Baden Powell mon amour

We owe you, Baden-Powell, big time. Thanks to the Scouting movement centenary, we've been able to park all three of our offspring at camp. The older two are away for a week; Deborah for just one night. But it's time enough for the two of us to achieve a togetherness that isn't normally possible.

We take in a couple of exhibitions, drink vintage champagne in the garden and talk of every topic under the sun.

Then, this morning, we fulfill one of my dreams. We make up a breakfast tray - freshly squeezed orange juice, croissants and an enormous cafetiere of Fair Trade Arabica, medium roast - and go back to bed where we take it in turns to read to each other. Francis enjoys extracts from 'The Yacoubian Building' - a brilliantly observed study of the different forces at work in contemporary Egyptian society - while I thrill to 'Goldfinger', Francis' all-time Bond favourite, chosen to mark its re-release this week.

Well, it would have been nice.

The reality? We open several bottles of Rioja and discuss tax credits and the drawbacks of Ritalin to the gentle accompaniment of hinges falling from malnourished and under WD40'd kitchen units, while, outside, overflowing gutters rain duckweed and moss down the walls.

Next morning, we discover we've run out of coffee, orange juice and croissants and return to bed with black tea and hangovers. I read Francis our latest rave reviews from our latest utility bills ("Must close soon!" "Will become enormous!" ) and he shares the exciting news from the pension company that if we play our cards right and eat nothing but boiled pasta after retirement, it could take well over a year before we starve to death on the projected income our funds are likely to generate.

Then the doorbell rings. It's the plumber, bright and early, come to check whether the base of the loo really is swaying alarmingly when I sit on it, or if I'm a tragic victim of drink-related Wobbling all over the Place syndrome.

Well, it's a start. And next year, Deborah will be able to camp for THREE WHOLE DAYS. In that time, and with just a little bit of luck, I reckon Francis and I should be able to work our way through some more classic reading material: the complete Explanatory Notes of the 2007 - 2008 Tax Return, complete with corrections, for example. And if we book our home delivery now, we might even remember to order some croissants.