You'll always find me in the kitchen at parties

First thing this morning I was relieved to see my car back on the drive, indicating that the Boy had returned safely. He’s a good Boy, and hadn’t woken us when he got home.

My ‘volunteer’ day turned out rather better than I’d dreaded (and I’ve brought home two pairs of latex gloves), although because we still haven’t seen car number 110, the 111, 112 and 113 I saw in quick succession were wasted. Ned has been stuck indoors all day, juggling payslips, bank statements and a calculator, trying to work out how much backpay he’s owed (about £2,500, which would be very useful. If they pay up, especially all in one go rather than in dribs and drabs, we can replace our poor old car which is really on its last wheels. Not with a new car, obviously, but one less than 16 years old.)

He is now having fun being creative and artistic, working on a project which, if it’s successful, will be a nice (yes it will) present for someone. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a lovely new duster.

The Boy emerged from his room at 3pm and announced that he was going to buy a road atlas. His drive home had taken 7 hours instead of 5 because the A30 had been closed due to an accident, and he was diverted through Tavistock (I drove past your old school, Mum) so he’d had to navigate using only a small Tesco Store-finder map. Dartmoor is a big place in the dark, when you’re lost.