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