Mirror Mirror ...

I'm still playing a waiting game in the garden. The lawn has supposedly been killed off but it sure looks green and luxuriant to me. Still, nothing daunted I went on a plant-buying spree after Val had left today. She told me of a very well-developed freemontedendron that she had spotted in her local garden centre, and I duly went and claimed it. It will go against the black corrugated iron wall, well set back from the garden and sheltered by the outhouses and the jutting out part of the house, aka the downstairs loo. Coming from California it will love the shelter from the winds and the frosts, and the full blast of sun it will get for much of the year. I'm looking forward to seeing the profusion of yellow flowers against the black background.

I also bought a Hypericum 'Hidcote', more yellow flowers, for somewhere towards the summerhouse. And 15 wallflowers, assorted yellows and reds - yes, I LOVE yellow in the garden. Winter-flowering pansies too, and some dark blue miniature irises. These will go on the layered planting I intend to do in one of my big pots, starting with tulips, then daffs, followed by the irises and topped with pansies. This will give colour from now until May. Thanks for the tip Monty.

Val and I moved a chaenomeles from a pot where it was a bit miserable to a nice open, sunny spot against the oil tank trellis. There it can do its own thing or suffer being espaliered depending on how I feel when it starts to spread. Spending money in garden centres is just not spending money as far as I'm concerned, and it has no limits imposed on it. Keep your shopping centres, your clothes and your trendy things. I'm a plants woman.

And so to my final stop this afternoon, the wonderful antique centre at Marlesford. There I bought no fewer that four mirrors, three to hang in the 'room with no name', and one for the hall. I'm not much of a one for looking in mirrors, which would explain why I walked through the whole place, thousands of square feet of Aladdin's Cave goodies, and saw not a single mirror. When I went back for another look I spotted literally hundreds. I just didn't see them the first time. Not a narcissist then.

Parliamo Italiano?

First Italian Conversation class yesterday evening, and it was fun. The teacher is from Cuba, so her first language is Spanish. She's lively and fun - just what you need to get everyone relaxed and interacting with each other. My brain was hurting by the end, but so much of the language is familiar from opera that it doesn't feel too strange. I'm going to do as much homework as I can: I'm determined not to be the dunce of the class.

There's a lady there I've already met, though I only recognised her at first by her very odd name, and I'm sure she won't recognise me. I was introduced to her at a party as we apparently had being Irish in common. "How do you do?" she asked me in her cut glass accent. "I believe you're Aahrish like me." (????????????????). "I am indeed," I replied, dropping into a bit of the auld sod talk, an honest bogtrotter. "And sure where is it now that you're after being from yourself, at all, at all?" Not quite, but a bit. "My people have owned Kilkenny Castle since the days of Cromwell," she told me. "I'm descended from" (and here she named some English blighters who were given land stolen from the Kings of Tara, and went on to rule the country before Independence. I couldn't repeat their names). "Oh how interesting," I said. "I'm descended from Red Hugh O'Neill and Nial of the Nine Hostages, the High Kings of Ireland." And as my father would have added "and the seven snotty orphans". I do hope she won't remember me.

More lawn developments. John from Armagh (proper Oirish him) was coming tomorrow to rotovate the grass before removing it and laying the new lawn. But he didn't realise that there is still meadowgrass growing there, and it would have been scattered everywhere only to grow again. Now someone is coming to kill the stuff tomorrow instead, then John will come next week to remove the dead stuff and re-lay. And so it goes on. I'm going to put bags over my new shrubs before the sprayer comes or they'll be murdered too. I could murder someone, though a blood-spattering tool would be more satisfying than poison. And so I continue in a state of near-sanguinity, rolling with the punches, dreaming of the day when I can properly make my garden. And I miss my little friend and her cheering antics. I nearly added that you can't have everything. Hunfgh!

Human Frailties

I'm with my sister who's in plaster from toe to hip - a hinge allows some knee bending - and getting around with a zimmer and a wheeled office chair. Progress is slow as can be imagined, though it'll get faster with practice. She has been feeling nauseous all day, but given that she's eaten next to nothing since Tuesday and has been pumped full of drugs that's hardly surprising. I've just witnessed her injecting into her stomach before she went to sleep, a prophylactic against DVT apparently. A tight white sock on her good leg is an added precaution. They think of everything these days. She can't put weight on the broken leg for six weeks, and will be in plaster for at least twelve. No driving, no shopping, no outings that haven't been pre-planned by someone else.

All of this is quite disturbing, and leaves you feeling distinctly uneasy. Breaking a leg very badly is not fun at any age, but when you live alone it takes on added complications. Luckily she has good neighbours after over 30 years in the same house, and willing friends nearby to call on, though she's seriously independent and almost pathologically resistant to asking for help. All emergency services are close at hand. My situation is very different. I've lived in my remote rural village for a mere seven months, and the nearest hospital is over 20 miles away. Ambulances respond to emergency calls in the countryside, of course they do, but getting to hospital speedily with a life-threatening or merely painful problem is never going to happen. And as for the day-to-day tribulations of living by yourself with a major handicap, who knows? Better not to project into an imaginary future, but rather be careful and live optimistically.

But when things do go wrong, the comfort of a loving, familiar presence is of incalculable value. The kindness of strangers is humbling to witness and heartwarming to receive. In times of crisis it can make the impossible possible. But there's nothing like someone you can call your own, in one way or another, someone who has seen you at your best and worst, being there for you when you're at your most vulnerable. We do this for each other when it's necessary. It's called family, and it can be worth its weight in bullion.

Shocks and Sparks

What a difference a day makes, 24 little hours. So the song goes, true to life. Heavy mist lifted early to reveal a view as tidy and organised as patchwork. The sun shone on the brown fields, tilled and tilled again until they nearly glistened, everything worked over ready for the next stage in the farming calendar. I watch the tractors making their slow passage up and down the fields and marvel at the transformative neatness of their work. There was just enough breeze for a fire, and so I set one in the drive again. Within a few hours all my garden rubbish had turned to ashes. It's astonishingly enjoyable, burning rubbish. I had to remember not to park the car on top of the embers when I returned much later, the dark so impenetrable I had to feel my way to the gate, and then the door. My torch battery was dead, neglected in the car all summer.

And then a phone call from my sister to tell me she'd broken her leg. Only a few hours earlier she'd emailed to wish me a good day in the garden and now she'd fallen while stepping from a wall to a chair. It turns out the leg is very badly broken on and just below the knee joint, and a conservative estimate is three months on crutches. And so her planned visit tomorrow will take on a different hue: instead of her driving up here I'll go down there and bring her back when her leg has been pinned. Being single again, the scariness of what happens when something goes badly wrong is not lost on me, and so I completely understood her emotional phone call this morning, thanking me for being there.

At least we're not Blanche DuBois. God, her plight was wretched. Gillian Anderson, her voice a classic Tennessee Williams high-pitched Southern drawl, part Plantation heritage part booze part fags, brought her to uncomfortable, agonising life last night in the cinema live from the Young Vic. Her reputation ruined, her teaching career gone to the dogs thanks to a fling with a young student, her beauty ravaged, alone, penniless, increasingly unhinged, and now humiliated by her brother-in-law, the vile Stanley, she faced a terrible future. Her raw delivery tore into the audience, pinning us to our seats in horror at what we were witnessing. Great theatre - it mirrors and magnifies our lives and imperfections. There's nothing to beat it.

Back to Normal

I've emptied my pockets of dog treats, shaken out the crumbs. The chewed twigs and branches deposited all over the lawn have been collected, as have the tasty clods of earth, the big stones, the stalks of dead plants. I found a few stray old poos delicately secreted behind the compost box, and they'll make good manure since they're probably made up of other dog poos anyway. There are few signs left that a little dog ever lived here: some muddy paw prints on the garden room windowsill where she tried to see who was inside, and lots of muddy footprints on the weed screen over the veg bed. "Off!" I used to cry, "this is not a good place for you to be." "Don't be silly" her look would say. "It's perfect for chewing this spiky bit of wood, and so warm underneath me. A bit flimsy, but when I make holes I can move a bit further along." And so she stayed, happy as a sandgirl.

I never had a problem having a dog, just that dog. Poor little Sasha, sweet and eager and full of energy as she was, loveable and cute, she was too much for me.

What did I do with all this unaccustomed freedom? I power hosed the terrace and the concrete under the summerhouse. I dug over and raked the bed by the corrugated fence. I hung out the washing, not one dog towel or dog-dirtied garment of mine amongst it. I had a leisurely lunch in the summerhouse with the crossword. I finished painting the front of the garage. I went shopping for milk and chocolate, for once not stopping at the pet shelves for treats. I ambled and sniffed and ruminated. Then I rang Mary to check if Sasha was OK, and she told me the little creature was quite at home, friends with the other dogs, even the bossy chiahuahua. She slept the last two nights, as she always will, in the big bed with four other dogs (the chiahuahua sleeps on the parents' bed) and there wasn't a peep out of her all night. Her collar is off, and she stuck with the others when they went for walks. She got biffed by the cats a couple of times, but Mary thinks she's learned to be more respectful of them.

How do I feel about all of this? I'm thrilled for her of course, delighted that this is such a suitable home. She will have friends to play with all day, and when she's tired she can crash in the communal bed. Mary says that her being so friendly and happy is a tribute to me, and certainly she wasn't like that when I took her on. I'll take comfort from the crumbs offered. But how I wish it could have turned out differently. My heart lurches when I think about her firm little sandy body, her dear black face, her squiggly frown that quickly becomes smooth and transforms her face, her ecstatic leaping in the air mid-run just for the sheer pleasure of it. I'm jealous of their good fortune in being able to provide what she wants and needs. And I'm cross that my desire to shape a future with a dog for company will now not come about. And so my dog days are over. Like my salad days.

Priorities

So, I've had a cull of my bookmarked websites. It was an interesting list. "Ten Best Toys For Dogs": how to keep your dog from being bored, and to challenge them at the same time. "Baskerville Muzzle" - this was in a desperate attempt to eliminate the poo-eating, but abandoned as being just too mean to inflict on a dog who loves to put everything in her mouth and then spit out the uninteresting things, though there weren't many that fell into that category: blackberries, fallen sloes, plums and hips, stones, twigs, leaves, clods of earth, hay, straw - these were among the acceptable things she picked up. "Dog Food Search Results", which led to me ordering a massive sack of cold-pressed dry food milled in Germany, defined by researchers as the best available. "Pack Leader - this has to be YOU". The list of dog-related items went on and on, but I've deleted them all now. I suppose it says as much about me as the dog. Anxious, determined to do the right thing, constantly looking for answers when problems arose, insistent that everything would work out fine, I piled the pressure on myself. I think it's probably what I do. It's been an illuminating experience, but one I would prefer not to have had. They say it always ends in tears, but I disagree. I chose the 'fat lady sings' finale, and I played some Mozart arias sung by Deborah Voigt before she shed a few tons, so that's OK.

Coming down this morning at 6.45 to an empty house was not a distressing experience. I am nowadays if not necessarily by nature a quiet person. I take much pleasure in the things that are done silently, like gardening, reading, doing the crossword. I like to take my time. The radio has its place, but often a whole day goes by without it's company and I don't even notice. Music, too, can be absent without being missed, and the television doesn't go on every night. Accommodating an insistent, demanding little person was a challenge for me that I rose to. And so I would come down in the mornings dressed but unwashed, and be out of the door for the necessaries to be performed before the kettle had boiled for my tea. Back indoors, balls were brought to me to throw, soft toys were thrust at me to play tug with, a firm little body was pressed against my leg as a reminder that strokes were vital and had to happen NOW! It didn't come naturally to me when at that hour I preferred to read the paper online. But I did as she wanted, I rarely pushed her away. I loved it.

Now I can go back to how I was. I haven't worn my dressing gown for around 90 days, but that's come out again. I can regulate my days as I want to without having to plan for another person. I'm not saying it's better, but it's how it is. And I'm not going to feel bad about it. I had already thrown away that T shirt.

And Then There Was One

These are photographs of Sasha's new home and some of her new siblings. I honestly and truly believe she will be happy here, happier than she would have been with me. It's a farm for God's sake. She's going to sleep in the kitchen beside the Aga with some of the other dogs. No more cage. No more wiping feet when she comes indoors. She can eat dogs' poo for breakfast, lunch and dinner if she wants, with tasty snacks in between. She can roll in fox poo and nobody will rush her into the bath. Hare's legs? Eat the whole hare if she likes, even if it's been dead for weeks. I doubt she'll ever go into town, or even need to be walked on a lead. She'll have the run of the place, surely every little dog's idea of heaven. I know from her time at Happidays that she loves the company of other dogs.

Me? I feel a bit wretched, disappointed, my dream of having a little dog completely scuppered. I've tried, I really have. For three months I've struggled with her behaviour and with much hard work got her back to being a nice, affectionate, happy little creature. I've put her before the garden, spending a fortune on fencing to keep her safe, not caring if she dug holes, sat on top of plants, made rat runs through expensive shrubs. I've delighted in seeing her joy at being free, being able to fly around if she wanted, or flop on something comfortable when she got too hot, even if it was the weed-screening sheet which her claws tore holes in. It was the price to pay for having a dog, and I willingly paid it. I decided that NOTHING in the garden was out of bounds to her.

Indoors it was the same. She loved to snuggle up against me on any one of my five sofas, including the summerhouse one, and I let her, willingly. Though I wiped her feet when she came in wet and muddy, still they were not clean but it didn't matter - after all the kitchen tiles didn't show the dirt. I bought a huge cage so that she'd have room to manoeuvre at night and be comfortable. I brought her with me when I went most places, knowing she preferred to be left in the car than at home, despite what the puppy training people told me, and often at huge inconvenience to myself. I so, so badly wanted it to work out after a difficult start, but every time I thought we'd got there another problem arose.

What broke the camel's back? It wasn't the poo eating, though that was horrible and worrying. In the end it was the day she rolled in the fox excrement, again, and ended up stinking to high heaven. On the same walk, free as always, running and skipping like a Bambi, she found the hare's leg, rotten and smelly, and kept running past me with it in her mouth, dropping down in front of me, and chewing the leg, crunching the bones. Nothing I could do would get her away from it. Not even the lovely sausages I bought for her. I couldn't catch her, and she ended up running across the lane into the garden. She could have been run over and hurt or killed, or caused one of the many cyclists who use the lane to crash off their bike.

I had to put her straight in the bath, a lovely hot one with nice soapy shampoo. But overactive after her exhilarating freedom, she struggled and fought, and I was left exhausted as well as soaked. I just didn't have the strength for her, and unless I curtailed her freedom and walked her on a lead, baths were going to be a frequent occurrence.

The whole point of getting a dog was to walk, and those walks were not fun anymore, for me at least. I had to admit failure. The animal rescue people found this new home for her. It's a beautiful farmhouse surrounded by fields and woods. They love dogs, and wanted a replacement for an old Jack Russell that had died. She ran into their kitchen, ecstatic as always to meet new people and other dogs. Mary, her new owner, told me she was going to take them all for a walk in the fields. None of them wear collars as there is no need. They don't wander off because they are pack animals and stay together. This was going to be her new life, and as I deposited all of her paraphernalia and took my leave she was excitedly playing with a sheepdog, elbows down and hindquarters up, tail wagging wildly. She didn't notice me going, and I honestly don't think she'll miss me.I'll ring in a few days to check that she's OK, but I already know the answer.

Vunderbar

What an absolutely wonderful day we've had. Have we spoken to anyone all day? No, not a soul. But it's been the sort of hot, still day when being outside is the only place, and working in the garden is the only possible pursuit. I've moved from bed to bed, still on my mammoth task of clearing stones and transporting them to the drive, but also weeding, raking, plotting and scheming. Tomorrow the two areas of trellis will go up, and they should help to provide a framework, a backdrop for my planting. We've picked two huge tupperware pots of plums from the trees at the end of the garden. Many of them were so ripe they fell into the ditch from whence I can't retrieve them without risking life and limb, but we got ourselves a good haul. My assistant, I noticed, ate more than she put in the pot. In fact I didn't see her put any in the pot now I think about it. The freezer is nicely bulging with produce, and some good autumn and winter crumbles and pies will be made for visitors.

I knew I shouldn't have washed the dog at 90 degrees- poor shrunken Sasha

I had to come in in the end before I did my back, neck, hands, elbows and, newly, my knees any permanent damage.The bath beckons. Sasha is asleep on the doormat. We are at peace.

Carpe Diem

Oh, what a perfect day. The early sky a brilliant, flawless blue bubbling up later with tiny ragged puffs from Helen Macdonald's fag (https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=553807433670&set=a.553806400740.2223145.36916331&type=1&theater). Not a murmur of air, barely a sound apart from an unidentified (as yet) bird that emits an erratic staccato from its hidden perch. Sasha doesn't know what to make of it. We linger on the terrace for the first cup of tea, then after breakfast we're off down the hill, up the hill, then down the other side. Is this the same dog who appeared in my life nearly three months ago? She's on the extended lead, and glances back at me for approval every now and again, her doe eyes gentle and trusting. "Good girl" I say every time, "You're Mama's good little girl." It might make Ruth want to puke, but I can't help it, it's just me. The views are breathtaking, the morning an absolute peach. We both breathe in its loveliness with deep satisfaction.

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The new shrubs planted

Back home I tackle the area where the trellis will cover the oil tank tomorrow. After a burst of energy which involves digging up all her bones from their secret hiding places (don't think about a career in MI5 Sasha) and flying around the garden as if a hornet were after her, the dog settles down beside me in a long relaxed stretch. She watches, she bats the occasional insect, she closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. I move to the front for a rest on the bench which is just coming into sunlight, and she follows, drops to the ground, rests her head on some soft leaves overlapping the path, and watches me through half closed eyes. I move back to the digging, and she drags herself after me, flopping down again near my feet. Oh Monty Don, eat your hearty out! This is what I dreamed of but didn't imagine would happen for another ten years or so. Wonderful little dog, ideal copmpanion.

Not yesterday she wasn't though. Running through the fields, taking big deer-like leaps every two or three steps in what looked like sheer exhileration, she found what must have been fox poo and rolled in it. And rolled in it again. The small pieces of delicious sausages I carry around with me now (Bramley apple flavoured, two packets for £5 in Waitrose) lured her away, but the smell was horrible. I tried administering a dry shampoo when we got home but she smelled worse - fox poo and some disgusting fake perfume - so it had to be the bath. She's very good in there, quite enjoying the hot water around her feet and on her body. But she has to shake herself, it's what wet dogs do. At least I ended up with a clean bathroom floor. Back downstairs, after my supper, she came into the sitting room as usual to snuggle up on the sofa. But all the activities of the day had exhausted her and she sat looking at me, bewildered. "Are you ready for your beddybyes?" I asked her, and carried her unprotesting to her crate. She was out like a light.

Losing Things

I wrote two long blogs on the same day, bursting to record things, and blow me if I didn't lose them both. I could mostly remember what I'd said, but couldn't summon up the energy to write it all again. Much of it was about going to four garden centres and buying loads of plants, and then bumping into a friend from Wilby days who I didn't recognise. "Hello Denise!" he called out, and I looked at him, and I looked at the woman with him, and would have sworn on my life I'd never seen either of them before. But it was Nick of Nick and Matthew, with a beard, a grey beard though he's no more than mid 40s. "Look, I've grown a beard and you didn't know me", he laughed, and kissed me on both cheeks. Very soft beard. Woman was a client. Between the four garden centres I bought nearly everything on my list. And at the weekend I planted them. All very satisfying, and parts of the garden looking progressive.

But not the lawn, oh no. That is going to have to come up and be replaced. The thought of all that disruption is horrible, but it must be endured. The treated grass is looking dreadful, and even the prospect of having all my money returned is not enough to persuade me to keep it. The new one won't be laid until the end of the month, so in the meantime I'm preparing the other beds, and trying to work out a new shape for the grass. I definitely want much less, but where can I do without it? Hopefully the next few weeks will give me time to get it right.

I've been gathering blackberries, one of my favourite activities of the year. I thought it was a dismal crop until I  came across the best I've seen in ages just behind Alys's house. Sasha and I had been on a long, long walk last Sunday after bridge with Judy, David and Caroline. It was a bit of a gamble because I had no idea if the circle we made would lead us back home or not. It got tricky when we came to a ditch, but small puppy and stiff old bag leapt it together, and we were on our way back. Early next morning we returned with a tupperware box to reap the harvest. Sasha pottered around me off the lead, every now and then finding her own low crop and scoffing them off the prickly branches. What a funny dog she is, the reincarnation of Snoopy. She has so many of the same characteristics. Anyway, I was woken at 7am by terribly noisy tractors, and to my horror I saw that they were cutting the hedges. Again Sasha and I shot off to rescue the rest of the blackberries before they vanished for good. Farmers: they're never happy with the status quo but always have to go changing things. Shifting sands. You can never be complacent.