And a very small child, at that. Even Squiffany, who is not yet five, is allowed to go across the drive between her house and ours unescorted. As the Sage was to be out this evening, he arranged with Dilly and Al that I should eat with them, and he relayed the message that I was not to go alone, but that Al would come and fetch me. In the event, a cautious Sage took me himself, as he had to go out before Al arrived. It transpired that he had, himself, asked Al to fetch me. “As if I’d let you walk here on your own,” chortled Al.
It’s not frosty any more, I should mention. Wet, but not frosty. And I can’t remember the last time I fell over. Even when I walked funny.
Al escorted me home again afterwards, too.
Then I went and, using my favourite corkscrew (it is splendid, I must show it to you some time) opened the bottle of Provençal wine I’d left in the kitchen, put on the kettle, made a pot of coffee, poured a glass of wine, put all on a tray and carried it through, fetched a miniature bar of Green & Black’s dark chocolate with cherry and sat down to watch an episode of Deadwood, which I can’t watch in front of the Sage as he’d hate it, and with purple-stained mouth, enjoyed the rest of my solitary evening.
I’ve had enough of being alone now though. I hope he isn’t much longer.