Prize Prig

I went to bed full of excitement, dreaming of the pain au chocolate I was planning to have for breakfast. I know this sounds sad, but I have eschewed sweet and fattening foods for several weeks now as I'm determined to lose my flabby middle. I haven't craved them, but I was really looking forward to this Sunday morning treat. And it didn't disappoint. That's the thing about treats. Because they are not everyday things but special, there is much more appreciation of them, more meaning attached. Anyone can guzzle chocolate all day. But the feel and taste of it on your tongue after a long time is unsurpassable.

I've been running a book on my dahlias to see whether the ones I dug up in the autumn after the first frosts, then dried and cleaned before and cossetting in the garage would outperform those I left in the ground. Given the terrible winter I would have put money on the indoor ones, except I'm not a betting man. But blow me if the five large pink ones I left in the perennial bed haven't all sprouted, much faster than the lifted ones and with 100% success. So far I'm still waiting for one Bishop of Llandaff and two Bishop of Yorks. That's decided me for future years. It's a big messy hassle taking up the tubers when the pre-winter ground is muddy, wet and cold, but it looks like it's not necessary. I'll make my mind up when I see the relative quality of the blooms, but it's looking good. One less job of putting the garden to bed for the long drab months.

Every year a large group of young people pass my house on a marathon trek as part of their Duke of Edinburgh Award. I believe they walk from Bardsey, or maybe it's Blaxhall, presumably staying at youth hostels. Four years running I've been here and watched them straggle past. But how my heart has gone out to them. The first year they slogged along in desperate weather, rainwater dripping down their faces and inside their hoods which were being battered by the rain, heavy rucksacks weighing them down. For the next two years the weather was scorching, positively Saharan, and they dragged themselves along under a relentless sun, stripped down to T-shirts with sweaters and jackets tied around their waists. On these occasions their puce faces dripped sweat. And blow me if this year's group didn't choose Wednesday to do the hike, and we don't need to be reminded of what a horrible day that was. I really feel for them, gutsy kids that they are. I'm hoping for more temperate weather next year, a warm, breezy day perhaps when their suffering can be limited to foot blisters and aching backs. And I can just watch them with pleasure.

Trials

I met Sarah on the lane this evening as Hugo and I were returning from a walk, and we exchanged pleasantries. Or raptures really. It was a still, warm evening, clear sky, sun slowly going down but nowhere near the horizon. New to the village like me, but not to Suffolk, she feels the same as I do about this place. We both had those sort of slow, sated smiles that signal deep contentment, and we gazed around us and sighed like lovesick heifers. We might even have been a bit smug. I tried to do some more gardening when we got back, but Hugo was having none of it. I offered to let him goin, to sleep on the sofa as he likes to in the early evening, but he was having none of it. He stood patiently and politely beside me until I gave in and came indoors. Then he followed, climbed on the sofa and went out for the count. Funny dog.

Yesterday I caught him drinking from a container of not just stagnant but fetid water, too late to stop him. And today he has the runs. Poor little chap. I had to leave him home alone while I went to work, Roger still recovering from a stay in hospital, and Penny off for a mammogram. It was 4 and a half hours by the time I got back, and he was overjoyed to see me. He's not allowed to jump up, but he did everything but. I marvel at his stoicism because, straight out on a walk, he produced more evidence immediately of the state of his guts.

All of the above notwithstanding, I weeded and cleared the raised bed behind the pond in readiness for planting summer bulbs and seeds. But I gulped a hot cup of tea while David was here, and sitting hunched on the ground while I worked, I must have trapped some wind or twisted something inside. Soon I was rolling in agony on the garden room floor while Hugo thought it was a game and kept butting me. Eventually he lay down beside me, but the pains persisted. I'm still feeling sore. I already had huge sympathy for him, but now it's increased many-fold. Pain. It's a bummer.

I posted this photo yesterday but forgot to label it. So here it is again.

Sable whippet couchant

The Joy of Work

It's probably just as well that I'm working tomorrow: when I'm busy in the garden I have no brake, no ability to say "enough is enough" and stop. I'm not overdoing it exactly, no hoeing or digging has happened, but I have worked my way around the large lower bed on my bottom and weeded with a trowel. It's much easier on the body to do it this way, slower but less taxing. Yet even so I ache a bit this evening, so a break from the job will be good. As soon as I get home though I'll be back out there. I love it! Sometimes I can't believe I'm lucky enough to live here, and when I take a short rest and look around me it seems like the most perfect place on earth. I get my energy from the countryside and the garden, my peace of mind. When it's warm and quiet, as it was this evening, with no wind and just the song of a blackbird to serenade me, I feel very close to a state of ecstasy. I laugh at myself in such moments, but it's no exaggeration.

Every time I get up and move around the garden, Hugo follows me. He drags himself to his feet, walks beside me, and when he is sure I'm going to be stationary for a while he plops himself down. It's touching, but quite unnecessary. "I'm just putting these weeds in the bin," I tell him. "I'll be right back. You stay there." And he gives me a look, whippet-face, and lies back resignedly. But the next time I stir he's up again, plodding along beside me. I'd love to know what he's thinking. But here he is in Cambridge, sunning himself on a shelf barely wider than himself, content to be by the water and to watch what's going on. I know I shouldn't boast, but is he beautiful or what?

Contrasts

At 4pm today the sun came out and I did a tour of the wind-battered garden. Not much damage apart from one delphinium that has fallen before the onslaught and a few tired looking climbers. The delphinium doesn't look broken, though, so I shall tie it up again tomorrow when the good weather returns. The pond is finally full and I can remove the hoses from the water butts and let them fill up again naturally. I can't wait to get out there and start work on clearing the big shrubbery before planting all my new purchases out. No distractions for me now. It's getting serious. Already the front is filling up and spilling over the path. In winter it is impossible to imagine this but it happens very quickly. I returned indoors just in time to watch the sky darken and rain hammer down for about 10 minutes before disappearing again, for good this time I hope.

I've been in Cambridge for a few days, leaving Suffolk in buffeting gales and cascading rain and waking up to the bluest skies and hot sun. What contrasts we are experiencing. Morning tea and company in bed are perennial treats, and Hugo made the most of an invitation to join us, burrowing into bodies and stretching himself across us democratically. While my hosts worked at their "letters" in the afternoon in their various studies I curled up with Bruce Chatwin and On the Black Hill, and time could have stood still or rushed past for all I was aware of it. At 6pm we convened around the dining table with a glass of wine, and it's this time I love the best as we toss ideas around and share our thoughts about books and writers and everything.

I called in to see David on the way home and was pleased to see him looking well, working at the crossword as I would do later. He said he was OK, that life had to go on, but of course he's lonely, and sad. It's a terrible thing to lose a partner after many years together, especially one as  lively and companionable as Judy. She filled the space they occupied, and looked after him with love and good humour. The difference will be enormous, but I hope he finds a rhythm to his life, and keeps going. I told him not to get up when I arrived and left, but he gave me a wry smile and his eyes twinkled as he said he hoped it would never come to those courtesies being abandoned and affection being ignored. I hope so too. His charm and beautiful manners are part of his very great appeal.

Passing (from April 29th)

April is almost over, only one day left. How can this be possible? We have ached for its bloom and benefice all through the long winter, and apart from a few odd unseasonally hot days it has been a grim disappointment. Seeds remain unsown, plantlings unplanted. Tomatoes can't get going, and nor can sweet peas. Who in their right mind would put anything delicate into this cold ground, to be whipped and blasted by high winds and bitter rain? Apart from putting out these new additions I am fairly well ahead of myself in the garden. Beds are mainly cleared of weeds, and pots emptied and replanted. But what will be the fate of the three blossoming blueberry bushes, rescued from a bed where they did not thrive but now at risk of losing their nascent fruit? So many questions, so much regret. The weather will not revert to spring until Thursday at the latest, but there is hope that the days will warm up enough for the tender things to get a grip and develop into the lovely things they are meant to be, and the nights won't knock them back again. We live in hope. We can do nothing else.

We had a good walk at the college grounds this morning, Hugo's first proper run for a week. I think it is safe to say he has recovered. We probably had the best hour of the day, but every cloud has a silver lining. Being unable to spend time outside, I've turned my attention to housework. Once I set my mind to it I enjoy it, though pushing my hoover around the carpets is much harder than hoeing.With all the ironing safely put away, the sitting room and my bedrooms spring cleaned and shining, I have only the kitchen to do. But would it make any sense with a dog in the house to scrub the busiest floor before the weather settles and muddy paws are a thing of the past? Not at all. Something else to look forward to.

Faith and Love

I was standing in front of a full-length mirror this morning in my dressing gown, but not looking at myself. I'm no narcissist, as one glance at my wayward eyebrows and deviant nasal hairs will tell.  No, I was looking at the dog sitting beside me, a view of him I hadn't seen before. He was gazing up at me with puppy eyes as I gently stroked his head and face, and when he looked down for a moment he nuzzled his head against my leg, trusting and happy. It's the sort of image I've often seen before, usually of sheep dogs with eyes only for their owners, but didn't realise that that's how Hugo looks at me. It was such a beautiful moment, and I only moved away because my bath was in danger of running over. So just my cup then (runneth over, keep up).

Talkng of Christianity, I've been thinking about it a lot just lately. When I use the C word I mean of course the Church of England. I haven't had proximity to other religions so can't speak of them, and I exclude Catholicism for reasons that will become clear. Living in Suffolk for the past nearly 10 years I've spent a lot of time around church people. I have no interest in the church and never attend, but I know a lot of people who do. The ones I've had close contact with, usually of my age and older, have a quiet faith that I haven't really come across before. It's non-judgemental, simple and calm. They just believe in God, as their parents did, and grandparents, and as they were brought up to. Like the Queen. They don't question it. It runs through them strongly, and it informs their lives and their behaviour. They don't make demands, unless it's for much-needed funds to save the church roof, and they're not exuberant in their expression of faith. I know I generalise. There's no evangelism here, no happy-clappy types. But the contrast with the Catholic church in which I was brought up could not be more marked. Here you carried sin and had constantly to expiate your wrong-doings. You prostrated yourself metaphorically in a dark box every week, admitting private thoughts and actions to a hidden priest. You were condemned unless you repented. I find myself envying my neighbours though I cannot join them. I just don't believe. I wish I did.

My final resting place, but not yet

My lack of faith won't apparently exclude me from ending my days in the beautiful churchyard down the lane. Having tea with Caroline and Glenda the other day, the conversation somehow moved on to funerals. I didn't declare my current interest, but the pros and cons of cremation and burial were discussed, and the relative merits of sprinkled ashes or a permanent gravestone were considered. Glenda is moving away to live near family, but I was confident that I would leave my house for the last time in a box. I would love to end up in Cransford churchyard, I told them, not sure it would be possible. "Get Patrick to walk around with you and show him the spot you would like," Caroline said. "Really?" I asked. "How would that work?" Patrick is the churchwarden, and he would mark the place on his map and make my choice official, she told me. Just like that. Suddenly considering my mortality like this was a bit unnerving, but where else would I go? I wonder if my children could be persuaded to disinter Hugo's bones and place them in the wicker casket with me. That would be a comforting thought.

Sacred and Secular

The emotions are heightened at funerals, and the mind and spirit extra perceptive. Comfort is sought wherever it is available, and usually it comes from religious sources. This always confounds me because in the cold light of day I believe none of it. But when a loved one has died and grief and shock are the main emotions, the words of the Bible, the sayings of Christ, are so reassuring and beguiling you want to believe them. It only works in the context of the funeral, though, at least for a non-believer. Today I read through Judy's Order of Service again, and was shocked at how perfunctory were the words that yesterday seemed magical, as if they had all the answers to all the questions, existential and metaphysical. "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God still, and Trust in me. I am going now to prepare a place for you, and after I have gone and prepared you a place, I shall return to take you with me." Isn't it what we all want, to be held safely and taken care of, to be in the right place and know we are there? But it's a chimera, and the bubble has to burst. If only it were true. The one quasi religious text that always moves me to tears is Footprints in the Sand. No matter how many times I read it the ending is always so wonderful I let myself believe it. I suppose that's the power of religion, plugging as it does a basic human need for meaning and acceptance.

More real to me at the moment is a black dog who offers unconditional love, and then some. Late yesterday afternoon the sun came out and I changed out of sombre clothes into grubby gardening ones. Hugo is bursting with energy since he hasn't had a run for a week to let his injuries recover. It didn't stop him tearing around the lawn, though, rushing at me like a young bronco and then charging away again, lithe body twisting and turning athletically. I couldn't find his ball so I threw a stick instead. And to my amazement he fetched it, then lay down on the grass and started to gnaw on it. Like a proper dog! He has never done this before despite being offered all manner of things from the per shop, but he is getting the hang of it. A few weeks ago I was persuaded to buy a cow's hoof to help clean his back teeth, and he has been biting and chewing on it ever since. I don't mind the little bits of chewed bone all over the kitchen, nor the sight of the macabre thing lurking in his bed. A cow's foot, for heaven's sake! But it works. And it makes me wonder how many more facets to his character there are still to be unearthed. A work in progress.

Gone

The freezing wind drove me indoors to the pile of clean washing and I spent a productive morning dashing away with the smoothing iron (you'd have to have been around in the 50s for that one probably). The cold air is coming from the SW, the prevailing wind direction, so that means most of the lower half of the country will be suffering as I am. Which gives me a little comfort. But I have so many things to plant, including a tray of a dozen cowslip plants which Sammy got for me at 40p a pop. That compares with £1.90 at the garden centre, ridiculous. They will add to the much needed ground cover at the bottom of the garden where my battle against weeds is constant. David showed me what he has done so far in his tiny garden down the lane, and it is impressive. But then he has actually worked as a gardener and really knows his stuff. Whereas I go to a garden centre and buy what I like the look of, he carefully plans what will go with what, and look good where. He took a few things from my front garden, grasses, fiery euphorbias and some spotted things and already they look wonderful. Luckily he likes to share his knowledge so that's good.

I set off early for Judy's funeral expecting a packed church, and I was right. Getting there well before anyone else, surely a first for me, I picked up an order of service card and immediately felt overwhelmed with emotion. Her picture on the back page, such a good likeness, and the choice of hymns, were all too much for me, and I retreated to the car for a while. When I returned the church was filling up, and seeing David sitting alone in the front pew was awful. Sophie and Caroline, Judy's daughters greeting people on the door, urged me to go and talk to him so I did. I put my arm around his shoulders and talked quietly to him. He's a very emotional man, and his sadness was almost unbearable. "I miss her so much," he said. "I know you do," I told him, and hugged him tighter. His five sons were all there and one of them took over from me. Judy's nephew James read a eulogy that the family had jointly written, and one anecdote was typical of her zest for life. Taking her mother on holiday to Norfolk for her 80th birthday, Sophie was appalled to see her climbing a tree. "Get down from there at once, what on earth are you doing." she called out. "I wanted to see if I still could," replied the impulsive matriarch. She lived her life to the full, took everything in her stride, and always looked on the bright side. The words might be trite, cliched even, but they are true. She will be so very sadly missed.

Day to Night

How quickly brightness can turn into menacing dark. Walking with Ruth before going to the opening of the Alde Valley Spring Festival down the road in Great Glemham, I was horrified to see Hugo run off, but even more horrified when he was gone for several hours. We took it in turns to look for him, the other one waiting to see if he would find his own way back. The imagination runs riot under these circumstances, but all the mind-spinning dreads were legitimate: he'll break a leg, he'll be stolen, he'll be attacked by a muntjack. The one thing I can say to put this in perspective, I glumly told Ruth, is that losing a child is worse than this. I know, I've experienced it. At around 1pm he finally emerged, wet, muddy and bedraggled, eyes mostly closed, all four paws incapable of walking. He staggered towards me, and we managed to get him in the car and safely home. By the next day he still couldn't walk, and I feared a torn tendon or ligament. I gave him some anti-inflammatory/painkiller medicine left over from last time, and he was a bit better by the evening. By Monday morning he had rallied and his walking was much improved, but I took him to the vet anyway for a check-up. Happily all is well and he just needs to rest. I will continue the medication for the rest of the week. Oh Hugo! You have to be allowed to run, that is for sure, but how I wish you would restrain yourself from mad do-or-die dashes that tax us both in different ways.

Poor suffering little me

Since then I've been to London and back, and weeded the big shrub bed, a not insignificant job. Once the ground has been rained on, or hosed, the weeds come up very easily. I could do this all day if it didn't make my neck ache. The morning began grimly with grey skies and a strong and cold breeze, but by lunchtime the sun was out again and so were we. Nick spent yesterday raking the front beds to a fine tilth in my absence, and now I can fill the empty spaces with beautiful plants that will restore this part of the garden to its former beauty. I have seeds to sow if I think the soil is warm enough; dahlias sprouting in the summerhouse; potatoes chitting in old compost bags, and various plants ready to be found permanent homes. I've even weeded most of the bark path down the long hedge side of the garden. Ah, it's all sheer bliss.

Tonight I came home from evacuation practice at Snape to a very nice supper of bream with puy lentils in a delicious vinaigrette, and cavalo nero with ladybird. The latter was an accident but I forgot that I'd noticed one on the veg and steamed it anyway. Then I couldn't find it. Just as well I'm not a Buddhist. I'd be struck off.

Paradise

We had breakfast with the door open onto the garden. Last night I flung wide my bedroom window for the first time. This weather is completely delightul, even if I have to cover my body from top to toe and put sunscreen on the exposed bits. The air is filled with forgotten scents and birdsong, the latter much more evident than in recent years. Behind me in the field the skylarks keep up a non-stop performance from their lofty positions. It's impossible to feel anything other than joy. I decided to leave the second half of the end terrace for now and tackle the patio by the back door. Normally I love this job, transforming the blackened, scummy surface into a shiny clean one, but it seemed to take for ever this morning. I had frequent stops so the machinery didn't overheat, but even so it was never ending. After a good long break, though, my appetite returned and I turned the power hose on everything else, including the car. If it's not moving I squirt it.

Eventually I dropped onto the recliner on the lawn where the burgeoning sorbus is beginning to cast a little bit of shade. Hugo lay panting beside me in the full sun though I had shown him a nice spot in the shadows. So I pointed to the cool place under my seat and he half crawled in. From the other side I urged him forwards, and he wriggled towards my hand until he was fully protected from the boiling rays. Gosh, it was hot. I once holidayed in Turkey when the temperature was over 40 degrees and all over Europe people were dropping dead like flies. I'll never know how I bore it.

Driving to Halesworth this morning with the sun beating against my right ear I listened to Melvyn Bragg's In Our Time. It's always interesting and usually enlightening, but today's revelation shocked me to the core. For probably nigh on 50 years I've been calling the husband of the heroine of Middlemarch Cazzerbon, emphasis on the first syllable. But no, it's actually Ca-sor-bon, stress on the middle syllable. Who knew? In fact, how do they know? Are there other Casaubons who they've been able to ask?  How can I ever think of him the same way again? Or Dorothea for that matter, who married someone called Ca-saur-bon? I'm feeling very confused, but in defiance have taken the book off my shelves and started reading it again, pronouncing his name the new way in my head. Reading books I already own is in keeping with a Susan Hill that David has loaned me. She decided to buy no new books for a year, but instead visit her shelves to find never-read books or those she wanted to read again. Just 70 pages into her book I've been reminded of favourites that could do with a re-read, and so I've ended up with a nice pile, just like she did.

Never has a dog loved comfort as much as the Huguenot

Scorcher

I'm feeling a bit flimsy in this sudden heat. This morning I trekked into Woodbridge to shop at the one garden centre that claimed to accept National Gardening vouchers, but when I arrived at the checkout desk with all my purcheses they told me they did not. Wandering around Wyevale's concrete concourse with its overpriced shrubs and plants, I felt quite faint under the sun and had to remove a few garments. I'd brought a hat, but that felt too heavy on my head. It was a tad annoying then to have to leave my overpriced purchases (did I mention them?) behind, especially as they were nicer specimens than I had seen at the Walled Garden on Sunday. Never mind. I couldn't face going plant shopping again, not in these temperatures, so I got out the power hose when I got home and started work on the summerhouse terrace. It comes up so clean with the minimum of effort from me, but it is time consuming, and noisy. I had my ear defenders on, but I hope my two neighbours weren't trying to sunbathe in their peaceful gardens.

I decided it was time to leave off Hugo's thick winter tiger pyjamas last night as it was hardly cold, but put him into his spring night suit, aka my old red cashmere polo neck sweater minus polo neck and sleeves. He looked a bit scornful when I popped it over his head, but I told him he'd be glad of it in the early hours, and he curled up in a nice ball on his sofa. Come the morning, and he had stripped it off him and instead pulled the slanket into a cosy nest all around him. "I told you you'd be cold," I said triumphantly as I succumbed to the first mad greeting of the day, dog weaving around my legs trying to lick my face. "You're wearing the tiger PJs tonight." He did that whippet face which could also be described as a withering look, but I decided it was just him being cute and showing the lower whites of his eyes. Irresistible, he is.

I tried to do a bit of hoeing but the ground has sudenly got quite hard, and my shoulders and back are still too tired after the shed spring clean. Instead, between periods on the power hose, I sat on my kneelers feebly stabbing at the earth with my trowel. I think I'll have to soak the beds before I do the job properly. In the end I gave in to the lovey day and got out my umbrella, recliner and the crossword. It's what hot weather was designed for.

Small Satisfactions

I've got a lot done in the garden these past few days, what with spring being here and all. When I go out in the morning I usually have a plan, but it morphs into other ideas as my eye roams around so that I end up doing what I intended but so much more. Yesterday I began by clearing the bed beside the freemontedendron in readiness for the salad leaves and other summer vegetables I propose to plant there. I raked it all to a level smoothness, piling up the stones that never stop surfacing. Once I'd collected all of these and hurled them over the fence I spotted the brick outhouse that I rudely call a shed - I think it must have been a washhouse in Victorian times - and decided the time was right to spring clean it. Oh yes, my kind of job (but not in the house) and I could barely conceal my excitement at the prospect. I'd dropped an empty wineglass in there a few weeks ago and put off clearing the pieces up because of the general mess of tangled garden tools and lose flowerpots. Now I set to, systematically working my way from one end to the other, and several hours later my nose was full of dust and the rest of me was filthy but the place was organised and clean.

Today I let Nick do most of the work while I pottered around and passed him tools, watering cans and bone meal. He hauled down the second rampant ivy, dug out the roots of this and the first one, moved a chaenomeles - Japanese quince - that has always been too far away from the trellis it is meant to cover, lifted an old and beautiful azalea from the pot it has inhabited for years into a fresh piece of ground, moved a climbing rose from an inhospitable spot in the path of the north wind where it has not thrived to a more amenable place against an old red brick wall, and hauled four bags of compost out of my car boot. A really productive morning.

But the best bit of the day came when I had a brainwave and managed to pull it off. I had to smash the bolt on the garage door on Christmas Day as the key was locked inside and so were all the bottles of sparkling water. I've tried everywhere to replace the bolt without success. Then I had a good look at it and realised that it could probably be mended with a bit of clever welding. This afternoon Hugo and I took it into the garage in Framlingham, and a terribly nice man did exactly that. And charged me a fiver. I couldn't wait to get home and refit it to the garage door. Small pleasures, I know. It may sound sad to those with more thrilling lives. But to me there was nothing to beat the utter satisfaction of this achievement. And sitting beside me as I turned the last screw, Hugo completely agreed.

Gardens

The nauseating stench of rotting cabbages filled the air as we walked this morning, and it's coming from the rape that has been planted everywhere this year. Even worse is to come when the flowers appear, their smell so like that of wisteria but just off-key and highly unpleasant, to my nose at least. We're doomed, Hugo and I, for as many months as it takes for the crop to go from yellow to black, ugliness taking the place of a sort of beauty - if you like acres off yellow - until the oil can be removed from the pods. When I pass fields of rape in the car I have to close the windows, but I can't resort to wearing a mask when we walk down the lanes. At least out own dear fields are planted with wheat or barley, I can't tell which yet. The rest will have to be endured.

I've decided to remove the rampant ivy I planted three years ago to cover two trellised walls, and replace them with honeysuckle. I don't really know what possessed me to put a non-flowering, non-scented climber in the two places where the impact should be sensational. Speed of coverage, I can only surmise. I've chosen a lonicera japonica halliana and a lonicera periclymenum Graham Thomas, both very highly scented and productive, and ruthlessly tore down the wretched ivy. One is on the fence behind the pond, and the other on the trellis which hides the oil tank. In future, like Anna Pavord, I shall never again plant anything that doesn't have a heavenly scent.

With the intention of buying these two climbers, and with a long shopping list, I headed for the Walled Garden this morning in the mist. It was chilly too, but unmistakeably spring at last. It was my first visit this year, and I felt myself drooling with anticipation and pleasure. I found both of the honeysuckles, as well as some favoured peonies, salvias, penstemmon, ribes, gaura, and many other perennials and shrubs that I desire, but in the end I limited myself to just 4 bags of ericaceous compost, three pots of sweet peas, and a few packets of salad leaves. When I got home I potted the three blueberries which have survived but not yet fruited in an open bed, and raked this area in readiness for the vegetables. I hacked down the ivy, and cleared the detritus away. Next week I will return to the Walled Garden and shop till I drop. David hasn't been there yet so he's coming with me. He turned up this afternoon to pinch some plants that he fancies in my garden, and proffered a bar of chilli chocolate in thanks. I've cut out cakes, biscuits, puddings and sweets from my diet in an effort to get my waist back in shape, but this was too much to resist. I had three squares and all felt right with the world again. What a simple solution.

Popping

I caught the end of One Born Every minute the other day, and watched in fascinated horror as a slight young woman gave birth to an enormous baby. Fifteen pounds, I estimated, has to be. But the weight appeared on the screen, and it was 8lb 3oz. Forty one years ago today I gave birth to a baby weighing just one ounce less. I gasped. I stared. Could that be true? At the time I must have though "Never again", but such is the magic of motherhood that I repeated the process just over two years later, this time to a tiny little child weighing just 5lb 10oz. It was an easier birth, that's for sure. In fact, just as the maternity staff were sternly telling me I wasn't anywhere near delivering after just an hour of contractions and should come back again tomorrow, the baby popped out. Just like that! I always feel nostalgic at this time of year, mid April and end of May. Such wonderful memories.

Penny has found a woman who spring cleans for just £10 an hour. She spent 9 hours in Penny's kitchen this week and it's gleaming. Up ladders to high beams and fittings, under sinks, on hands and knees around the skirting boards, nothing is too much trouble for her and she's really thorough. "Send her to me," I begged. "Tell her I'm desperate!" She doesn't have much spare time apparently, and she's picky. I can wait. If she comes it will be worth it. And it gives me a good excuse to avoid doing the job myself. "Er, um, I'm just waiting for my cleaner."

Hugo has taken to rounding me up again when he thinks I should come indoors in the evening. His self-imposed bedtime is quite soon after he's had his dinner at 4pm and been for a walk. This evening I was still in the garden after 7. Out he came to get me, his third attempt, and he sat beside me as I sipped a glass of wine and gazed around me with pleasure. The lawn had just had its third cut and was looking very healthy. The delphiniums are already nearly 2 feet tall, and most shrubs are sprouting leaves and early flowers. It's irresistible to me, and I surrendered to his persuasion reluctantly. Every time I moved he raced up the garden, came back for me then flew up again. He found his battered little ball and spun around and around in circles, getting ever more crazy as I laughed. But in the end his purpose was to get me in the house, and once he achieved this he climbed onto the sofa and fell deeply asleep. So straightforward, this little man. But so bossy.

Ups and Downs

Last week after my Easter visitors left I hung nine towels and three sets of bedding out on the line and the sun and light wind dried them in no time. This week a damp mist has hung in the air and the sun has barely broken through. Nevertheless it has reminded me of walking up to college beside the Liffey in Dublin every day, and there has been something exhilarating about the atmosphere which never failed to lift me back then too. It isn't always damp in Ireland, but when it is there's a fineness to the air that makes locals call it a "soft" day. Hugo and I have walked the lanes regardless, and as always have relished the silence and the sound of birds.

I was way down the lane yesterday morning when Sophie rang to tell me Judy had died suddenly. The shock was the more acute because I had had lunch with her and David on Sunday, and played an afternoon of bridge with them. Sophie stayed calm as she told me what had happened, and it was me who struggled with tears, and tried to keep my voice steady. I was feeling very sad when I got home, and put on the radio for a bit of chatter only it was Radio 3 that came on and Beethoven's Archduke Trio was playing. I first heard this music early in my courtship with Peter, and it's been a treasured piece ever since. Well, that set me off, but how was I to know that my new eyeliner would run? The tears were cathartic, but the vision I must have presented at the opticians later - panda eyes barely covers it - must have taken him aback. I only realised when he sat me opposite a huge mirror and there were all my dark smudges. We laughed about it, but I hope I've absorbed it as a warning to always check my appearance before I leave the house. It's what the hall mirror is for, stoopid!

Ruth has been hard at it cleaning her house ready for viewers, and she made me laugh with descriptions of cleaning difficult places with her electric toothbrush. She uses an old head, obviously, but it reminded me of a French and Saunders sketch where they were hotel chambermaids, and put the contents of the guests' toilet bags to good use when it came to making the loos shine.

Still beautiful

Cutie-Pie

Tucked up in his pijjies

And finally, my beautiful boy is now permanently scarred, his face sporting a white blaze where the squirrel/cat got its claws into him. I was so careful to keep him from scratching the wound, but in the end the scab dropped off cleanly and left his tender pale skin showing. I'm going to put my eyeline pencil to good use and see if I can camouflage him a bit. I don't want the other children picking on him.

Best Evah

There have been some truly perfect days just lately where I have felt so elated I could barely contain myself. The best had to be Thursday, which gradually turned so hot that by the afternoon I was wearing a hat and sun screen.  But it hasn't only taken the sun's warmth to make me happy. Just being outdoors on a calm day when I could get stuck into gardening jobs has brought great contentment. On Friday Handyman Joe came to repair the burst copper pipe on one of the garden taps, and Hugo greeted him with absolute joy, a mate he hasn't seen for over a year. The minute Joe got out of his van Hugo was standing at the gate, crying and wagging his tail furiously. "I knew that oold buoy u'd remember me," he beamed as he cuddled the passionate black creature. When he'd finished the various jobs I had waiting for him he regaled me with yet another story about our shared, though ex in my case, GP. "I went in and toldy him me belly was hurting, and he told me to bend over. 'You're too fat' he said, and sat back in his chair beaming. What you going to do about it then, I asked, and he said, 'What do you want me to do about it?' And he sat there grinning." Another doctor told him he'd put on weight because he's given up smoking, and put him on a diet. The first doctor didn't ask him a single question about his general health. Oh dear. Perhaps that's why he's the only doctor you can get to see the same day that you call in, or even the same week. Not me though. I'd rather wait.

Back in the garden, I pumped out the murky pond and tidied up the various pot plants that live in it. No fewer than 29 newts, though possibly more, had to be rescued as the water turned to silt in the bottom of the pond, and then I set to with the power hose before adding the water from the butts and releasing the newts once more. Luckily there has been quite a bit of rain since but it's still only half full. Where is a downpour when you want one? I've added new trellis to where David suggested and tied the Graham Thomas into place, and clipped back the epimedium in the front. After that I couldn't stop, and went on to rake up the last of the mulched autumn leaves and trim back the helebores to better display their lovely flowers. Every day we've been forecast rain, but so far the afternoons have turned sunny and bright and I've been lured outside, hardly reluctant. There is much to do but I'm taking it all in my stride, not willing to rush but just do what I reasonably can. Leaves and blossom are sprouting everywhere, and in the fields and hedgerows skylarks and other small songbirds are flitting around busily assembling their nests. What a miracle that it never fails to happen.

Sheer Heaven

The heating didn't go on at all yesterday, and only briefly in the kitchen this morning, and the poor near-empty oil tank heaved a sigh of relief. I can't get a refill before 19th April, two whole weeks away, so am rationing my use. How half a tank vanished in just over two months is beyond me, though the extra cold weather might have had something to do with it. Anyway, the point is that the weather was warm and heating wasn't necessary, which was a twofold joy. We even went to the college grounds in the morning for a run, and walked the whole way around which tired out Hugo more than me. I had a lovely potter in the garden with the rake and a bucket for the twigs and leaves left over from the winter tempests, and was almost reluctant to go out. But actually nothing would have stopped me. It was my third chance to see Verdi's Macbeth, this time live from Covent Garden, and it was a masterpiece. Anna Netrebko! Is she human? Magnificent, she was, and so were all the others. I love the opera, my favourite Verdi. But when I found a clip from her performance at the NY Met last year and played it, Hugo rolled over in his bed and put his paws over his ears. Peasant! Next year the ROH are doing La Forza del Destina which I haven't seen for years. The date is in my diary.

Today has been so hot I had to wear a sun hat and put protection on my lips. So much got done. I raked the drive of more winter twigs and leaves, started draining the pond with the electric pump, lifted out all the pots of plants, and mowed the lawn. David spent the afternoon here pruning my Graham Thomas rose which had got out of hand. He's made some trellis suggestions which I shall follow. When he'd sheathed his pruning shears we sat on the bench by the pond in very hot sunshine and drank tea. What a contrast to the weekend, and what hope it offers that spring has finally come. Along the lanes there are abundant primroses, and I was tempted to crouch down and smell a particularly exuberant bunch despite not being sure how I'd get up again. Hugo finally knocked the lump of furry skin off his torn nose with no obvious tearing or bleeding. The vet rang yesterday to see how he was progressing, but hopefully now it can heal without more medical intervention. He's followed me around the garden like Monty's Nigel, dear little fellow.  He loves this weather. Another thing we have in common.

Banalities

Over the past two days I've given the kitchen floor a right royal scrub. I know, you wouldn't think such a banality would be worth mentioning, but it was a high spot for me. It showed I have plenty of oomph, and has helped to restore my self-respect as a housewife. Yesterday I took the boy to the vets to have them do a more professional job of cleaning his clawed nose than I could. I know they have to be tough, those vets, but rubbing an open wound on a little boy who didn't even flinch was almost too much for me. It's looking better now, but I think he'll still be wearing the hated collar when the house fills up with his fans over the weekend. I can't take it off even for a second as he immediately tries to rub his face on my arm or leg, but I've been managing to hold his face in my hands and stroke his neck and head. As he trotted ahead of me down the lane this afternoon, big plastic head bouncing from side to side with his stride, I felt a wave of love for his courage and sweetness.

My oil tank is showing nearly empty just two months after I half filled it. I didn't go for the full load this time as the price of oil was very high and I thought it might go down. Huh! Not only has it not reduced but it's impossible to order any at the moment as the oil companies struggle to fulfill existing orders. I'm trying to ration it, and it's amazing how warm you can be indoors with a fleece and a scarf wrapped many times around your neck. When I do put the Rayburn on it's for the kitchen only while the rest of the house remains cold. But come evening the woodburner gets lit and its comforting blaze makes everything OK. But these light evenings - what a transformation. I'll be going into the sitting room later and later, much preferring to sit in the kitchen with the huge west-facing window and wallow in the evening brightness. What a tonic!

Hors de Combat

On Friday I mowed the lawn, Saturday and Sunday I weeded and tidied up a couple of beds and finished tying the climbing roses on a lateral trellis for maximum flowering, and today I've potted out the first batch of dahlias, the Bishop of Llandaffs. I'm feeling great and have had to almost physically restrain myself from doing more. Tiny steps. I hate the phrase but it's appropriate. In the meantime Hugo got into an altercation with one of Sarah's cats behind the summerhouse and ended up with a torn and bleeding nose. He's back in the Elizabethan collar again and feeling very sorry for himself. I'm feeling very sorry for him too, poor little fellow. And I fear he will now have another scar to add to the many. I didn't actually see what attacked him, but given that he shot up the garden to the back gate at top speed I guess the cat was on the other side, bidding a hasty retreat home. So I've ruled out rat, shrew, water vole and sea eagle. And me? I just have a black arm from cuff to elbow.

Before, perfect

After, blighted

Picture does not do justice

We're home alone again after protracted visits away, and blind alleys in hospital. I still don't know why I have high blood pressure and heart failure, but I'm confident the experts are on to it. In the meantime this sudden burst of excellent health is a wonderful bonus and I'm making the most of it, if gently. This morning we walked the whole way around the field for the first time in ages, in very warm sunshine, and the skylarks lit up the air with their sweet, soaring songs. I couldn't see them, but boy were they loud. In the garden I have almost no bulbs, the squirrel having eaten the masses that I planted, but leaves are coming out, blossom is beginning. David came around on Friday with a present for me, a sarcococca confusa, which has a powerful scent when it flowers in winter and evergreen leaves. I'd admired one in his garden, and this was his delightful response. He stayed for tea, and that was when I discovered that as well as running the Cambridge bookshop Heffers for many years he had also been a gardener. Well. In return for the gift I'm going to allow him to help me with tricky prunings and other ongoing gardening issues. It's the least I can do.

Snippets

So, a whippet won Best in Show at Crufts. Hmmm, need I say more? Best of dogs, most beautiful, most gentle and loving, most adorable. Most sleepy. Well, nobody is perfect, though a dog who likes to snooze a lot is a distinct advantage for an owner with a busy life. My little boy, scarred in various places from unprovoked attacks and misadventures running off after hares, will never win a beauty prize, though he'd surely walk off with any other gong going - nicest nature, most fair and even spreader of love, quickest to succumb to a stroking hand. Last week he weathered several storms, not knowing if he was coming or going, or at least if I was. This weekend he was rewarded with a visit from two of his very favourite people, and had more treats in a couple of days than he normally gets in a month. His wet food has also been changed from an evil-looking sausage of some brawn-like substance that was recommended by the rehoming people and for which I regularly braved Tesco to buy, to a delicacy called Cressida's Kitchen or something equally posh, tasty morsels hand-made by eunuchs in a Bavarian castle. He likes it very much. Thanks visitors. I notice it costs more too.

I'm reading four books currently. That's what happens when rest has been ordered and is being dutifully followed. Firstly, and most entertainingly, is a biography of Molly Keane by her daughter Sally. Molly's works provided the rich background to my PhD thesis. It was an exploration of the subjugation of a nation by its colonisers, brutally for the first few hundred years and then more benignly and subtly, patronising and infantalising instead. Her books, set in the Anglo-Irish "big houses", showed how the violence of the past turned inwards from matriarchs towards children, spinster aunts and governesses, their hapless victims, while the weak men lived their useless lives. My theories fascinated me and I was passionate about them. But eventually I ran out of steam, working largely in a vacuum as PhD students do. I ended up loving all of Molly's books, and Sally's biography is of special interest to me. I'm even quoted in it and acknowledged at the end, but alas she's got my name wrong, Denise Long instead of Laing. My small claim to fame, thwarted. Two of the other books are set in Rawanda after the war and Ethiopia respectively, women struggling to survive in a violent patriarchial world. I didn't choose them, but I can see a pattern here. Both offer fascinating insights into an unknown world. One starts off by saying that her sister has three children by the aid worker who forced her into marriage. Some things don't change then.

My kitchen floor is still desperately in need of a wash. I half did it the other week but ran out of energy. I try not to look too closely. I'm particularly anxious that Hugo might be affronted by it, but he assures me not. To prove his point he'll even walk around the tiles nearest the doormat with muddy feet to show how chilled he is about it. See what I mean about whippets? Lovely people.

Grumps

Waiting at the traffic lights on the way to Waitrose yesterday I watched a family walk past, parents and three kids, one in a pushchair. As the father stared at his phone screen and the mother talked on her phone, the two older children walked ahead, aimless, bored, disconnected. I know I sound like an old crusty - I AM an old crusty - but it is just beyond my comprehension what is going through the minds of these so-called parents. You overhear phone conversations all the time, and they are just rubbish, nothing, idle chitter-chatter. "What ya doin' babe?" "Nothing much, saw Mum this morning, only she was going to the shops ...". Talking to children is never like this if you engage their interest and show yours. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to bury my hand in my hands and weep. All those ignored children who'll soon isolate themselves with their own phones. Personally I never know what to do with the Internet, after I've checked my emails and bank balance, and read the paper. Penny told me to watch a Youtube clip of Peter Sellars on the Michael Parkinson show, so I did. Really, it was hilarious, and what a beautiful voice the guy had. I enjoyed it, but what a waste of time during the day. I went back to sorting out World Peace. Someone has to.

Then the dustmen turned up unexpectedly, delayed from Thursday, and of course I hadn't put my bin out. I would have let it go, but I missed two weeks ago when I was away and it's quite smelly, so I rushed to the front gate and yelled as they emptied my neighbour's. "Well, 'urry up then" a fat grumpy man shouted, and I raced through the house, kicked off my slippers, threw myself into my shoes and ran to the bin. There he was, the refuse collector, standing at the end of the drive waiting. I don't really do racing at the moment, especially with a heavy bin, and couldn't resist venting my irritation. "Where are your nice colleagues today then?" I asked him, emphasis on the word "nice". He looked surprised for a moment, smiled sheepishly and told me they'd gone, they were on other jobs. "Please ask them to come back," I told him sweetly, and he smiled again and nodded. I wouldn't normally have expected any behaviour other than this, but my usual dustmen are the height of kindness and consideration. If I leave big piles of detritus for the garden bin, or cardboard boxes I can't fit in the recycling, they do it for me. One even gives Hugo a treat if he's out. And I tip them generously every Christmas. I hope the Fat Controller is temporary.

The snow has mostly gone, and I'd say we got off lightly. Only a few days of inconvenience after all, though not for everyone I know. I've had an odd sort of day, not at all pleasant. Hassling for things for myself is not my cup of tea, but I knew I had to, and now I have another date for Papworth. All the waiting, the disappointments, and then suddenly the dawning of what it all means and how serious it is, came together in a horrible emotional crescendo. I knew how to deal with it - better out than in. So I played Bellini's I Capulette e i Montecchi and it did the trick. Now I'm feeling as deflated as a pricked balloon, but I'll get the pump out later. There's just no point in avoiding feelings: feel them and they'll pass quicker. I'm the expert.

Biding Time

Still very little traffic on the lane outside, and the surface is lethal, but yesterday evening and this morning we went for lovely walks, trudging in the deep snow at the edge of the tarmac. I cut a large slice of cake for David to make sure I walked a decent distance, all of maybe 300 meters, and his face was a picture when he opened the door, so surprised to see us there. In return he presented me with a packet of chocolate biscuits, this being the one thing I told him on the phone earlier in the week that I craved. I wouldn't go in as it was snowing again and windy, and I was afraid I'd never get home. Hugo was off his lead again, running freely around in the absence of both temptation and danger. This morning we ventured as far as the hill, and it was exhilarating to be out as normal, and to see the dog enjoying the exercise. I thought he'd hate being out in the snow, but he loves it.

It's been another long day, perhaps the longest so far. Tomorrow I'm going out for lunch, and to stock up the larder again. I've run out of odd things like pasta, peanut butter, and my Sunday treat of pain au chocolate. I'll have to pretend tomorrow is Sunday, so keenly do I look forward to this weekly luxury.

I'm reading Alan Bennett's A Life Like Other People's which comes from his Untold Stories, and though I've read it and them before, probably more than once, I'm enjoying them. His parents are an endless source of material for his writing, and his fondness for this odd couple is very touching. He reproduces a photograph of two Aussie soldiers that his Auntie Myra met in India during the war, and his description of one of them is a hoot: "Ossie is weighed down, practically over-balanced, by what, even in the less than skimpy bathing trunks of the time, is a **** of enormous proportions, the bathing costume in effect just a hammock in which is lolling this collossal member." His awe is as funny as the picture.

Small Triumphs

Only a really old friend knows you so well that she'll ring to tell you Joan Baez is going to be on Woman's Hour in a few minutes. And so it was that, completely engrossed in her magnificent voice, and even tolerating the grovelling, rehearsed tones of the oh-so-passe Jenni Murray, I forgot Hugo had popped outside for his duties. He must have been standing at the back door for a good 10 minutes as I relived my musical past, and didn't attempt to attract my attention. He was chilly but fine when I rescued him and covered him in hugs. Then Sarah rang to tell me she was going to try and reach Fram, and did I want anything. At last! Now I shall make the Victoria sponge I've ached for all week, and it shall be fat and high and filled with butter icing and jam. I'm salivating at the thought. I'll even ignore for a moment the fact that I've never managed to achieve a decent cake in my miserable Rayburn oven.

With my premium bonds at full capacity I really expected a goodly win this month, but all I got was a measly £125. It reminds me of a T shirt my little girls had once. It said "My folks went to New York and all I got was this lousy T shirt!" The other one asked "Have you hugged your kid today?" which, back in the early 80s, was quite avant garde.

Jack finally came with the logs. He is a young man fair of face and full of grace, so nice that I didn't mind standing out in the freezing cold chatting to him. For an extra fiver he wheeled the contents of his truck around the garden to the woodshed and stored them for me. Was he related to the famous Fentons who are known throughout this part of Suffolk? Yes. Ray the chimney sweep is his uncle, and John Lockwood who now works with Ray is his son-in-law, Jack's cousin by marriage. I asked about Sam Fenton, a charming chap who delivered logs to us as we sojourned in Westleton who cheerfully explained the three missing fingers on his right hand. The 'forester' he was using to split the wood got stuck, and so he reached in to clear it. Jack's dad, Sam's brother, was with him at the time and took him to hospital. He kept nearly fainting, encouraged on by the victim. It hasn't stopped Sam. They are a huge family, 13 boys in Jack's father's generation, all working on the land or in self-employed trades. Lots of them have done jobs for me and I've liked them all. Jack will be back to cut my hedge. Another good find.

Snoooow

I had a sudden terrible thought last night: if Charles hadn't had any children, the crown would have eventually passed to Andrew, and then to one of his daffy daughters. Imagine Beatrice, her of the massive puppy eyes, gawping toothy mouth and thick head, taking on the mantle of our Queen, with Fergie as the Queen Mother, the Cinderella story gone haywire! I don't know where this came from, but this scenario struck me as being so awful that the monarchy and the country with it would have collapsed within weeks, amid guffaws from the rest of the world. Thank heavens for solid, decent, reliable, dutiful, responsible William and his sensible wife. This is not a subject that normally preoccupies me, but having now watched both series of the brilliant, eminently watchable The Crown on Netflix, and already longing for the third, I can't help being relieved that we struck gold with Elizabeth when we could have had her stupid, selfish uncle. Love them, loathe them or be completely indifferent, they're a part of British life.


David rang earlier to check that I was OK and to discuss our respective reading matter. He's got my copy of the absorbing Crossways in his bedroom and is rediscovering the five Melrose books by Edward St Aubin downstairs, which made me want to read them again. Mine are Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking upstairs, and a certain novel called Crudo for the daytime. It was quite appropriate that he should chek on me rather than the other way around. Although we are both 69, he is 4 months older than me. He wanted to know if I have enough food and sufficient logs, but hadn't realised that I have very efficient central heating. Well, I do have all my needs met apart from something along yummy lines, like cake, or the Co-op's chocolate biscuits. But it won't kill me to do without. Penny also rang to see what conditions are like up here, and reported that Framlingham is snowbound and they can't get down their road at all. It seems too that the road from here to Fram is blocked by huge snow drifts. I've barely seen a vehicle all day, but that's fine by me. Though I wouldn't want to be completely cut off and like to see a bit of life around me, the absence of noise and people is lovely for now. Hugo is mildly bemused by the change to our routine, but if it means more sleeping time he's good with that.

White Out

I was startled by the unlikely sound of children laughing and shouting merrily when I opened the window in the back bedroom this morning to admire the snow and feel the temperature. They were way down the lane, a small group with sledges which they were hauling up the hill to fly down again. It looked and sounded very jolly, the laughter travelling across the fields easily though I needed my binos to see them. The schools must be closed, and there has been very little traffic past the house. Everywhere looks pristine, a good few inches of snow covering the ground and the roofs. Apart from the children's voices there is no sound, the world muffled and asleep. Sitting in my cosy house with a pile of unread books, food in the fridge and freezer, and a contented dog lying by my side, it's easy to feel lucky. I try to ignore other troubles and focus on these positives. Hugo hasn't lingered when I've sent him out to perform his duties, but eventually the enforced inactivity got too much, and I wrapped us both up and ventured outside. The snow is soft and powdery, and so thick that it was easy to walk without slipping. I left Hugo off the lead and he scampered ahead, running on the tyre tracks where the snow has compacted and skidding on his long legs. We didn't stay out for long but it was worth it.

I've been topping up the bird feeders as fast as they are emptied, and currently a large female blackbird is sitting on the window tray both sheltering from the snow that is now whirling around again, and eating the seeds. It's amazing that the birds survive these cold temperatures, along with the poor old hares squatting low in the fields. My log man rang to say he couldn't deliver as expected today but will try again tomorrow. I think I've got enough to last until the weekend, but with central heating the woodburner is a luxury really.Then my hairdresser called to say she was trapped in her village and I wouldn't be getting my hair cut tomorrow. Ah well, better wash it myself then.

As I sat on the kitchen sofa with my computer on my lap and the lights on around me I suddenly caught sight of my reflection. But as I looked more closely I could see that I was wearing a man's shirt and tie, with a smart jacket over the top. I froze, trying to make sense of what I saw, and when I tilted the laptop slightly, James Joyce's face came into view. I had been seeing the reflection of the painting behind me, not myself. Oh, the relief. Me and Hugo were still alone.