Moving On

How was I expected to know that the bag in my new - a year old - Bosch hoover was disposable and not emptiable? It's the first time I've done it, and that was only because I acknowledged a reduction in sucking power. I know: a year, first time of emptying, but I don't use it an awful lot. Out of the hoover case came a solid little cushion full to bursting point with floor debris. It seemed to have no opening apart from the fluff entry point, but hoovers I've owned if not exactly been familiar with in the past emptied, and so I set about doing just that. Through the little hole I reached in my gloved fingers and pulled, poked, hauled and tugged, filling a bin liner with detritus while the bag itself didn't noticeably shrink. Surely I couldn't be expected to throw it away? It was so nice, soft and white and fluffy, with plastic fixtures and fittings. Such a waste! And so I resorted to the internet to find out what to do. Yup, it is disposable. With a cheesy grin I threw the whole thing away and found the spare that came with the hoover. I've made a note to buy some more bags, and another note to remind myself not to try emptying it again next year when it is full. At least I now know where all my hair has gone.

It's New Year's Eve. The champagne is in the fridge, the last of the Christmas leftovers cleared away. Another beautiful day. I've made my resolutions (hoover more often is not one of them) and mentally swept across the year we're leaving behind. It's been a truly traumatic twelve months, but it's largely behind me now and I've moved on further than I could have imagined. I've had support from wonderful people, and I probably couldn't have got so far so fast without them. It's a new life now, not one I wanted or expected but the right one. Me and my little house found each other against the odds, and I've enjoyed writing about the process of getting to know each other and the countryside that surrounds us. Next year there will be less to do to the house itself (get the windows cleaned is top of the list!) and the garden will reclaim my constant attention. Maybe there'll be a dog or a cat, maybe not. I intend to expand my horizons locally and globally. You never stop learning. Life with all its unforseen complexities sees to that. As the therapists say, look on a problem as an AFGO (Another F****** Growth Opportunity) and turn a negative into a positive. That's what I intend to continue doing. Slainte!

Mynah Bird

Why oh why did I watch the repeat of the first Ali G interviews last night? Today I am constantly finding my internal monologues sprinkled with "I is" and "Is you?" and "Respect". I'm so tired of it, but shouting "Shutuppppppp" at regular intervals isn't helping. Why am I such a copycat?

Footpaths

The bubble has burst and it is just an ordinary day again. But what a day! A totally white frost covered everything, and I watched two hares in the frozen field behind me sitting very still and then moving convulsively to another spot. How cold they must be. The sun melted anything within its reach very quickly, but some of the lanes were still icy, a bit treacherous under foot. I set off across the fields to Framlingham, and was happy to note that not only has the farmer reinstated the original footpath rather than the deviant, long-winded one of last year, but he has scorched the winter barley to mark the way, so a clear tawny scar scores the landscape. Within 20 minutes I could see the tower of St Michael's Church and the imposing Gothic shape of the college. No birds, no animals, no people, no planes, just me, the sun and the chilly air.

It reminded me of a walk I did from our house in Dublin across the fields to deliver Easter eggs to my cousins. It must have been late March or early April, and very hot. I was about six. We set off across Craigies field, the large Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign an intimidating presence though there must have been a footpath somewhere nearby. My sister and I were in short white socks, crocheted like American Bobby socks, that came up to our calves. This was a thrilling development after the long winter and signalled the freedoms of summer to come. Socks were a big deal in our family, or they were to me. The knee-length beige ones couldn't just be replaced at will, but were only put aside when the weather had definitely changed for the better. Perhaps this was just an Easter treat. There were cows in the hot fields we walked through, lying in the baked, parched ditches under the scant shade of still leafless trees. The countryside was already intoxicating to me then, sixty years ago, and I remember the hum of insects, the scents of early blossom, and grass, and the ripe smell of the cows. I don't recall arriving or the journey back, but that scene is imprinted on my brain and I return to it often.

Today I didn't make it as far as Fram. The melting ground was becoming muddy and my boots were building up a squelchy, weighty platform. As I turned I could see the gable end of my house in the distance, a comforting shoulder waiting for me.

On the Brink

It feels like the very last day of the year though it's a few days away yet: very cold, utterly still, clear skies and bright sunshine climaxing in a sizzling sunset, the fourth in a row. There's a liminal feel to the atmosphere, as if something has not only ended but another thing is about to start. Ominous is too strong a word to use; anticipatory is closer. Everything is hushed outside, expectant. It's all too easy to believe that darkness will bring a witching hour when hidden things appear and familiar objects vanish. I won't be peeking out from behind a curtain, but safe indoors with the sparking logs and shooting flames of the woodburner.

Christmas is over for another year, and this one was a peach, a plum, the icing on the cake. Try as you might you can't avoid the fevered consumerism that drives us all to buy just one more perfect thing to make a loved one smile with pleasure. It's all about spoiling each other at this one time of the year, one of the assembled crew noted, and so it is, and it's OK. Once the packaging, wrapping paper and cardboard boxes had been thrown out it didn't look so OTT. The cat who used to pounce on the detritus and charge around the room inside it was sentimentally remembered, her many atrocious faults glossed over fondly.

Presents to be opened

Drinks Party Xmas Eve

Lovely friends

Traditional Xmas Morning Brunch

With Olivia off on a Xmas Walk

Laings and Murphy with Bug Tattoos

 The Room With No Name now has a seasonal moniker which may or may not survive. It was the perfect spot for the Christmas tree, and christened accordingly. Indeed the biggest surprise was that the whole house came into its own, with its odd layout and many rooms. All five of us were bedded down in our own or shared luxurious spaces according to our current relationship status, and nobody complained that they could never get into the bathroom. The 16 bottles of wine and champagne might have helped - I just counted the empties lined up outside the back door. They say that grown-up children can't avoid reverting to their adolescent selves when housed under the parental roof at this time of the year, their adult personas stripped from them at the gate against their will. What I noticed, contrarily, was how easily and willingly I reverted to 'Mum', listening out for calls for help with shoelaces and plaits, forgetting that nearly two decades have passed since they left home and rejoicing in their animated presence over six days.

The Christmas Tree Room

John, watched by Olivia

Kitty and Tricia

Olivia pleased with John's present

Christmas lunch

Kitty (old grey-haired hag with exhausted "cooking Xmas meal" face cropped out of picture)

Table Decoration

The house is empty of visitors now, the washing machine on its third of probably five cycles, white bedding mounting up in the ironing basket. The turkey has been stripped, its carcass binned; the cake distributed for taking home; the wine rack completely bare; the sofa from the summer house that ensured comfy seating for all now back in its place; the festive tablecloth is packed away for another year. I'm not parting with the tree yet, nor the Swedish Christmas lights in the four front windows. And I've noticed chocolates here and there, some in the fridge, others in the larder. The Stilton is lingering too, and so is the Christmas pudding and a smidgeon of brandy butter. The Japanese table decoration garnered from the front garden is still beautiful. Whatever the brink, whatever awaits on the other side, I'll have treats to keep me company on my onwards journey, sweet pennies for my mouth and treasures in the form of memories in my head as I approach the next stage, hopefully not the Stygian one yet.

Blow Thou Wind Southwesterly

Gosh it was windy today. So it was unfortunate that Did and Nick showed up to cut down the tall hedge. I suggested they come back on a calmer day, but they were typically gung-ho, at least Did was. Out came the chain saws, the goggles, the helmets, the ladder, and they were off. Terrifyingly huge branches came tumbling down as the wind fought against them, with Nick grabbing them before they toppled across the fence and dragging them to the designated bonfire spot. They had trouble getting the fire started: sacks of hay weren't enough, and so petrol had to be employed. I watched with interest, and it was Nick who had the real Ray Mears skills and got the thing going. Once alight it was hard to stop it: the strong southwesterly saw to that. The biggest tree was the first, and the hardest to fell, with its many stout branches to be sawn off in the face of the powerful tempest which threatened to whip them into Did's face as he straddled it. They zapped the biggest pieces into useful logs for my woodburner, and burned the rest.

After four hours they had had enough. "I have a real phoobia (sic) that I'll be killed just afore Christmas every year," Did confessed. "That getting up stronger now, and I fear that'll fetch one of they branches right into my face." I agreed, and they called it a day. Signal the lighting of roll-ups and Did in expansive mood as usual; Nick the gardener was more interested in my rare and unusual plants out front. As we followed him around, listening to his exclamations of delight, Did told me what he'd do to my shrubs: "I'd have him down to here," he said of my beautiful though admittedly overgrown pittasporum, indicating his hip. "What!" I cried. "That would kill it." "No," he drawled, "do that the world of good. Soon be up again." And so we continued around the garden, Did telling me of mass roses that he'd hacked to the ground to the owner's dismay only to be called next summer to come and see the magnificant display, better than ever. The same story applied to honeysuckle, wisteria and just about everything else. The thing about Did is that you can't help but believe him, he's so convincing. Val might be displaced come the spring.

I didn't have any cash to pay them to their obvious dismay, so I followed them to the cashpoint at Fram. They took the direct route, but I nipped down my shortcut, and was getting the cash when they pulled into the Co-op car park in the ancient Land Rover. "What kept you?" I asked as they looked at me slantwise, puzzled. It's not often you get one over on Did.

Stop!

I picked up a hitch hiker today on my way home. He started out with his thumb raised, but as I made to drive past him he fell to his knees and put up joined hands in supplication. I stopped. I know, I know, but you have to use your judgement in these situations, however fleeting the opportunity to make a rational assessment. To be honest at first I thought I recognised him, and so I didn't really stop to think. He had been walking from the station at Saxmundham, already a mile, and the road he was on is without houses of any sort for a good two and a half miles. It was freezing, a sharp wind biting into tough outer clothes. As he got in he told me he had lost his car keys in London, and had made a journey home to Bungay for a spare set, and thence in a very roundabout way to where I found him. Public transport in Suffolk is very poor. His car was at Bruisyard Church, only a mile or two from my house, but he didn't expect me to take him there: anywhere on the road to Fram would be fine. He spoke very quickly and so I didn't really follow his story, but he is a regular concert-goer at Snape, and told me that he used to travel on the train from Sax to London with Peter Pears. So I knew I was safe. He was good company, and when I dropped him at the church he was apologetic and grateful in equal measures of profusion. He didn't kill me. Or worse.

It's not the first time I've picked up someone on that road. The last time the weather was the complete opposite of today's, so hot and humid you could barely move. I was driving to Sax to collect Olivia from the station for the weekend when I spotted a very attractive woman in a tight-fitting red dress, carrying a jacket and a heavy looking handbag. I did a double take when I saw her, astonished because of the heat and the complete absence of dwellings. Where could she be going? As I returned with Olivia she was still walking, and so I stopped and offered her a lift. She had been living in Australia for several years before moving back to Suffolk and  had completely misjudged the debilitating conditions. And as she said, once you've set off to walk you can't change your mind. There's nowhere to go, no taxi within miles. She was grateful too, and relieved to be in the air-conditioned car. She wanted to be dropped at Rendham Church which was on my way.

Funny that. Both passengers wanted to go to a church. Call me whimsical, disbeliever that I am, but they do say that the Lord moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to behold. Just saying. 

So Long ...

Today is the longest day, and tonight will be the longest night until 2039. I don't know why that is, but I do know that for me last night was the shortest. I went to bed at a reasonable time, settling down for a nice read with my cocoa, my bed heated, my bedside light glowing; best time of the day usually. But I've finished all my delicious books - Sarah Walters' Paying Guests (8 stars), Donna Tartt's Goldfinch (9 stars), and Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (8 stars, not quite as good as Half a Yellow Sun, 10 stars). And so I picked a book off the shelves that I've always meant to read, Parents and Children by Ivy Compton-Burnett. It's a Penguin Modern Classic, highly recommended as one of the great pieces of 20th-century literature. But what a load of scrubbish! I read 20 pages and couldn't tell you what it was about. From the back cover I learned that an aristocratic family, Lord This and Lady That, live in their ancestral home with their son, his wife and their nine children. Nine! Cue languid but sparky dialogue between Graham (I know, and him titled!), Daniel, Lucia, their parents and their grandparents. What were they saying? I don't know! None of it made any sense. I've unravelled Ulysses in my time, though Finnegans Wake defeated me, but this! Furious, the hour too late to start another book, I threw it aside and turned off the light. But could I sleep? Not a wink. Graham and co's indecipherable words crawled around my brain leaving me foxed and irritable.

I must have dozed off because I woke thirsty and poured myself some water from the bottle by my side. Not into the glass though. The hour was 3am. After mopping up the mess I found myself returning to the maddening Graham. Was it me, incapable of comprehending what might have been dazzling, witty conversation? I must have dozed again because the next thing I heard was my neighbours talking loudly behind my bedroom wall. It was 6.10am. They get up early every morning and I never hear a thing, but this was Sunday! What the hell were they doing? I stuffed in my handy earplugs, my saviours when the wind cracks the loose wisteria strands against the window like a desperate Cathy, but it was no good. And so I got up at 6.45am to face the longest day. Outside it was still dark though a narrow horizontal slit of light heralded the dawn to come. I switched on the Christmas tree lights, and felt peace descend on my weary frame. How I love this time of year with its promise of a colourful, noisy, friendly houseful of family. At least I can understand what they say, aristocrats though they be not. Stuff you Graham!

Booze and Bras

Just back from a nice boozy lunch with my bridge friend H. She regaled me with tales of her poisonous mother, her deadleg partner, her ghastly son, and all the other inhabitants of her colourful world. While she dabbled with a bowl of mushroom soup and a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc followed quite swiftly by another, chatting all the while, I tucked with extreme heartiness into bacon and turkey parcels stuffed with mushrooms and chestnuts. It was delicious, and so were the gratin dauphinois and fresh veggies that came with it. I was a bit hungry because I ran out of time to cook a meal before the cinema last night, and had to get some Aldeburgh fish and chips which I ate in the car while Ruth got our seats. I can't usually eat whole portions, so I've cottoned on to the children's serving, all of £3, which still defeats me. I ate as much as I could in the car in a rush, but how embarrassed I was on leaving the fish and chip shop to discover my new hairdresser standing by the counter. Is she trying to remember how much I tipped her?

Which reminds me of something I noticed at my bra-buying session recently. The M&S lingerie department actually had more men in it than women, and I don't believe any of them were shopping for themselves. I found it not just disconcerting but downright unpleasant to be surrounded by men picking up frilly, scanty bras and pants in lurid colours, presumably Christmas presents for the woman in their lives. There was something pervy about it all, and I wonder how many wives and girlfriends will be thrilled when they unwrap those parcels. Why can't they buy them a David Austen rose for the garden, or a trip to Morocco? Or is it just me?

Danger

I admit to experiencing an extended frisson of unease today. I set off for a nice long walk, the wind a fairly stout northerly but otherwise mildish for the time of year. Earlier the eastern sky had been ablaze, its scarlet lights turning the trees a brilliant amber. You know what they say, Red Sky in the Morning etc, but I planned to stick to the lanes and I was well wrapped up. But I can never resist an unfamiliar footpath, and spotting one on my right after about half an hour I hopped over a stile and set off through a large meadow, diagonally uphill. It was a tough climb, and at the top I rested on another stile and looked around me. OK, I was well off the beaten track, and it suddenly occurred to me that if I had a heart attack now I'd be stuffed. Why hadn't I brought my phone? The next part of the walk was through a very soggy field of winter barley, and soon my wellies were weighed down with clinging mud, the heavy wet variety, yellow sticky clay. On and on I plodded, my enjoyment marred not by the conditions but the thought that had wormed its way into my head of how vulnerable I was, especially given the cold and the short dark days. My sister is always begging me to take the phone with me, but I rarely do.

I got back eventually of course. The walk merged into one of the hikes I used to do with the dog, and despite the now bare wintry scenery I knew exactly where I was. The thing about living alone is that nobody realises you're missing, at least not at once. I'm going to the cinema with a friend tonight, and I daresay she'd have worried if I hadn't turned up. But some days I neither see not speak to anybody. So it has to be the phone then. Resistance is not just foolish, it could be life-threatening.

A bit out of focus

On another note the mysterious tree/shrub in the front garden which I though might have been calycanthus occdentalis is producing masses of delicate pale yellow flowers all along its gaunt stems. It stands at over six feet tall, with summer leaves that are leathery and dark green. The stems seem to have a spicy scent. It's my first December in this house so I've never seen it flower before. But what can it be? Val the gardener was foxed, and so am I.

And now for something completely different. Denise the Usher. Ah!

The Smart Set

It's quite amazing the different audiences the various Live From the Met (NY Metropolitan) operas attract. If I were a sociologist I'd have a field day in Aldeburgh. You get coachloads of music lovers bussed in from all the outlying villages for the lighter stuff, some Verdi, for example, anything by Puccini, or Rossini. They shuffle a bit in their seats when the music stops being light and frothy. They're not keen on overtures - nothing to look at except the conductor. Some of them have bags of sweets and boxes of chocolates, which does not please their more hardline neighbours, for there will be many of them too. The trippers are so happy to be watching an opera which is not too highbrow, and they laugh a lot and are jolly but don't get the musical jokes. The afficianados titter before the surtitles go up - they've seen them all before, many times. If there were CDs of operatic arias sung by Andrea Boccelli, or Katherine Jenkins for sale in the foyer, the coach would be packed with them on the journey home. They might all sing a catchy tune they remember, Sempre Libera from La Traviata perhaps.

For Mozart you get all sorts too, but it's mostly serious music lovers. They already have the CDs of all of Mozart's operas, perhaps more than one copy of each one recorded from a different opera house. They love music, really love it, and they arrive from the same outlying villages but in pairs or foursomes, never en masse. Some of them might even have brought the score which they discreetly follow with the aid of a tiny, non-distracting torch. When you chat to them in the interval the discussion ranges over the production of Flute you saw at Covent Garden in 1994 with Kiri on roller skates, or the time Angela Gheorghiu so memorably sang Figaro with Roberto Alagna at Glyndebourne, must have been 2007 was it, just before they announced their engagement and set the operatic world on fire?

But for a Wagner opera? Oh the difference. These people are the real operatic McCoy. They will sit through hour after hour of the richest, fullest, most heavenly, most glorious music ever written, their faces rapt, their bodies still. They don't usually attend an opera unless it's in an opera house. If they want to see something at the Met they fly to New York for it. But this opportunity to share such a first class musical experience on their doorstep (up to 20 miles away or so) they seize gratefully. They know there will be no rustling of sweet wrappers, no fidgeting, no coughing even - as at Snape most people would rather have a seizure than let that bark out. They have no qualms about sitting still for a two and a half hour-long third act of Die Meistersinger as they did last night. The interval discussions tend to be technical, uber-serious music lovers as they are, though once after the first act of Parsifal the woman behind me commented disparagingly on the plastic chairs on stage as I was recovering from a two-hour-long swoon. Not only do they have all the CDs of all Wagner operas, they have the records as well, carefully replaced in their immaculate covers after each airing. At least one of the recordings of each will have been made at Bayreuth. And at midnight they return to The Old Vicarage, Moat Farm, The Hall, their beautiful timber-framed or Georgian homes in some lovely village, their spirits soaring, their senses tingling, their souls at peace. That's what Wagner does for you.

Uniformly Black

Today I went to Norwich to shop for my new Snape togs ready for my debut on Sunday. I bought a black cashmere polo neck sweater and some soft-soled shoes to go with my gorgeous new black trousers. We're meant to be invisible and silent once the concerts start, in case we need to attend to an emergency or something. I look like a black panther. All I need now is a lovely new face and I'll be laughing. John Lewis as usual came up with the above goods, but I think their lingerie department has gone downhill of late. I decided to visit M & S for some new bras. What a palaver! I've never seen so much choice. As usual I headed straight for nursing bras, closely followed by sports bras when I realised my mistake. And then I drifted around the aisles in a bewildered state. There were, just off the top of my head, Minimisers - guaranteed to make you look a whole cup size smaller; Plunge bras, Padded, Underwired, Padded and Underwired, Post-Surgery, Soft Shape, Balcony, Smoothing, Strapless, Full Cup - I could go on but I've forgotten the rest. What to choose?

I grabbed a handful and took them to the fitting room. On a whim I asked if there was anyone who could measure me, and despite an appointment system a fitter was free. Your lucky day, said the nice lady with the viciously dyed black hair - not a great look for the older woman. In with me came Eleanor, hiding in a sort of outer cubicle as I stripped off to my bra at her direction, and then emerging to wrap a tape measure around me. M & S clearly have a no-touch no-look policy when it comes to breasts. Not like Rigby & Peller who can barely keep their hands off your mammaries. Nothing I had selected pleased Eleanor. She returned with an armful for me to try. Calmly she adjusted each one, but still she was not satisfied. I have an odd dip between my boobs apparently which makes fitting tricky. Finally, triumph! Yes, she said, I'll be happy to let you buy those.

I took them to the pay desk, and there was my black-haired friend on the till. "How did you get on Mrs Laing?" she asked. I told her I was thrilled and amazed at Eleanor's advice, that I thought I was a 36B but am really a 34C. She said most women who came to be fitted wore the wrong sized bras. "We see all sorts of horrors," she confided, laughing. "It's a real eye opener." I'll bet. And I'm sure I added to their store of anecdotes this afternoon.

Let The Show Commence

Today was final training at Snape before we start ushering for real next week. We're seasoned invigilators of the art exhibitions now, but this is our first proper gig, the reason we signed up and were vetted as volunteers. They're a lovely crowd, front of housers Deborah and Beverley, and house manager Jeremy, and though Snape concerts are run mainly around music lovers who would sweep the floors for the privilege of being part of the scene, unpaid natch, they are awfully grateful to us. Honestly, it's the other way around guys! I was feeling very relaxed until they started to tell us what could go wrong though rarely did, and I felt a minor fit of the vapours coming on. A heart attack in the middle of a slow movement, the sufferer sitting in the very middle seat in the middle section. Whatever happens, though they only touched on terrorist attacks and didn't tell us how that would pan out, the show must go on. I loved that: It's showtime! So everyone has to be slid out of their seats so that the victim can be reached and treated. Aaargh! People coming back late after the interval: sorry, you can't come in! Double-booked seats! People sitting in the wrong seat! People coughing! Suddenly it didn't seem the breeze it had. But these things almost never happen, they assured us again. Really?

View from the concert hall

They needed someone urgently for an afternoon concert on Saturday, and as everyone else muttered and flipped diary pages, I volunteered. You'll be first, my friend Sammy said. Let me know as soon as it's over how it went. But then I too looked at my diary and saw Die Meistersinger Live From The Met. Sammy was in like a shot. She'll get her red usher's ribbon, but I'll have mine soon too. Such a pleasure to be part of Snape. Not only a world class concert venue but the most beautiful, atmospheric place I can imagine. Having an interval drink on the terrace on a summer's evening when the tide is in and the estuary full, the sun bouncing off the golden reeds, you'd believe you were in heaven.

She Dwelt Among the Trodden Ways

It may seem like it often, but there aren't many untrodden ways left in the country now. It felt like it this morning, though, as I set off for a walk. I'd been up since 6.45, an ungodly hour which I rarely see, but a text message telling me my new dishwasher would be delivered between 7 and 11am meant I had to leave my warm bed long before I wanted to. Amazingly it arrived early, and I had bathed, breakfasted and read the news headlines online by 9am. Sid came and did what he had to do, and we remarked on the loveliness of the day, cold though it was. When he'd gone, sadly wishing me a happy Christmas, I set off down Bannocks Lane, but instead of turning off into one or other field and making a wide loop I continued down to Bruisyard in the Alde Valley. I meant to turn back at this point, but the devil took me and I decided to make it a grand tour.

Wilby front and (top) back

Oh Suffolk, how beautiful are your houses! Timber-framed old properties still stand after 400 years, some in a mild or serious state of disrepair, many renovated and immaculate in their sprawling landscaped gardens. All have an air of timelessness, of history, that I find utterly beguiling. There are so many, thatched or tiled depending on when modernisation took place - once English Heritage introduced their Listings system the roofing had to stay put. Luckily for aesthetics there's still plenty of thatch. I was retracing the drive I did at the end of summer when I searched for eggs for my lunch. My jaw literally hung loose then with incredulity at yet another source of hidden jewels, pearls strung out along this unfamiliar lane, and today, moving at a much slower pace, I was able to linger outside each one, staring, devouring with my eyes, trying to imagine them as they were centuries ago. I lived in and loved such a house until a year ago, its antiquity a constant thrill. I've gone Victorian now, but I'll never forget the privilege of inhabiting a space in constant use since the last few years of Elizabeth I.

Hares a'Trembling

Keats knew days and nights like this, what with his beadman's dull fingers and chilled owls. I can't even bear to think of his hares in the frozen grass given that mine are so evident in their crouching misery. It's properly winter at the moment, though knowing the mercurial behaviour of the English weather we're probably not in for a nice cold snap that will last until March charges in with customary ebullience. I love the winter. There's a natural sense of things quietening down, of boundaries closing in and one's personal world shrinking protectively. It's a time for reflection. The short days and long, long evenings are calming and salving. I feel like a small furry animal safe in my warm house, looking inwards for comfort and entertainment. When it's very cold like this I still venture out for games of bridge, visits to the cinema or Snape with friends, walks around the fields or on the beach, but always there's a sense of thrill, as if these are dangerous, exciting activities and real life is near the Rayburn or the wood-burning stove with the curtains shut tight against the dark. Living in the country is possibly at its best in the chilly winter when the trees and fields are stripped bare, the hedgerows are subdued, and  sightings of people are even fewer than usual. The sense of life pausing for a few months before bursting out again like magic is always a cause for optimism.

I'm waxing lyrical of course. Wet winter days are as horrible as cold and grey summer ones, and muddy lanes irritating in all seasons. Every now and then I hear sharp bursts of gunfire as another pack of men in green descend on nearby shoots. It's all part of the package, though, and I'm grateful to be part of it. On Saturday I popped into Framlingham for a jubilee clip, ready for when my new dishwasher is delivered, and was surprised afresh at the jollity of the town on this market day. The centre was thronged with locals and a few tourists queueing up for speciality cheeses, bread, vegetables and sweet and savoury pastries, the pop-up cafe vying for customers with the Dancing Goat and the Crown, coffee-lovers laughing at the outside tables as their breath whitened the air. It's partly the Christmas spirit of course. Say what you will about this absurdly over-abundant festival, it seems to bring out the best in people, a generosity and fellowship that is often lacking. I'm feeling it myself, and might need to put a padlock on my wallet soon or the winter will be long, cold and hungry. Not a pleasant thought at all.

PS

So lovely to get all these gorgeous cards, as well as emails and internet postings. Feel the lurve (I can't believe I just wrote that).

Daughters, Daughters Everywhere

I had the mother of all birthdays yesterday: champagne, chocolates, cake - and that was before the proper celebrations even began. You would never normally associate me with the indulgent girls' day out at a spa. All that lounging around in a swimsuit and towelling robe, flip-flopping about the place in too big slippers, dipping in and out of this treatment, that sauna, probably giggling. Not my bag really, or so I thought. But that was before I went to Elvedon Forest. It was honestly one of the best experiences of my life. Yes, we spent the day in swimming togs and robes, yes we wore towelling slippers, and yes we giggled. But I never once looked at the book I'd brought - there simply wasn't time! We started out with coffee and pastries while we wound down and exchanged news. Then we hit the pool, outdoors but oh so hot, with jets of water coming at us from all directions. As I floated towards the centre of the pool a massive eruption underneath me tossed me into the air Vesuvius style. It was pure bliss, once I got my breath back.

And then there were all the different steam or dry rooms to try: Japanese, Balinese, Greek, Indian, Turkish hamam, Tyrolean, each had its own atmosphere, different scent, different effect. We sweated in the detox room, lounged in the gentle, relaxing heat of the Roman Laconium, cleared our tubes with the help of essential oils including eucalyptus in the hamam, revelled in the dry heat of the Greek bath - we did the rounds, slip slapping carelessly from room to room. Upstairs all three of us climbed into a huge water bed on an outside balcony and curled up together under blankets and quilts. It was all sensory heaven.

By lunchtime we were ready for our glass of Prossecco, and then it was time for our treatments. I opted for reflexology, and lay on a bed in a darkened room while wonderful firm hands stroked and moulded my feet. My companions had chosen massages, one the firm chops of a Swedish stress buster, the other the softer attention of aroma therapy. We were all noticeably even more chilled when we reconvened for tea - cream scones naturally - and the day ended with a delicious Chinese in Diss.

I tell you I'm a convert, and you know what they're like: even more full of wondrous zeal than those who knew The Truth all along. If it becomes a regular birthday treat I'll spend 364 days looking forward to it. Best day evah! Thanks girls!

Did and Sid

That indispensable duo, Did and Sid, visited today. Not together. Though some of their areas of expertise cross over, they don't know each other. Sid first: lugubrious Sid, Eeyore stand-in. I greeted him at the gate and right away he told me, eyes big and tragic, "I've not been good". He didn't mean he'd been evil, spraying graffiti on the church door, setting fire to hayricks, but was referring to that untreated hernia which he has finally been forced to take to the doctor. "And I've been sad," he said, brown eyes watering. "You know, S-A-D, because of the winter." And he stood there like an awkward lanky schoolboy, helplessly, pleadingly. Take me in, his eyes said. Look after me. Oh Sid! Wouldn't it be lovely if I were a jolly apple-cheeked countrywoman with a cosy cottage and a heart of gold, and with a Sid-shaped hole in my life. I made him a cup of tea while he set his mole traps, and got him to smile as I took his picture. When he left he was grinning to himself. It was a very cold morning. I hope my cheeks weren't too rosy.

Eeyore

And then came Did, the complete opposite of Sid, always cheerful, glass half full. And while Sid won't touch voles, Did brought poison. He's so resourceful, such a "can do" kind of man. The lawn is already in a terrible state, so he set to work. He doesn't think it's voles, he thinks it's rats. He placed sachets of blue granules in various places, shoved well in so the birds don't try them. Everyone's got rats this year, he said. But the poison in the woodshed disturbs me: I don't want to be confronted by slimy-tailed vermin when I go to get my logs. Did I say I was a ratophobe? That's a massive under-statement. I'm petrified, putrified of rats. I loathe them. But you know what? I think Did is wrong and it is voles. I've seen the pattern of tracks weaving around the lawn on the internet, classic vole behaviour. I need a nice barn owl, or a feral cat. We'll see.

He's coming back soon to cut down the hedge with his mate Nick. I know Nick already. He lives in a house now but for years his home was a tent on the beach in the summer, and a hut hidden deep inside Dunwich Forest in the winter. When the weather got really cold he moved in with his parents, uncomfortable with the heating and the restriction of brick walls. I don't know how he's coping with having a cottage. Does he still cook on a fire out of doors, and use the facilities of a handy tree? I've never seen him out of shorts, whatever the weather, and he cycles everywhere. You'll see him sometimes late in the evening, cycling from the quiz night in Yoxford to Peasenhall, brown legs pumping, puffing up a hill, pudding basin hair bouncing with the effort. He's a real throwback, a countryman who loves everything about the outdoors.

I asked Did if he'd like me to hire an industrial-sized shredder to deal with the smaller branches and twigs but he said he'd burn them. "That doesn't matter if it's raining even," he told me. "I can burn water!"