheep checked upon many times.
“Why?” The eldest said, “literally all those sheep are doing is wondering around in their field. Why do they need to be checked on? Why can’t they just be left alone to do their thing?”
“Well…” I said, “the thing is that sheep enjoy nothing more than finding inventive ways to die, so unless you check on them then they will basically all just conk out.”
“Charming,” said my wife.
“It’s just facts,” I protested, “I don’t make them up.”
“You make up loads of ‘facts’,” said the eldest.
“The thing is,” my wife said, “sitting here you’d never know you were anywhere near it.”
“No,” I agreed.
“I suppose, though, that if there was a problem…” she continued.
“If there was a problem, it would be too late to do anything anyway,” I said.
“Us and the sheep,” the eldest said, “dead in a field.”
“Alright!” I said.
Things went quiet.
“I wonder if the blackbirds are eating all my raspberries,” I said.
“Honestly,” my wife said, “we’re away on holiday and all you can think about is raspberries.”
“That’s not all I can think about, I was also just thinking how good it is that they’ve got two washing lines here. You can dry two loads at the same time.”
“Laundry…” said the youngest. “Good grief.”
“It’s better than you, thinking about us all dying in a nuclear explosion,” I said.
We all turned to look in the direction of the Sellafield power plant which lurks downriver, unobservable, but powerfully present. Like a holy mystery.
“Who wants a game of boule?” I said.
“The man is getting a sheep out of a hedge,” the youngest said.
“I suppose we’re just going to have to make a decision, aren’t we,” I say.
“I don’t see that we’ve got any choice,” my wife replies.
“I mean… we definitely have a choice,” I say. “It’s just a question of whether it’s a choice we want to make or not.”
“We need to tell the kids,” she says. I sigh.
“Kids,” I shout up the stairs, “come here a minute, we need to tell you something.”
They appear, the eldest looks as though she’s been asleep.
“Were you asleep?” I say.
“No… just.. lying down” she says.
“We need to tell you something,” I say.
“What is it?” The youngest doesn’t seem committed to the conversation.
“You should tell them,” I say to my wife.
“Oh for goodness sake,” she says.
“The thing is,” I say. “We’re going to have… to get a different car.”
“Seriously?” The youngest says, walking off.
“Did you have to wake me up to tell me this?” The eldest says.
“I thought you weren’t asleep, just lying down?” I say.
Moments later my wife and I are alone again.
“I thought that went well,” I say.
‘Saturday columns’ are short, sometimes (relatively) funny, basically true* stories of mundanity and mishaps from my life.
*Some names, locations and other details may have been changed to protect the guilty.