Naturally Not

The new drive doesn't look natural. It looks just like tarmac, but it's gritty and dirty and feels more like the kind of slack you used to get in the bottom of the sack of coal. And it's smooth. And it's dark grey, aka black. How did this happen? Do I have to research every single detail of every single thing I have done? I didn't know there were different gradings of planings, different colours for heavens sake. I rang Tim whose company did the job, nice Wilby Tim who once tried to get off with me. Old Tim (76?). Same old story. Anyway, he blustered and wittered but I held firm. This is not what David had done, I said. I told you I wanted it to be like David's. I was very nice. In Wilby they all think I'm very nice so I have a reputation to maintain. I just want you to be happy he said. Leave it for a few days and see if you are better pleased with it then. And if not then I'll come and lay some stones on top, or some crushed concrete. Give me a ring on Wednesday when you're back.

Just the end to finish off

What a relief. I woke at 5 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep for worrying about it. But then a funny thing happened as I planted daffodil bulbs in baking sunshine. A man stopped his van and came into the garden. He'd just laid a drive in Church Farm 100 yards down the lane, he told me, and he'd seen mine going down. He thought I needed some nice hot tar and then a layer of shingle going on top of the planings. What would you charge for that, I asked? £2,300, he said. I spluttered, and said You're joking! No, he said, why? Well, I've had the drive dug out and cleared with a JCB, and then these planings laid, for a fraction of what you just quoted. If I buy enough stone to go on top it will cost me £160 for 20mm 'uns. He looked at me with admiration. You know your stuff he said. If he only knew. But not a fraction, surely he said. How much do you reckon it cost me then, I quizzed him? £2k, he guessed? Nothing like, I said. £1500? No, I scoffed. Not £1000, surely?, and he went on to tell me the individual cost of hiring a JCB for the day, labour, diesel etc. Much less, I said, and when I told him the price - £450 cash, know what I mean - he was clearly staggered. Well, he said, I've known that bugger Tim for years and years, and if he did it for that price you must be very good friends with him, that's all I can say.

Oh no. Forget it Tim. I'm not interested. I'm a nun now. Hail Mary, Holy Mother of God. Go away. Leave me alone. I'll call Reverend Mother.

Just Drive Away

I've bitten the bullet and decided to get my drive done. Not some fancy paving, or even tarmac - this isn't Surrey. Instead I'm having it levelled and topped with planings; these are the ground and chipped road surfaces that are cleared when new roads are built. It'll look natural and, oh bliss, there will be no mud, dips, puddles or grass to mow. Visiting friends won't moan, and then leave their cars across the road. It'll still be hazardous to back into the lane, or even go out frontways which I never do. There is poor visibility until you are actually sticking out, so it all has to be done slowly to avoid hitting passing cyclists. I could position a mirror opposite, giving a clear view of the lane in either direction, but you know what? I'm not going to.

Anyway, here we are at midday on Friday. Richard from Weybread, 10 miles or so  away and close to the Norfolk border, is doing the job. He's a dab hand with the JCB, smoothing and levelling the ground like I might do with a trowel. And he has lovely hair. I told him this, the second time I've done that this week. I know that's weird, but I accosted a man in Tesco car park on Wednesday and asked him if he was a Man With a Van and he was! He's agreed to go to Great Yarmouth to collect the new headboard I bought off Ebay for £10. It's a beauty, but it wasn't going to fit in my car. Anyway, Quint also has lovely long hair. I told both him and Richard that many women would kill for their hair, and they both did the same thing: they touched their beautiful tresses and smiled. Suffolk men are lovely. They don't have that 'attitude' that makes those further north and south a bit prickly, a bit chippy. Richard said it himself when I told him I wouldn't be here on Monday when he comes to finish off. "That's alright, you can trust me. I'm just a good old Suffolk buouy."

Here's Richard, for the record. He was happy to pose for a picture. So far everyone I've asked has agreed with charm and grace, as if they found nothing odd about it. I only wished I'd snapped Sid, but I guess he'll be back.

A storm in a Teacup

The tail end of Hurricane Gonzalo continues to batter the country, but the drenching rain of earlier today has long since passed leaving bright skies and the merest wisps of skudding cloud. I had to get out, despite hearing that a woman had been killed by a falling tree in Knightsbridge. Of all places, that would have been lowest on my list of likely accidents, but London is full of plane trees. Down past Farmer Alys's place I was accosted at high speed by what at first looked like a Dobermann Pinscher. God, I thought, is this it? But it was a very large puppy, and it threw itself at me, gangling forelegs struggling to get a hold. Good dog, I tried to say confidently. What a nice dog you are. A sharp voice drew it reluctantly away, and the jacket is now in the washing machine. What's a bit of mud when it could have been blood?

On I marched through the soft grass, my 50ft-long shadow just to the left of me. There were no fewer than seven dreaming hares in the lower field, in group of three and four, faces to the sun. Please don't move, I muttered under my breath. I won't hurt you. Don't you know me yet? But they scarpered anyway, vanishing over the rise towards my house. I hate to disturb them when they're comfortable. On the lane things suddenly got a bit more hairy. Lined all the way to my house with oak trees, its surface was littered with the gnarled limbs that had fallen since yesterday, and I realised I could be in trouble. They waved wildly above me as I wove a path between them, trying to keep upwind of them, and behind me I could hear occasional crashing and splintering. I made it back safely of course. Prevaricating with pencil-sharpening or making cups of tea when you're supposed to be revising Italian is acceptable, just. Getting concussed by a falling branch is a bit OTT.

Allusions of Grandeur

In a petrol filling station on Sunday with Olivia. Her sitting in the car, me coming out of the shop after paying. Man in oily dungarees coming towards me stops: "Your daughter," he drawls, deepest Suffolk accent, indicating the car with a nod of the head, "she's the spittin' image of tha young 'oman in Downton Abbey." Do you mean Lady Mary? I ask. He nods, appreciatively. "Tha's the one," he says. You're not the first person to comment on a likeness, I tell him, and he moves on with a smile of satisfaction and a sigh of, what, longing?

I tell Olivia. "I saw him staring at me. Just because I'm pale, have dark hair and a pointed nose doesn't make me look like Lady Mary," she complains. "She's a horrible woman, mean and tight-faced. I hope I don't really look like her."

I don't think there's any resemblance. Lady Mary never tidies my larder. Edna O'Brien now maybe. She's pretty handy around the house.

Off Again

My guest has gone, leaving behind a vase of beautiful deep pink roses and the scent of lilies. We've done the antique shops, eaten lunch in the sun, drunk a few glasses of Adnam's Broadside, walked through the autumnal fields, and cooked up a feast of a Sunday evening roast. The weather has been unseasonable warm and sunny, the threatened deluge a non-starter. The trip to the station for the train, the fond farewells, the sinking feeling alone in the car again which quickly passes - it's the usual end of a happy, companionable weekend.

Another mirror has been bought - my sixth and by far the biggest. For someone who never looks at her reflection I have an awful lot of opportunities for narcissism in my house now. The newest one, five feet by one metre to mix my genres, will hang in the room with no name. If that doesn't reflect the light nothing will. But this is serious, weighty mirrorage, and will need expert hanging. I don't want to bring walls tumbling down, not after I've painted and all.

The new lawn is looking thick and healthy, but I still can't walk on it thanks to the heavy overnight showers of the past two weeks. And so I continue to slither around the muddy edges which will soon be fluffed up and filled with shrubs and plants. My new vegetable beds have been discussed and planned, and next week I will order the wood to create the raised beds. It doesn't get more delicious than this, or more exciting.

Schmoozing the Village

I went to the village harvest supper last night with my weekend guest. To say I had reservations would be an understatement: new to the village, knowing very few people, I had no idea how friendly they would be. We arrived in pitch blackness, no moon, and peering through the windows into the stark light we were amazed, speechless. Two huge tables running in parallel lines the length of the hall were packed with people, already eating. We looked at each other, eyes wide. Oh God, had we made a terrible mistake? But in we marched to be met by near silence, no animated conversation, no arm waving or gesticulations. Just the noiseless sight of people chomping stolidly. They looked up as we came in, and someone gestured to spare seats which we quickly took opposite each other. Our plates were already in front of us, ham salads tightly covered in cling film. A man - I recognised him as the chairman of the parish council, Tim - came up with a tray of baked potatoes and we took one each. No drinks - the bar was unmanned and we didn't want to make a fuss. Nobody spoke to us, they just concentrated on their food. We caught each other's eye and signalled wry concern. And I realised in a flash what was wrong: at similar functions in our previous village the whole demographic was represented, the chattering middle classes outnumbering the long-term residents. Here it was just the snaggle-toothed locals, as my guest observed. Decent, worthy, but devoid of the sort of social graces that make these events sparkle.

So we did what you do, threw ourselves into the spirit of the occasion. Like pros we chatted up the people on either side of us, drawing them out. Soon we had established rapports with several of them, and we relaxed and started to enjoy ourselves. Eventually tables were cleared to make a dance space, and some of our supper companions became The Brotherhood - two ageing men from Felixstowe who set up their music and sang their 60s repertoire. The two jolly (after several huge glasses of wine) ladies next to us suggested we started up a backing group, and so we swayed from side to side singing the words we remembered from first time around, doing little hand jives.

A beautiful young man sitting across the narrow hall from us had been tapping his feet, drumming his thighs, and soon he was a solitary presence on the dance floor, seemingly unaware of the rest of us, throwing himself into an ecstasy of movement. He was tall, fluid, graceful and dreamy-eyed, black hair flopping across his forehead. He was still dancing when other couples got up to join him. But while they were having a laugh or seriously waltzing, he continued to dance for himself, as unselfconscious as a child. Who was he? I can't wait to pop across the road to see my friends Sue and David and do a bit of post-event analysis. Surely gossip hasn't died out as a village art?

An Everyday Story of Country Folk

Two people have had a strong impact on me today. First Sid, the lugubrious, kind mole catcher. He came to check up on me, and to remove a trap he'd left behind. How are you? he asked me, still in my dressing gown at 9.10. I'm fine, I told him, having a bit of a slow start today. How are you? Not doing too well, he told me, voice heavy with pathos, lips and massive tombstone teeth in a constant struggle with each other for supremacy and both usually losing out. Having a bit of a bad time. Oh, what's the matter? I asked him, concerned. Hernia, he said sadly. It's painful alright, but I can't do nothing about it. I'd need to be off work for about eight weeks if they did the operation, but I can't stay away from the job that long. Get no money see. Oh dear, I replied. Can't they do anything else for you? I was thinking of T S Eliot with his truss, and an essay I once wrote at university about how his hernia had an impact on The Wasteland. It earned a First, but Sid wouldn't have been interested in my fascinating theory. He told me a few years ago that he was giving up his house and moving in with his sister. It made financial sense for both of them. He's never married, and he always seems a bit lost, following his solitary and unsavoury career of pest controller. The doctor had told him to rest, he said, but he couldn't do that either, and his job requires much painful bending. Oh Sid, I wish I could help.

The other encounter was with Sylvia who lives at the far end of the village. Walking past her cottage I stopped to chat with her and admire her flowers. She's a large lady, very disabled and walks with the aid of sticks. By her side was the most revolting dog, a Neapolitan Mastiff apparently, massive, solid, drooling from fat slobbering chops. "Beware of Mad Dog" the notice on the fence said, and I needed no prodding. But looking past Sylvia for a moment I could see what looked like a lake just beyond the house. "Is that a pond?" I asked, and she invited me in to see it. She said the dog would be OK if I stayed near her, but she didn't sound too confident. Legs wobbling, mouth suddenly dry, I reluctantly opened the gate, my interest greater than my fear. And there was this huge expanse of water taking up nearly all the garden. I asked if it was natural or man made. And she told me that her cottage, a pretty brick and flint one, had once been two cottages of many owned by a local bigwig. He'd had the pond dug out to supply water to the villagers not just here but Badingham, Bruisyard, and Sweffling too. The pond was at least as deep as the house, she said, and it never ran dry. Sylvia had moved there as a four-year-old to be fostered, but the couple who took her in took a shine to her and she stayed. When they died they left her the house, and she's been there ever since, some seventy years. The house had no electricity or water supplies in those days, she told me. It was dark, damp, cold and miserable, but to her it was paradise.

Ah, people. They tug at your heart strings, especially the ones who open up to you spontaneously and reveal themselves to you. Sylvia and Sid. I wonder if they would like each other?

Mercury in Retrograde

It's not always bad when the old planet of communication decides to go backwards. Take this morning. I set off for aqua aerobics as usual on a Monday, unaware that it had been cancelled. Some problem with the chlorine arose, and so the staff rang around all the regulars to tell them not to come. For me they still had Jean's number, and as she didn't know my new one she suggested they call Ruth, who luckily was out. By the time I got there the chlorine problem had been sorted, and for forty five glorious minutes I had the pool all to myself, with my own private lifeguard. Up and down I swam, languidly, luxuriously, nobody splashing me, no one getting in my way. For a while I lay flat on my back, arms and legs outstretched, and just wafted weightlessly around the pool, absolutely relaxed. My namesake Denise, with nothing to do on her high chair but watch me, said she'd never seen anyone so blissed out in the pool before. I can now stop fretting about how to spend the lottery millions when I get them. An indoor pool, full size, a lifeguard, and somewhere to put them. That should take care of a tidy sum.

Season of Mists

This morning I gazed out of my open study window for a long time, captivated by the view as always. A slight mist in the air gauzed the far distance where the treetops seemed to float above the ground. I watched a tractor plough the third field away from me, down the hill and up the other side. Yesterday a host of farm machinery dug up and collected the sugar beet to be ferried away to the British Sugar factory in Bury St Edmunds. At this time of year the Suffolk lanes are covered in mud. And now the silent tractor turns the earth from green to brown, drawing a massive flock of seagulls from the coast to feast on the worms. I can hear no sound at this distance, perhaps half a mile. Being deaf must be like this, knowing there is noise but not getting it.

Brown appearing in the distance where the tractor ploughs

But this morning my thoughts were not just with the tractor and the view. I was pondering on the chance that brought me to this marvellous spot, this wonderful house. Superlatives could spill from my fingers with exuberant abundance and not one of them would be an exaggeration. I try to find meaning in my coming here. It is the most perfect place, for me. Under any other circumstances I would be properly happy. As it is I struggle daily with the flood of despair and loneliness that threatens to submerge me. Uprooted peremptorily from the life I thought was permanent, separated from the person I continue to love despite everything, despite EVERYTHING, I try to find answers. Was this house given to me as a substitute for what I have lost? Must I accept it as the new focus of my life, and gratefully acknowledge its bounties? I will. I do. But how can you tell your heart to stop loving? Sooner tell it to stop beating. How can you quell the visceral craving to have just one more look, one more touch, a last smile?

It will not happen, and the house is a source of joy. It dawned on me only this week as I stomped around the garden in my wellies, content in the moment, that we were two very different beings, one at home in the country, the other needing the stimulation and amenities of the town. I search my memory for clues to how the rural ideal won out. There were no arguments, no discussion even. We shared the same dream. But in the end it suited only one of us, and now perhaps we are both where we were always meant to be. There's a sort of symmetry in that, a kind of rightness which my rational mind approves of. How could I wish it otherwise? But I do. Oh, in countless different ways I do.

Three French Hens, Six Geese a Laying

I haven't had an egg in weeks and I fancied a couple for lunch. Now that I can poach them in the microwave in an instant it's a breeze. But the cupboard was bare so I nipped off down the lane to buy some. Luckily I was in the car as the "nip" turned into the grand tour. Have the hens stopped laying already? Sign after sign after sign I passed, all propped up against or pointing to empty tables. Eventually, down a lane I've never been before, I found two boxes filled with massive, very dirty eggs. Normally I wouldn't touch these: when we had our hens we always cleaned the eggs before we sold them: salmonella is so easy to catch. But I was starving by now and they were very good. So is it back to Waitrose for eggs now until the hens get in the mood again in Spring?

The garden work continues, and now I'm laying a line of bricks to separate the edge of the big bed from the path. But I'm kicking myself, I mean really kicking myself. When the old lawn was about to be rotovated, Val told me I should hang on to some of the sods as they turn into wonderful compost. But I wanted them gone, and in the event there were three or four lorry loads. Attached to them was my precious topsoil, but still I didn't reconsider. But working along the hedge side of the garden yesterday where the ground dips down from the main garden, and especially from the summerhouse, it suddenly occurred to me that they could have dumped all those sods along there and they would have levelled out the space beautifully. You'd pay a fortune for that stuff once it's rotted! And I threw it all away. Ah, nose in front of face. Try looking beyond it next time!

Pathways

I've built a path leading from the lawn to the summerhouse, dividing the bed for easy walking. The bricks were all in my garden already, some very old Suffolk reds, some newer, all of different sizes. The really old bricks are shallow but wide, so it was going to be difficult aligning them all one with the other. Here is the result. I must admit I'm as proud of this path as if I'd built a house, but if I'd taken more time it could have been better. Still, not bad for a first try. And probably last.

I then set about raking into some sort of order the new area created by having less grass this time around. I've saved the part nearest the summerhouse for more shrubs, but the area further away was going to be a wild flower garden. Not so sure about this now. The soil may be too rich and could encourage grasses to drown out the wild flowers. I love bare earth, but it won't stay bare once the weeds discover it. Vegetable area? Swimming pool? Tennis court? Hens? Bees? Donkey paddock? I'll cogitate a while and see what surfaces. For the record, this is the result of my labours.

Shrubs in the foreground, wild flowers beyond?

It didn't look like that this morning. Buckets and buckets and buckets of dead grass sods, big stones, weeds and twigs were heaved over the deer fence into no man's land. There are probably a lot more buried under the earth, but they can stay there. Now for planting a few hundred daffodil and crocus bulbs. Val will love helping with that on Tuesday I'm sure. Val. Val? Valllllllllllll!!!

Postscript, or Postmortem

The strychnine was not needed in the end, nor were the traps. Sid, bless him, an old friend from Wilby mole days whose massive tombstone teeth and bleached hair set him apart from other men, came as planned this afternoon. He carefully studied the meanderings of Mr Mole, and scratched his head. "None o' them hooles goos anyplace," he said puzzled. "Can't see what he's up to." He set one trap but was not happy. "If tha's alright wi' you I'll sit here for a cuppla hours wi' me gun, and I reckon I'll get the little bastard." And he posted himself like a granite sentinel in front of the summerhouse, sitting unmoving despite the coldest southwesterly that has swept across the garden for months, eyes fixed on the grass and earth ahead of him. I brought him a cup of tea to warm him up, and occasionally glanced through a window to see if he was still there. Then I heard a shot, and looked out to see him kneeling on the ground with one hand buried in the lawn before pulling something out triumphantly.

The mole was not dead, or even scratched. It's body was completely intact, and it was as lively as a barrel load of monkeys. "They either gets blown to smithereens or they're like this 'un," said Sid. "It'll be the shock that stunned him. If I hadn't got him out right away he'd o' been off again, miserable little bastard." And Sid did the right thing by the mole, which didn't include taking him down the lane and setting him free. I looked away.

These Suffolk old boys, many of them not old at all, seem to take a shine to me. Sid told me he hardly ever sits with his gun to catch a pesky mole, but left the rest of the sentence unfinished. A few years ago I thought he was going to ask me out when he wondered if I ever dated. I think they like me because I like them, and they can see I'm genuinely interested in them. The way of life they knew as boys is all but gone now, but through their stories I can recall things as vividly as if I witnessed them myself. They are authentic and wise, and thanks to the trades they ply are likely to be regular visitors to Medlar Cottage.

Clematis against the oil tank screen

Clematis against the garage

Freemontedendrons grow large and are covered in yellow flowers

Another view of the freemontedendron

Kenneth Grahame Was Not a Gardener!!

The Wind in the Willows - such a romantic, evocative title. Picture a river bank peopled with small furry animals, and I use the word 'peopled' advisedly. Give these little animals human characteristics, project our best and our worst traits onto them, and watch them act out our daily struggles. Unlike in real life, the good and the righteous will prevail against the bad, the mean and the plain downright wicked. Thus Toad the arrogant, puffed up rich boy is humbled and turned back into a good 'un. Ratty with his sharp intelligence is the natural leader who guides the others along the straight and narrow path. A bit of a know-it-all for my liking, but not a bad chap. Stoats and weasels are just plain trouble: blame it if you will on their impoverished upbringings, drug addict parents, poor living conditions, sink estates and failing schools, and an absence of the saintlike interventions of a Camilla Batmanghelidjh. They will be vanquished, just like Islamic State when David Cameron gets his hands on them. Right. But if you must anthropomorphise these critters please get it right. Take Mole. A right evil little shit he is, masquerading inside his dense furry black coat as some Uriah Heap but without the sneaky bits. I have news for you. He is a sneak. And he's spiteful, vindictive, and utterly nasty. Grahame would have known that if he'd ever met one, and not drawn this vicious little mammal as a gentle, shy, well-meaning, bumbling, myopic little creep. He hides under the ground for God's sake, digging spy tunnels, stealing worms. If he emerges into daylight and blinks his squinty little eyes it's to gloat, to sneer and snicker.

Yup, I've had a nocturnal visit from Mr Mole. I can see the path he took just beneath the surface of my new lawn, tunnelling his way in a zigzag all down one side. He didn't have to work very hard because the turfs are just lying on the surface of the ground, as yet unrooted, and he was able to slide beneath them leaving the shape of his body behind. I know this vengeful little horror and his myriad cousins and siblings will be constant visitors to my garden, but so will Sid the Molecatcher (mole killer actually). Sid is coming this afternoon, but on the phone he told me he wished he still had access to strychnine, now a banned substance, which disposes of resident moles in a flash. Ah, but I have connections in the farming world, and don't tell me there aren't secret supplies of the poison still festering in old barns and dusty corners of sheds. I rang my friend Did. Unfazed, he said he'd make a few enquiries and call me back. I knew he'd say that. No stuff and nonsense about him or Sid. Proper country folk doing what needs to be done with unsentimental efficiency. And in the meantime if I see any movement near the surface of the grass and have my fork to hand .....

They Also Serve

At last, at last, at long long last! I'm finally planting my garden now I have the beds in the right places. Oh but it's fun. My neck aches, my hands hurt and my knees feel quite dodgy, but there's nothing I'd rather be doing. Truly, nothing. It's exhilarating, thrilling, fascinating, unbelievably satisfying. I won't go into details: I know what's there. I went in to put some ice on my neck and shoulders before going on a tour of the three closest nurseries to gather more beauties. Planning and planting is hampered by the need to keep off the new lawn for two weeks, and having to go all the way around the edge every time I need something. But it hasn't taken the shine off it at all.

Don't it look green

The orange, yellow and red bed, putatively speaking

Before my outing I waited for the promised rain to come, a heavy band moving from the west. So why did I keep casting a weather eye to the east where the undiminished brightness was most dispiriting. Eventually I got it, and turned my gaze instead westwards. It was due by 2pm, and I needed it if I wasn't going to use the sprinkler on the lawn again. I watched and waited with growing anxiety as the wind that normally heralds wet weather just dried out the new grass. Where was it, for heaven's sake? I checked and rechecked the satellite charts where the dark blue band seemed to hover over Diss and Stowmarket, barely moving at all. God, it was tense.

The first bed, growing nicely

To calm my nerves - I know, I really get into things, intense isn't the word - I defrosted the freezer with my hairdrier. It's a breeze, excuse the pun. Takes minutes instead of hours, and everything back in again before you could say ice cube. I made a cup of tea, buttered some toast and spread it lavishly with home-made blackberry  jam. And then I noticed it: a shy little sprinkle of rain drops at first, gaining confidence quickly and then lashing down with gusto, soaking the sods. I love a good downpour in the garden, especially now. I postponed the garden centre visits until tomorrow when the sun will be shining again, and instead got out my Italian books. Arrivederci.

And Some Fell ...

... on stony ground. I have never come across such a stony garden. It's not that there are stones there naturally but because someone put them there. But why? I'll probably never know. I've already shifted a few million of them from beds to the drive, but now I've come across a hoard of pebbles where I'm trying to plant crocosmia and hemerocallis. Digging holes for these plants was agonisingly hard, and my hands hurt accordingly. But this is the first time my garden has looked like a proper garden, and I'm delighted with it. All it needs now is for Mr Mole to come along and ruin everything.

After my digging efforts, long after Lewis and Darren had gone, I decided to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening, possibly the last of its kind for many months - the weather is set to change tomorrow and become wet and cold. Warm, sunny, calm and peaceful, it beckoned with an irresistible hand and I responded. Down the lane towards Bruisyard I trotted, relieved that I didn't have to pull on a lead or steer a determined little body away from anything dead, or smelly. The big field that slopes down from where someone has planted thousands of daffodils was a picture in the evening sun, brown folds smoothly laid out along the hillside as neatly as if they had been combed. The sun was low behind the hedgerow and trees creating pointed shadows across the land that could have been painted, or cut out from brown earth-coloured fabric and pasted against the lighter soil. Walking back I watched a hare dash across the field behind my house, and found the cause of the scare - two riders ambling along the grassy edge, their voices reaching me clear as a bell. I followed two dizzy pheasants, a husband and wife, who scuttled just ahead of me trying to decide where to go. He made many suggestions, important and puffed up, but she rejected them all until she found just the right escape route underneath a hedge and he had no choice but to follow, a little deflated I thought.

Here's my garden. It was too late to take a photo of the beds I've now filled with plants, but I'll do it tomorrow. It really is a sight for sore eyes.

..... On the Wall

I bought a fifth one today, the biggest yet. It will go in my sitting room, above the fireplace. It's a sort of smart grey at the moment, but I'm painting it F & B White Tie, like the walls. I nipped off down to the antique centre at Marlesford in a break in the lawn laying, when I felt it was safe to leave the lads alone. And then one of said lads, the pretty Lewis, carried it in from the car for me. He was as careful as if it were a newborn baby, propping it gently on the mantlepiece, and then parking it pro tem in the room with no name. He doesn't know it's called that. He already thinks I'm a bit nuts. And that's because I don't agree with the slapdash way he has been taught to lay lawns, but I've only conveyed that sentiment by offering helpful advice and pointing out problems he's decided not to notice. It's my garden for flip's sake. I want it to be as right as it can be.

First Cut is the Deepest

And on it goes .....

From Coat to Vest, the lovely Lewis

End of play Thursday, one third done

After they left I set to watering the lawn-so-far. It looks amazing, but who knows what horrors it harbours this time around? Lewis told me to keep off the raked earth, but I didn't. Honestly, it is FULL of tufts of grass that haven't been raked out. His dad (stepdad) is coming tomorrow morning so I hope he has higher standards. Anyway, I raked around a bit and unearthed masses of huge tufts which I then threw over the fence so they wouldn't be seen. But Lewis will notice my footprints. Oh, what an agony of anticipation. Will he see for himself how much still needs to be done, or will I have to point it out to him. Next installment tomorrow. Dun da dun dun.