The Deadbeats versus Cartmel cakes, Christmas Eve 2020
Fairly early last Christmas Eve, the two deadbeats and I, slowly but not too slowly, decided to take advantage of a bright sunny morning, to walk Over the Fell to the breadshed. I mean we’d half decided this the day before . . . if the weather was good, if we felt like it, if the deadbeats got up early enough, if all the astral bodies were aligned and I could get the kettle to work and the marmalade didn’t run out. It’s unfair to call the deadbeats that. For a start, my daughter objects to the name – though not very much. ‘I’m not a deadbeat – I look posh compared to you two.’ This is true.