Silence

Back from a lightning trip to London, ears and head still ringing from the intensity of the city and the incessant noise. On the way down a man in the seat in  front of me kept up a droning monologue, ostensibly to the woman next to him who listened attentively but hardly spoke. He was a taxi driver, and proceeded to recount in minute detail the trips he'd done to: 1. Stansted.
2. Ipswich. 3. Gatwick. His gravelly voice just went on and on and on, pedantic and grumbly. "Shut up!" I wanted to yell at him. "Please. Just stop talking!" I put my crossword away, and made sure I was nowhere near him when I changed trains at Ipswich. I found an empty table and settled in for the rest of the journey, but another couple joined me. They had just left a business meeting, and analysed it using businessspeak I couldn't understand but couldn't distract myself from. Crossword back in bag. On the train going home a youngish woman, ample of girth, scarlet of cheek and stertorous of breathing, collapsed onto the seat opposite me as we pulled out of the station. "Oh no," she bellowed. "I don't believe it." And that was just the beginning. In the loudest tone she proceeded to shout down her phone at someone, presumably her partner. "I'm on the wrong train! It doesn't stop at Witton! No, first stop is Colchester! NO! It doesn't stop at Chelmsford! Yes, I'm sure! No, I got on before I realised. I was in a hurry and didn't think to check. Nooo, I'm sure! They always stop at Witton. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I'm sure!! Oh, why didn't I check?" And on and on and on. I know, this is just how it is out there, normal people conducting their lives in public as well as private. But it's not at all what I'm used to, and it set me jangling and quivering. What a relief to stand in my drive for a few moments, the night thin and cold, dark and crisp, a slice of moon outshining the stars. And total silence.

Patterns

I’ve been bewitched by the old Suffolk houses that surround me. They’ve left me utterly intoxicated without the inevitable hangover. When I stand in front of them I soak in their detail, I drool over them, lap them up, swirl them around my tongue like a fine wine. My body is flooded with pheromones. I can’t get enough of them. I’m an addict. I should find a Twelve Step programme. I, Denise, admit that I am powerless over old houses and my life has become unmanageable. Only it hasn’t. My life has been enhanced by the joy of seeing them, sometimes going inside them, and knowing they’ve survived for hundreds of years, often not much changed from when the Tudors and their successors built them. I'm amazed by them, fascinated. They sit in a landscape also largely unchanged, give or take a hedge or two. Their outbuildings, too, speak volumes. Yes, you get the beautified ones, but even they retain old oak staircases polished to a rich auburn by thousands of feet; the mullion windows, the massive inglenook fireplaces, the beguiling timbers with slots where shutters preceded glass, or mysterious blackened hooks. Only two houses in this village are still thatched, but there are a good number of very old ones, and I plan to photograph them all as a record for myself. I shall print them on these pages.

Which brings me to another matter: this blog. I started it at the urging of my daughters who thought it would be cathartic, but I was lacklustre in my response. Eventually I found myself just doing it one day, and eight months on I cannot imagine not having it as an outlet – for my feelings, and my discoveries, for my progress. It HAS been cathartic. I love writing. It's how I earned a living, but I'd forgotten how necessary it is to me. Writing things down regardless of whether or not they’re read by others – that’s really beside the point – has been liberating. Unprocessed stuff is what keeps us from moving on when things have gone wrong. That’s why therapy can be so helpful. In this blog I’ve told it how it is, the good and the bad, the painful and the gratifying, the funny. By so acknowledging my daily activities and my feelings I’ve found a sort of pattern which shows me that life is naturally undulating, neither good all the time nor bad, for most of us. It just is, and we have to grab it while we may and appreciate what’s great about it, while weathering storms as best we can. We’re human. Things hurt, and they can thrill. That's the deal.

Girls Will Be Girls

I've made a new friend through the ushering at Snape. She's a mother, wife and grandmother. Yet when we get together or email each other we can be as silly as adolescent girls. We have an ongoing jokey storyline, that all the other ushers are far too old to do the job, with their gammy legs and poor hearing, their slowness to react to crises, and their shortsightedness that places people in the wrong seats and causes fights to break out. We could fill their posts much better, we're sure of that. And we've decided there's a conspiracy to keep us new ones out in the cold when work is available while the older ones get priority. It's a load of nonsense, and we know it. But we started this last year, and we've kept it up to mutual hilarity. There's a lot of talk about liberty bodices and knee-capping and tripping OAPs (not like us) down the stairs. I often laugh out loud when I get an email from her. It's the same with some of the women I play bridge with. Something will tickle us and we're off, to the amazement of any men in the vicinity. Some of these women are old enough to be my mother, and yet their sense of humour is as girlish and naughty as if they were decades younger. It's so refreshing, and just goes to show that we never really change. Our skin might crinkle and our hair lose its colour, but inside we're the same. If young people saw and heard the things we say, the way we giggle, they might have to review their dismissive opinion of us, and see that we're really just the same as them.

I was going to have an early night, though the cosy sitting room was hard to leave and there was a glow still in the woodburner. So I switched on the television, and checked my recorded programmes. A Hard Day's Night was there from Christmas, and I flicked it on for a few minutes. But it was wonderful, joyeous, refreshing, fun, and all those songs from the early 60s! The Beatles were so beautiful and smiley and squeaky clean - even Ringo was gorgeous. Lovely shining hair and nice white teeth: no wonder America took to them. The plot was stupid of course, with lots of running away from screaming girl and leaping athletically over fences and walls, but by 1964 their suits were beautifully tailored from fancy fabric, and their shirts and ties soft and expensive looking, so I ogled to my heart's content. It's unbelievable that two of them are dead. Their songs were clever and catchy, and Paul's voice soaring in effortless harmony over John's rougher one showed his natural, irrepressible musicality. It really was a tonic.

Wasting time

I spent an hour and a half sipping a latte in front of a log fire in the Crown Hotel in Fram this morning, doing the crossword. A changing cast of couples joined me on the opposite leather sofa, certain I'd want to chat despite my obvious preoccupations. The second pair suddenly realised that they hadn't recognised me sooner because I had clothes on. Was I a somnambulist swinger? No, I saw when I looked closely, we go to the same aqua aerobics class. The third pair decided I must be writing a book about Framlingham. Sounds pleasant enough, but I was also on a chatline to BT in India, my fifth this month, as I try with evident futility to get a solution to my phone and broadband problems. Anyone who has tried this knows how frustrating it can be. A terribly nice person comes online, apologises fulsomely for all your woes and assures you that it is their sacred duty to help you to put all these miseries behind you. Ninety minutes later they can't wait to get away from you. They start the conversation the same way every time, telling you they will check the line, despite your having told them that an engineer has already been, located a fault but not fixed it. I think it's all to do with these old country phone lines having been patched up with alluminium instead of copper when they needed repairing over the years.

Back home at last, with a promise of another engineer and the threat of a bill for £129 if the fault is my side of the boundary, I decided to see if the summerhouse was warm enough for lunch. With the sun beating on it all morning and the icy winds kept at bay, it was cosier then the centrally heated house. It's another lovely day, Fram bursting with tourists smug in the knowledge that they chose a good weekend for a getaway, and locals thronging the small but decidely classy market despite the chill northerly. In my garden a few daffodils are poking their heads up, and there are snowdrops, primroses and violets. Great clumps of irises look ready to bloom, and the scarlet and orange tips of the pretty euphorbia are making an appearance. It's all greatly encouraging, but I'm nervous. We had such an amazing spring last year, and though I can't exactly remember it now, apparently 2013 was the coldest on record. We English start to get optimistic as the evenings and mornings brighten up, but how often are our hopes dashed? I can't believe last year will be repeated - it never is - and am just taking each nice day as it comes, and each horrible one too. It's too cold to garden, and so I'm sewing curtain hems.

I used to think a weekend spent alone, or a whole Saturday in this case, would spell disaster somehow, the greatest evidence of failure. But why? I'm doing what I want to do in the nicest surroundings, and neither want nor need companionship to improve my quality of life, not today anyway. The Verdi Requiem is on Radio 3 this evening, and while it plays I'll eat my supper and read my book, warmed by the glow of the woodburner. You can't put a price on some things.

Getting On

Sometimes you've just got to hand it to the NHS. My recent little health scare couldn't have been attended to more efficiently or quickly, even if it did involve downing a litre of water before 8.30 in the morning. The stone-passing pains disappeared as rapidly as they'd arrived, and an ultrasound scan has shown no signs of deposits and no evidence of anything having passed through me. Whatever it was I hope it doesn't return. Sitting in the doctor's waiting room can feel as if the cure will never be worth it. It's a form of hari-kiri, wondering which coughing, sneezing, wheezing person is going to cause your downfall. Old people are in the majority, as you'd expect, and watching them struggling in on sticks, crutches and sometimes in wheelchairs is surely a deterrent to longevity. But then two cheering things happened: on the car radio on the way home was Sir Nicholas Winton, the man who brought nearly 700 Jewish children out of Czechoslovakia just before Germany invaded Poland, and rehomed them in the UK. He is 105, and sounded half that age, lucid and compelling still. And Dame Shirley Williams, at 84 as bright and charismatic as ever, talking about Testament of Youth, the film about her mother Vera Britten (we'll gloss over your biggest ever faux pas, Shirl, that of shutting down grammar schools and introducing comprehensives. Coming back now though aren't they!) Anyway, it's obvious there's old age and old age. I wonder which category I'll fall into? Which reminds me of a post on Facebook which really made me laugh. This Japanese doctor should be listened to. https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10204122554696310&set=a.3211977910532.2139833.1598807618&type=1&theater

A Year Ago Today

This time last year I made a mercy dash to rescue a daughter having emergency surgery in the middle of a book tour of the USA. She'd got as far as Portland, Oregon when disaster struck, and that's where I ended up too, days away from moving into my new home. It was a stressful, frightening time, to say the least, made worse by my usual travel nonchalance, aka stupid carelessness. It was all a bit sudden, but I had time to get American dollars at Heathrow airport. Why didn't I? Who knows. By the time I got to the States late at night the currency shops were all closed and the ATMs refused my plastic. I didn't know the bank needed to be told of planned foreign travel. In the end I remembered an old, little used Barclaycard tucked away in my wallet and took a chance with the taxi driver. The code was good and he accepted it. Phew. It was better than the last time I went to the west coast to join her. Then I had no note of the hotel we were staying at, and a mobile phone that didn't work in the USA. I was fairly sure I'd remember the details when I got there, but who knew Seattle had so many hotels? I'm not sure what I'd have done had she not decided to come to the airport to meet me, unplanned. Does all this make me a good traveller, laid back and easy about arrangements, or a complete idiot? I think I know the answer.

Only weeks before this the sellers of my new house had pulled out of the deal leaving me reeling, floundering. They had objected to pleas for information from my solicitor, and weren't forthcoming. At the time, a shared septic tank in my neighbours' garden, a piece of land that technically belonged to the adjoining farmer, and some loose slates on the roof, seemed to be huge issues that needed clarification, but in hindsight they were trivial, especially since pursuing them was nearly catastrophic. The flaky sellers were brought to their senses by the experienced touch of the other daughter, a negotiator par excellence whose charm could deprive donkeys everywhere of a leg. For me excitement and joy turned terribly sour before climbing up to relief, but it was traumatic and shocking.

Heavy frost quickly melting

All's well that ends well. As I look back on a year in this incredible place I marvel at how I found it at all, how I nearly lost it, and what a very, very great deal it means to me now. Good old house.

Blasts From The Past

Well, my cousin Margaret has started something with an innocent comment. It led to me looking up Chris Farlowe on YouTube, and blow me if that didn't take me to a whole host of early 1960's bands and soloists, their television recordings preserved for all time. The Tremeloes, Herman's Hermits, Adam Faith, The Hollies, Sandie Shaw, blast after blast of the past. It was wonderful. I remember watching a TV programme years ago about a woman who was addicted to Jim Reeves and played his records all day long. She spent her life mooning after him, unable to do anything else. I caught a glimpse of how easy it would be to enter a parallel world as I watched those bands, and turned the computer off before I became hooked. But it was unsettling.

Another unsettling experience has been waking up this morning to waves of pain in my right side which Google quickly confirmed as passing a kidney stone. As the pain built in intensity I made an emergency visit to my doctor, and blow me if the pain didn't subside. She took it seriously anyway, and instigated urine sample, blood test and scan to see exactly what is going in. More importantly from my point of view she gave me some very powerful painkillers which I can take if need be. Back home I've been drinking lots and waiting to see what will happen next. As always when something like this occurs I can't help thinking of people living in Third World countries or war zones where medical help is unavailable and they just have to suffer. So instead of thinking "Why me?" I thought "Why Not Me?". But I can say that, can't I, safe in the knowledge that extra-strong codeine tablets are within arm's reach, and the good old NHS is just down the road.

Gloria and Schubert

Two pieces of music on the radio moved me deeply today, transported me back in time, and they couldn't have been more different from each other. The first was "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor, and seconds after the first two or three notes had been sung I was back in The Gateways Club in Chelsea, dancing crazily, fist pumping the air gleefully with all the other dykes every time the title words were sung. God, they were heady days. I was 35, and my children were tucked up in bed in the care of a much-loved au pair while I enacted a youth I'd never had. My partner and I didn't really belong in the smoke-filled cavern where gender identities were sometimes so blurred that I found myself staring, wondering. It was underground, literally and metaphorically, and being conventional was too important to us then. But the music was always great, and the dancing felt liberating. In spite of all our differences there was a spirit of camaraderie in that space that meant something. We may not know who you are, they seemed to say, but you can be yourself in here, with us. Heady stuff indeed.

The second piece of music was Schubert's String Quintet, an absolutely sublime piece of music. I first heard it in South Hill Park, Bracknell 10 years before the Gaynor song when I'd gone with my then boyfriend, later husband, to review a concert for my newspaper in my small new ancillary role as music critic. I didn't know a huge amount about music in those days, but I loved it and was eager to learn more. The evening couldn't have been more memorable. Several days of savage blizzards had left the roads snow-covered and icy, and we dithered about whether we should risk driving in such treacherous conditions. In the end we went, and joined the other three people in the audience who'd braved the weather. Despite the abysmally poor turnout the quintet agreed to play and, perhaps because the evening was so unusual, the atmosphere so intimate and personal, they poured heart and soul into their instruments. We were both so moved that we reached for each others hand and held it tightly. It was an unforgettable performance for us, and the musicians told us afterwards it had been for them too; chamber music in a real chamber setting. Of course I raved about it in my column. I've rarely been so glad I ignored common sense and took a risk.

Music is the most powerful memory prompt for most of us. It makes coming to terms with grief all the harder, though it brings immeasurable comfort and joy too. Those two memories were replayed in front of my eyes today, unsolicited, with filmic intensity, and I recalled vividly the spaces around me, the way I felt, even what I was wearing both times. I wonder if that facility vanishes with Altzheimer's, or if sufferers are granted periodic flashes of the past when significant music is played. It seems only fair that it should be so.

To Thine Own Self

I knew something was terribly wrong. There was no immediate warning, just a subtle build  up of unease as the day wore on. I kept going to do something and then stopping suddenly, aware of a sense of disquiet as if an order had been breached, a rule flouted. All day the feeling stayed with me, through bringing in a wheelbarrow load of firewood, folding the dry washing preparatory to ironing it, and spending hours on the computer trying to find the best alternative to my current car insurers. I wallowed in the crossword for a while, and scanned the paper without actually reading much of the content - when did the news get to be this universally bad? In the evening I went out for supper at the home of two friends, probably the most contented people I know. Their lives are ideal, their house beautiful, their social circle interesting and active. A year ago I might have found it all a bit much, and envied their idyll. But last night I mused on the differences between their lives and mine, and the paths we each took to get where we did. They almost certainly wouldn't choose to be me, but on the whole I probably would. It's just about accepting who you are and where you are, I think, and getting on with it, making the most of it. My path might be thornier, but it's my path. And they haven't created two utterly incredible human beings.

After a lovely meal they offered me coffee, and I refused, about to say that I only ever have one cup a day. And then it finally dawned on me what was wrong: I hadn't had my daily latte! No wonder everything was thrown out of kilter, my routine destroyed, my morning shot of ecstasy denied me. This really is a high spot of my day. It's a wonder I was able to function at all.


Today I spotted my first onesie. Frankly I couldn't believe my eyes. It was in the Co-op in Halesworth, and I don't know if the wearer had chosen an enormous size deliberately or if that's how they're worn, for the crotch was down near her knees, the bottom hanging loose like Baloo's. Being a deep, dark pink with a fur-edged hood, at first I thought it was fancy dress, Mother Christmas. It was probably lovely and cosy but frankly degrading, suitable only for a small baby. Haven't lots of stores banned shoppers from wearing pyjamas? They should ban this awful garment too. As its owner might have said, "Ow. My. Days!". Sorry.

People wear these outdoors - I'm not making it up

A Miracle!

This morning for some unknown reason I put my hand into the pocket of a coat I thought I hadn't worn for months, and there were my missing lipsticks! I'm so happy to have them back. Whoever crept in in the night and placed them there - cheers.

I was very careful at bridge yesterday, keeping my hands off my face and washing them before I had my three chocolate digestives at breaktime. It seems to have worked, and I remain unsnuffy. I pondered other ways of keeping uninfected while touching 351 cards - we played 27 hands, nine tables. I thought of putting each card into a little see-through packet (I have yet to design and patent these), using rubber gloves the while before removing these once danger had passed. Wearing gloves throughout is a possibility, and then I could take these off to eat my biscuits. But gloves might be a bit cumbersome, and people might think I was weird. I could tell them I had OCD and it wasn't my fault. Or I could ask the guilty ones to wash their bloody hands.

This morning's paper tells us that a 20 minute walk every day promises a healthy old age, so I set off into the sun and wind with eager anticipation. For some time I've fancied pushing on to Bruisyard Church to examine the Saxon/Norman round tower overlooking the River Alde, so that was my destination. Do you start losing geriatric condition with every minute past the designated 20? The paper didn't say, but I decided to risk it. More excitement was in store. In a field at the bottom of the first hill was a dead muntjack, powerful haunches cleaned to the bone by, presumably, a fox, torso twisted right around, coat matted and coarse, ears shrivelled behind small stubby horns. It wasn't there the other day. What could have happened? I thought its throat looked slit, but what would have done that? Another mystery.

Bruisyard churchyard was filled with crocuses and snowdrops, the first I've seen and a very cheering sight. Inside the church my eyes were drawn to the memorial to six young men killed in the first world war. By the sounds of it few of their bodies were ever recovered and, especially poignantly, three of them died in October 1918. What terrible luck, to make it that far and then be killed. Sarah is determined to drag me to this pretty little church for a Sunday service, but she won't have to try very hard. The ancient walls, believed to date back in part to the 13th century, exude an atmosphere of serenity that I'll be happy to share with a handful of Christians.

Thrills

It's probably quite sad, but the highlights of my day are as follows: the first cup of tea; my morning cup of latte from my snazzy Nespresso machine; printing off the crossword from the Times online at around 4pm and stretching out on my kitchen sofa with a pen and a cup of tea; lighting the woodburner in the evening; a glass of wine with supper; and getting into a warm bed with my book and reading for a while before sleep. Best of all is if a daughter is staying, and they join me for tea in bed in the morning, and a long, lazy chat. Other things provide small thrills, like putting out the rubbish, and folding away the ironing. It's not exactly the dizzy heights, but these little things bring happiness, or contentment anyway. I still get a kick out of having a car and going where I choose, and being able to order a meal, or just afternoon tea, whenever I want to. Having the freedom to do as I please is a novelty that has still not worn off after around 45 years of adulthood. As I said, sad isn't it? But I bet I'm not alone ...

Old Things

I returned exhausted from Italian last night. I mean really shattered. My brain just folded completely so that when I was asked, 10 minutes into the lesson, "Where are you from", my mind froze and I couldn't even remember the name my village. Patrick, who had to pose the question, luckily lives just down the lane from me and was able to help me out. I must have spent 20 hours revising over the Christmas break, and can now communicate really complicated things in my own house, alone. I can also read texts pretty well. But I lost it all in the classroom, at least to start with. I needn't have worried: we were all absolute duffers. If Carrie, our Cuban teacher, was shocked she didn't show it. But I was. It must be my age m'lud. I have a half-formed plan to spend a week travelling around Italy alone in the Easter holidays when I'll be forced to speak Italian all the time. No point in doing things by half.

Today I started yoga, which I've been promising myself for ages. It's in a village on the other side of Fram, and my drive had the usual wow factor. Easton is a picture postcard old village, unlike my village which is quite ordinary. Its centre was Easton Hall which was demolished in the 1920s though plenty of evidence of its existence remains: the huge entrance gates, the stables, lodge and outbuildings, now mostly turned into dwellings, and best of all the crinkle-crankle wall. This stretches all around the old estate for miles, most of it in excellent repair. These walls are peculiar to Suffolk, brought over by the Dutch who came to drain the lands of East Anglia. Easton itself is full of very old thatched cottages, and on my way out I passed a beautiful house with a deep moat and gorgeous gardens which I have yet to identify. It's all enough to make the heart sing. Yoga itself was enjoyable and quite easy, though I expect I'll ache tomorrow. And the teacher was a hoot, and had us in stitches. But my, how the clobber has changed! My old sweat pants, loose shirt and sweatshirt just didn't cut the mustard. It's all tight fitting lycra these days apparently, regardless of age and shape of wearer. And it's lots of layers too: I watched out of the corner of my eye as top after top was peeled off as the temperature rose leaving ever smaller, tighter garments underneath. So it's not just a mat I'll be buying it seems. It ended with a wonderful guided relaxation stretched out on our mats. Baggy and unfashionable though I was, I could have stayed there all day.

The crinkle-crankle wall. It's an old English word for zigzag

The old gates of Easton Hall

Nothing has changed here for centuries

I came home to my morning latte, but what I really need is to drink lots of fluids without caffeine in them. And so I've thought up a new scheme. Shunning cold water as I do in the winter, I've been putting a lemon and ginger teabag in my beautiful teapot and filling it with boiling water. I thus save on teabags and can heat up mugs of the stuff in the microwave as and when I need it. I was chuffed with this plan, and took a photo of the paraphernalia. I think Van Gogh might have envied this still life.

I couldn't resist these lovely bright colours

Nothing is Permanent

This morning I watched 14 runners in bright yellow tops and bare purple legs run past my house, men and women both. In the bitterly cold air their breath hissed from them in steaming bursts like puffing geysers, but the sun was bright in a flawless blue sky, and they must have been exhilarated by their exertions. I shuddered and hugged the radiator more closely as they jogged past, thankful to be indoors. But it was too nice to stay in, and I was glad I'd arranged a walk with a friend. Wendy is in my Italian class, a retired musician who still plays the violin in amateur groups. We usually end up laughing at the same thing.

The Church at Covehithe was abandoned after most of the village fell into the sea

A huge flock of seagulls later settled on a nearby lagoon (below)

So I finally made it to Covehithe, and it didn't disappoint. In the year or more since I was last there the soft sandstone cliffs have continued to tumble onto the beach below, in some places very far below. The spectacle owes as much to this transparent evidence of the destructive power of nature as to the natural beauty of the place, especially on such a lovely day. The cliffs have eroded so much in the six years I've been visiting that the path along the top has been pushed back 20 or more feet into the field. Trees that stood well inland are now lying broken on the beach or hanging over the edge, soft footings crumbling. Totally absorbed with what I was seeing I completely forgot to photograph the scene. Fresh rockfalls were everywhere, the result of storms that have shaken the coast to its roots this week. Between 1830 and 2001, Wikipedia tells us, 500 metres of land has been lost to the sea. It's a sobering thought, and one that must weigh on the minds of the 20 remaining hamlet-dwellers every winter.

We decided to walk back along the sandy shore, but mindful of the incoming tide, the fact that there would be no escape up the treacherous walls of sandstone in an emergency, and the realisation that neither of us had a signal on our phones, we upped our pace a bit. Mild anxiety is a great spur, and we didn't even get our feet wet. Where we turned back inland it was stunning to see the great flock of seabirds settled on a lagoon, snow white against the glittering blue water.

The old road through Covehithe just drops away to nothing

This tree once flourished in the middle of a meadow

Seabirds on the lagoon

I may be joining a creative writing group. My walking friend belongs to one in Framlingham, and it seems I know the person who runs it as well as another member. I've steered clear of them up to now, but this one sounds like fun. I thought I could write about the unwelcome proliferation of pedestrian traffic in quiet villages. Another two people have just walked by. That's 16 today. It's all a bit much.

Beautiful Boy

I first heard him sing on one of my many visits to King's College Chapel, Cambridge for Choral Evensong during 2014. There was always something soothing and uplifting about the singing in that special setting, and I was sorely in need of both. I was aware of this little chap because he looked serious and was clearly moved by the music. During the service you tend to scan the little faces in the choir, disbelieving that such gorgeous sounds can come out of such little bodies and baby faces. I just couldn't take my eyes off this chap. Then one memorable day he sang the long solo, Hear My Prayer by Mendelssohn, which turned unexpectedly into Oh For the Wings of a Dove. I knew his voice would be exceptional, and it was. Calmly and beautifully he sang the glorious psalm, and I was literally transported to heaven. OK, maybe not literally. Definitely figuratively though. I sat in stunned silence afterwards, unable to believe what had just happened. As he lingered with his friends I chatted to him, and told him his rendition was wonderful. Thank you, he said. No, thank you, I replied, trying not to gush, and he smiled. I suppose they hear that a lot from awed listeners.

Tom Pickard

He's left the choir now, gone on to his senior school. I know because I have been back to the chapel a few times and missed his presence. So when this evening I finally watched the recorded "60 Years of Carols at Kings" I wasn't expecting him to feature so heavily. The filming was all done during 2013, and it was with that year's carol concert that the programme ended. And the soloist for the opening carol, Once in Royal David's City, was him. What a gift he has. His mother and twin sister Jane were there, visiting Cambridge as they do every Christmas from the Isle of Man where they all live. They had been moved to tears by his singing, and afterwards, standing outside the chapel with her arm around her son's shoulders, his mother said his father would have been so proud. He died two years ago. I burst into tears. Well, it's a potent mix: music, Christmas, little boy without a father.

I now know who he is, thanks to the Isle of Man Courier that has followed his career with pride. At age four he passed Grade 1 violin, at age 10 he was on Grade 7. He also plays the piano. And his voice soars on the wings of a dove. I shall look out for him in the future. I'm sure he'll turn up again. Having won one of only six scholarships to Kings, he is now on a full music scholarship at Eton, and him an ordinary lad from t'north. Except there's nothing ordinary about him. Beautiful, beautiful boy. I say again, thank you Tom.

Connections

Duplicate bridge as extreme sport? Hardly, but it is a dangerous game. You only have to think of all those hands, 68 of them yesterday, using tissues and hankies, touching their faces and worse, and then handling the cards, to get the picture. You don't need a vivid imagination. And so it was hardly surprising that I woke up this morning with a runny nose. The first bridge after the Christmas break and they got me. I try to remember not to touch my face when I'm playing bridge with so many people, and especially my mouth, until I've been to the bathroom. I even have a small bottle of sterilizing gel in my bag for emergencies. But when H brought me a cup of tea and two chocolate digestives halfway through the afternoon, incurring the unspoken wrath of our newest opponents for being late back to the table, I must admit I fell on them with unprotected paws. I was hardly going to use my eyebrow tweezers.

I spent the morning indoors, ironing, reading, watching the rain fall from a drab sky, but the afternoon brought clear blue, and so I set out for a walk, streaming nose notwithstanding. And what an eventful walk it turned out to be! First I encountered a sporty looking lady with silver hair, my sort off age, running down the hill. She stopped for a brief chat, and we exchanged fitness regimes. Then I came upon Sarah from across the lane, and she invited me over for a drink. The air was filled with the sound of water as the morning's downpour dashed and hurtled into the ditches. Such a thrilling music, and so satisfying to see it neatly herded and corralled. At the bottom of the second long hill I stopped outside pretty Garden Cottage, mouth agape. For the River Alde, usually just a trickling stream, was in full spate around the outside of the house, literally cornering like a slaloming skier where it had to follow the bend before speeding on across the field. I hung over the fence and watched, exhilarated by the sight, soaking it up, and noticing for the first time the remains of an old tower by the edge of the water. Then who should come by but my running lady, and so I pointed out the river to her with delight, eager to share my discovery with someone. "I live there!" she told me, and I got the full story of how she and her architect husband had bought it as a dilapidated mill and turned it into a thing of extreme beauty. "I'm literally going in to change and go out again, but next time you're passing come in and have a cup of tea, and I'll show you the house," she said. We introduced ourselves and shook hands - Shirley and Robert, they are. I've been longing to see Garden Cottage: what luck.

The River Alde steaming through Garden Cottage

The river was once navigable all the way to Aldeburgh

I walked briskly home, uphill and down, for 20 minutes. Shirley had told me of her feelings cycling down the hill to her house from mine on a summer's evening, the fields on either side filled with golden wheat. "It's heavenly," she breathed. "The most perfect spot in Suffolk. There really is nowhere prettier." Well, I didn't argue. As I had neared her house earlier I was thinking that happiness is such a strange concept, and it can take so little to invoke it. At that moment I had tried to imagine anything, just one single thing, that would make me happier than I was feeling just because the day and the countryside were so lovely and I was privileged enough to be experiencing them. And I could not think of a single thing.

Back to Back

"I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine" doesn't really work when you live alone. And so I bought a version of a loofah to give my spine a well-earned scrub. Only every time I got in the bath I noticed that the scrubber was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, limp and useless, out of reach. This morning back and loofah connected finally, but what a kerfuffle! I felt like Houdini manoeuvering it into place, hands getting caught up in loops, elbows trapped in twisted hooks. Or that Indian goddess with all the arms only most of them had been amputated. By the time I'd finished I was as exhausted as if I'd conducted the 1812 Overture. And then I noticed that several of my back moles had been decapitated by the exfoliating action. I won't go into details, but I'm aware of all the violent imagery in this piece. I'll keep an eye on it. I don't want it getting out of hand.

I played bridge with H this afternoon, and as usual it was hilarious. We ended up at her place, when she gave me a glass of wine. This was a South African glass of wine, not a normal one, and a top up had emptied the bottle. God, it's a long time since I drove home with my nose on the steering wheel, clinging desperately to my side of the lane as the odd car approached me in the dark. I'm safely back now, and I'm not doing that again. Not until next Wednesday anyway.

Postponing Gratification

Typical. I'm having an economy drive after an excessively bloated Christmas, and what should come through the post today but the Bloms Bulb catalogue. I nearly threw it straight in the bin but had a quick perusal: fatal. The dahlias I've promised myself for this year are there, the enduringly popular Bishop of Llandaff, and the golden apricot David Howard, both with striking dark foliage. I'll wait a few months, 'appen, (sorry Derek Jacobi, but you know what a mimic I am) and buy them for spring planting. A few years ago we ordered a load of perennials for another garden from The Times, and accepted the special offer of 100 mixed dahlia tubers for £4. They were old stock some nursery wanted to get rid of I think. Being dahlia virgins we had no idea what to expect but planted the lot, and that summer had the biggest, brightest, most colourful beds imaginable. They were truly a source of continual delight and surprise.

Dahlias just starting to come out I think

Still on my economy drive I went into Fram this morning to check on a yoga class, and stopped off to get a replacement bulb for my car headlights. And what do you know? The pair had gone, offside and nearside. Inbuilt obsolescence working a treat then. I told the young man in the garage that I only had £20 with me (true: new resolution, leave cards at home), and he said that would be fine as the bulbs would be £8.25 each including VAT. So he was only going to take £3.50 for labour? Unbelievable. I returned ten minutes later to be told the cost was £10.75 as the bulbs were single not double filament. In the event he handed me back a £10 note. Couldn't be fiddling with change he said with a lovely smile. He's got my custom now. I shall be loyal to the death.

Chimonanthus Praecox

After a sudden heavy downpour the sun burst out from behind moody clouds and lit up my kitchen and front garden. It reminded me that I now have a name for the mystery yellow flowering shrub, whose petals seemed like newly-churned butter in the sudden glow. It's called Chimonanthus Praecox or Wintersweet, and has a sensational fragrance, sweet and spicy. The tree/shrub was listing badly and swinging about in the ground when I noticed it in the summer. Ugly leaves, no flowers or fruit, I didn't much like it and didn't know what it was. I got the fencing man to stake it anyway, and lo! see what has happened. It takes at least ten years to get to this stage apparently and is much prized in winter. Thank goodness I gave it a second chance.

One Thing After Another

I was exhorted to buy biscuits for a friend of a friend who was calling in for a cup of tea and a chat on his way home from Minsmere yesterday. In the event he didn't want one, and that spelt catastrophe for me. I can't keep biscuits in the house, so my motto is, eat them quickly, get them out of the house. The trouble is that I am sort of allergic to them, especially if I eat them after lunch, when all I want to do is sleep. Does this stop me eating them? Of course it doesn't. And so I had two chocolate gingers for 'elevenses', at 10am with my coffee, another two an hour later, and three more after lunch. I could have just surrendered to the urge to doze, but I was expecting a BT engineer and had to be alert.

The engineer came in the allotted time with a whisker to spare. Why do they always tell you your slot is 8-1pm, and then arrive at the last possible second? He confounded me by asking what seemed to be the problem. I gaped at him. Do you mean that you haven't been given a file itemising my many issues with my telephone and broadband, I asked him stupidly? No, he blithely replied, smiling face bereft of guile. So I told him about my crackling phone line, my loss of broadband, sometimes for a whole day at a time, the fact that my Caller Display function stopped working over two months ago. His insouciance was truly remarkable. I suppose if you work for BT, voted as the least customer friendly company in the UK, you have to develop a thick skin. He tried to fix the problem which he easily identified, but he couldn't get a van with a hoist to reach the line. In the meantime I heard all about his arthritic foot problems which I identified with having some of my own. It was all very predictable really. Most of a day wasted: I managed a few hours in the garden this morning, it being mild and dry if not sunny, but couldn't settle to Italian. And now it's nearly dark.

But I have much more serious things to worry about. My main concern at the moment is the mystery of the disappearing lipsticks. I own three, one of them bought expensively just a few weeks ago. And now they have vanished. All three of them. They live in my handbag because I tend to wear lipstick quite a lot these days when I go out. I definitely had them on Christmas Eve, but can't remember seeing them after that. It's so perplexing. I never have all three out of the bag at the same time, so can't have mislaid them. I've searched the car, the house, the pockets of all my clothes, down the back of the sofas, under the bed. Nada. What can it mean? Is one of my Christmas guests a sleepwalking kleptomaniac? And how can I play bridge on Wednesday with nothing to brighten up my grey winter face? Must I resort to cochineal?

Light and Shade

Every wave caught the light as it crashed and spread across the sand and shingle today, seemingly made up of spun glass. The sight was so beautiful that I spent a while trying to capture it on film. The North Sea is usually a murky grey/brown, and it is hard to imagine that something so lovely and pure-looking as surf can be a product of it. The sun glinted through the rapidly vanishing foam sending my photochromic lenses into protective darkness, and I had to keep lowering my glasses to get the full effect. Dunwich Cliffs and Minsmere were unusually busy, it being the last day before the schools go back, but who could return early to the city when the coast was in show-off mode, pulling out all the stops to dazzle and please? It's been many months since I walked here, and I've missed it. Over Christmas we tramped at Walberswick and Aldeburgh where civilisation promised refreshments, but didn't make it to the wilder parts. Nor have I been to Cove Hythe for a while, where the cliff's erosion creates a dramatically changed coastline on every visit. There's so much to see here, so many places to go. This morning it was clear, sunny, windless and very cold, perfect beach-walking weather. With our flaming cheeks, cosy hats and big smiles we promenaders made a happy sight, and we acknowledged each other with the sort of friendliness that goes with Christmas, New Year, and any kind of perfect day.

Murky, blue and translucent all at once

On another note I've taken down the Christmas decorations and stripped the tree. The former were deliberately sparse, but accidentally throwing away the majority of my Christmas cards when I moved them from the kitchen to the sitting room didn't help; I tried upending the recycling bin but in full gale-force winds that was never going to end happily. But the tree was cheerfully covered, and has surprised me by shedding almost no needles. Only as I manhandled it through the the garden room french windows did it spill a little. What a splendid tree it was! £20 from the market and quite the nicest one I've ever had. If I knew what it was I'd try to get the same again next year, especially since Medlar Cottage has been designated official Christmas venue for the forseeable future.

Best tree evah, whatevah it is

And on a different note again I was very pleased to have a visit from my next-door-neighbour Mark. He's putting in a new kitchen, and wanted to warn me that he will have to turn the water off for half an hour tomorrow. No problem, I told him, and asked how the work was going. With the house to himself on New Year's Day, he told me, his wife off early to work, he'd got quite a lot done. I know, I said, laughing, I heard you hammering at 7.50am when my guest and I were brutally awakened after a not particularly heavy night with a bottle of champagne (though I didn't use the word brutally, or mention the champagne). He looked stricken and apologised again and again, telling me that with Sharon out of the house he hadn't even looked at the time. I was so relieved that he wasn't doing it deliberately - small hint of paranoia creeping in there, but it did seem odd - that I practically hugged him. "You're the quietest neighbours imaginable," I responded. "It was so out of character ... " and he looked equally relieved. Happy New Year village mine, and all who sail in her. You've been so easy to live in this past 11 months, and to love.