50 Shades

50 shades of shimmering, glassy blue from azure to iceberg was the North Sea off Aldeburgh today, and you can't often say that. Its default colour is a steely, muddy, inhospitable grey, but this afternoon the sun shone and there was no wind, a temperate condition that brings out the best in the ocean. I walked briskly for about half an hour before the film (The Wild) and almost everyone I passed smiled at me; two or three couples added a Good Afternoon. I wasn't even doing my Big Walk, which I hit upon after one very sad day when passers-by completely ignored me. The best way to take the air if you're out alone, no matter how defeated you are feeling, is to look positive. This involves an extroverted swinging of the arms slightly away from the body, tilting the chin up in the air, and smiling with pure pleasure even if your heart is drowning in tears. Look as if you're having one hell of a time, and everyone will want to be your friend. Today I was animated simply because the day was so lovely. It just goes to show though: how you present yourself to the world is how the world will respond to you. It's never too late to make a better impression.

I'm wondering if I'm allergic to my woodburner. I've had a persistent cough for several weeks, and it seems to be worse in the evenings. I was told that burning old fencing releases arsenic into the air, and I've noticed that my kindling has clearly been treated at some stage. Am I slowly poisoning myself in my own sitting room, watching Anne Boleyn's head roll as I succumb to a cruel deterioration myself? I think I'll stop using that kindling and start on another load which is just virgin pine.

The film was very good though not as utterly brilliant as the book. Reese Witherspoon went through the motions of discovering that she couldn't even lift her packed rucksack off the floor, but then proceeded to set off in a jaunty way that belied the excessive weight. She barely mentioned it again, though it dominates the book. But that's just nitpicking, taking realism to extremes. It's an uplifting story of a gutsy girl who faces her demons and comes through. I like a good struggle, one person pitting themselves against the harshest of conditions, and prevailing. Just as long as it's not me.

Elbow Grease

Oh, but it's been cold these last few days. The wind has sliced sharply through the thickest clothes and tortured the very bones. On Sunday and Monday I spent a few hours clearing up the hedge droppings and wheeling the unwanted bits of twigs, brambles and dead intertwining creepers to the space at the bottom of the garden where I can still have bonfires. In the end the piercing south-westerly drove me indoors, but today I was out again, trying to pretend that there was warmth in the sunshine and that I couldn't feel the chill inside my padded jacket and trousers and "care in the community" hat. In the event I sawed down two elders which had grown leggy and scrappy and needed harsh treatment to rejuvenate them. Between the first and second tree I was again forced to seek the comfort of the warm kitchen as a sudden flurry of snow got the better of me. But it cleared as quickly as it arrived, and I continued with my work. It nearly ended in catastrophe but I'll gloss over that. All I need now is for Did to come with his chainsaw and make logs for me, then I can set the fire and turn the remains to ash.

It's funny how I can spend ages on really hard work like this but turn to jelly when trying to put elbow grease into cleaning the inside of the windows. There are so many delicious jobs waiting outdoors, but doing them is not much fun when it's this cold. I can wait though. The daffodils are poking through, potted tulips are peeping out as well, and there are buds on everything. Can there be anything more thrilling than the unmistakeable evidence that spring is truly on its way?

Sweeping Changes

I raised my binos the better to see a group of colossal hares charging around in front of me this morning, when right across my vision flew a barn owl, wing movements slow and graceful, eyes pinned to the ground. The timing was as perfect as its little white, heart-shaped face. I can see so much more now that the tall trees and bushes have been reduced, and there's plenty to catch my attention. I'm thinking of erecting a hammock in my study window from where I can lie and watch nature doing its thing outside.

Earlier I set off for Waitrose, and just short of arriving realised I didn't have my wallet with me. I toyed with the idea of throwing myself on the mercy of the staff - Rowena, the manager, knows me well - and telling them I'd pay next time, but I guessed they'd have none of it. So back I went, and was gasping for a coffee when I finally returned. But what a difference in the cafe! Waitrose have stopped giving out free teas and coffees to all MyWaitrose card holders because of the system's abuse, and the clientele there this morning showed just how much of this has gone on. To put it delicately, people who wouldn't dream of shopping in Waitrose acquired their cards - anyone could have one - and popped in for their free coffee every day without buying anything. Honestly John Lewis, could you not see that one coming? Scanning MyWaitrose cards to see the holder's shopping record would have told you who was bona fide and who not. So now long-standing customers only get free coffees if we buy a bun, and the scroungers have vanished. Mind you, when I discovered this morning that my John Lewis Partnership card is backed by the notoriously corrupt HSBC, I felt like scarpering with them.

Up and Down

I've been escalated! and I've been diminished! both in a very good way. BT have finally realised the sheer futility of sending no fewer than seven Openreach engineers one after the other who all arrive and ask innocently, What seems to be the problem? because they haven't been briefed first!!! So I've now spent 56 hours waiting in for them: they always say they will come any time between 8 and 1, but it's normally 10 to 1. Frustrating phone calls to India have got me nowhere, but on Tuesday morning the kindly young engineer told me I really needed a broadband engineer, the next step up from him and his mates, and so I reported this to India when they phoned last night for the umpteenth time to see if my woes were now over. A quite different sounding man, not reading from a script I now know off by heart, ran a series of tests and told me that, yes, my line was dipping in and out and there was a fault. Yes! Yes! I'm to be escalated, he told me. If he'd been in the room with me I'd have crushed the life out of him in a love squeeze. Lucky man then. Watch this space.

The first dramatic cuts

Neatly Clipped

And my hedge has been decimated, shortened by up to 15 feet in places and denuded of brambles. The difference in my already brighter than bright kitchen is remarkable, but best of all I won't have to watch the sun go off my summerhouse at around 4pm in the height of summer. Four men in hard hats wielding chainsaws up ladders and a tractor with a cage on it made mincemeat of the hedge, and created a lovely big heap of firewood to boot. I had to ask the men to log up more wood than they planned to, understandable perhaps since the boss man Philip supplies all my firewood. It's a win win situation for me, to employ a cliche, and I'm over the moon and nothing like as sick as a parrot.

Sheer Heaven

I popped into the hardware store in Halesworth today when I paid my 9-monthly visit to the dentist, and it was like entering an Aladdin's cave. Everything you could possibly want and an awful lot that you didn't really need but would like to own was displayed beguilingly through its ample indoor acreage. Some women like shopping for shoes, especially the ones with red soles (?) and some for clothes. My former next door neighbour is a well-known dress designer and I've visited his shop and atelier in Mayfair at his invitation, but the only thing I had eyes for was the wonderful oak staircase and beautiful shade of pale green paint on the walls. Forget the frocks. Others like browsing stores selling beautiful things for the home. Give me the multi-purpose hardware outlet any day, with its range of gardening tools and equipment, kitchen appliances and gadgets, paints and and and well things, useful things. I came out with two bulging bags and could have bought the entire stock.

My dentist is as beautiful as any model, and lovely with it. I'm sure he quakes when he sees me, though, because my well-known terror of the drill, or even the examination with pick and mirror, is enough to undermine anyone. But he always smiles reassuringly during his perusal around my gums, and congratulates me on how well I clean my teeth. I have to laugh every time, not that easy with a mouthful of instruments, because honestly, I've had around 63 years of brushing my teeth by myself. I should have it right by now shouldn't I?

Golden Oldies

A huge dark brown hare was sitting very upright in the field, black-tipped ears erect, staring right at me when I looked out of the window this morning. I had to put the  binos down in the end, quite unnerved by its steady attention. It was a still, bright morning, not exactly sunny but not too cold either, and so I wheeled all of my implements into the front garden and set about continuing to clear the beds of the autumn's leaves. As usual I marvelled at the absolute silence broken only by the singing of birds. Must be spring. But then another sound came to my ears, and to my amazement it became a whole string of mopeds and scooters ridden, I joke not, by old men with full grey beards. They wore helmets and high viz jackets, and a few of them spotted me standing there with my mouth open and waved. Following them came several cars which at first I thought had got caught behind them, but as the ancient riders turned down the lane just past my house I popped into the back garden and saw the cars follow them. What could it have been? A reunion of Mods? No, much too old.

Later I enjoyed another reunion of old folk. It was a series of films celebrating the Amadeus Quartet, hosted at Aldeburgh Cinema by Humphrey Burton, he of the BBC arts programmes Monitor in the 60s and Aquarius in the 70s. The last surviving member of Amadeus, Martin Lovatt, was present and talked to us after the films. They were the greatest string quartet ever, most people agree, and the films of their playing were intense, beautiful and almost overpowering. Humphrey is urbane and charming, and at the end a frightfully posh lady with the same silver hair as the rest of the audience, stood up and told him that it was the most "maaarvellous" afternoon she had ever spent at the cinema, and she wanted to thank him "so, ver ver ver much" for putting it on. And we all clapped like crazy. Such fun.

Wet, Wet, Wet

I bit off a bit more than I could chew when I decided to stop off on the way home from bridge to get the car washed. I dialled in my code, drove the car into position and turned the engine off when the Stop sign appeared. As the brushes hit the windscreen and water began to gush out I suddenly remembered that I hadn't removed the aerial from the roof. Usually the person in the kiosk reminds you, but she must have forgotten. In a split second I had weighed up my options: leave it and hope for the best, but the last time I did that the bill to replace the mangled one was horrible; drive the car back out, but would the car wash go on without me and I'd have to pay for another one?; or get out and remove the aerial. Again, I considered how long it would take me and how quickly the water would cover me. I thought I might have enough time, so I jumped out, remembered to slam the door behind me, and rushed to the back of the car to unscrew the aerial. Well, it was wet back there. The spray soaked my sleeve as I reached up to the roof, and it sprayed my hair, my face and my glasses too. But it wasn't a drenching, and I got the aerial off. Just as well. I watched from the sidelines as the brushes scraped and ground across the roof and I know that innocent piece of metal would have been history. Back in the clean car I dried my face and hair with tissues, and my sleeve was back to normal in minutes.

On the way home I was interested to see that the sheep pastures of Heveningham Hall are covered, and I mean covered in molehills. Poor Mr Hunt, him of Foxton's fame who owns most of eastern Suffolk, can he not afford a molecatcher? I wonder if I should tell Sid to go touting for business. He'd never have to leave once he got there. He could hang all the little blighters up on a line as a warning to their friends. But the lucky escapees might head in my direction instead so perhaps I'll keep quiet. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned this subject. I know what vengeful little buggers they are.

Finding The Way

I love a shortcut. Anything that looks as if it might be a quicker way of getting from A to B is seductive to me. The sudden appearance of a small unsigned lane or track if I'm in the car, or a worn path with no footpath sign to validate it is irresistible. And so I found myself yesterday facing the railway line at the end of a long right of way, with a pair of gates separating me from the other side. Now the trains to and from Lowestoft go once an hour, and I know their times. Even so, the sign by the gate invited me to use the telephone for permission to cross. Had I been on foot I could have just legged it. But I wasn't absolutely sure that crossing the track would put me back on the beaten track, not with a car. I dithered. The small railwayman's cottage beside the gate was clearly occupied, but nobody came out to see what I was doing. And so I backed up the lane for nearly half a mile before I could turn round. Why didn't I just check the track on the OS map which I keep in the door pocket beside me? Heaven only knows. As it was the poor car got scratched down both sides by overgrown hedgerows as I manoeuvred it backwards. But even so I kept grinning reassuringly to myself, repeating over and over with glee: What an adventure! When I did check the map later I saw that the track lead only to a disused pit, not the main road. At least I was spared the embarrassment of ringing for permission twice.

One of the side effects of being alone a lot is that you talk to yourself. I'm sure most people do this, and it's usually a silent conversation inside my head. I'm not mad, yet. But I've found increasingly that I can't always articulate what I want to say when the situation calls for it. And so when someone finally answered the phone at Laura Ashley and I tried to arrange for collection of an unsuitable rug purchased online, I couldn't think how to express myself. I stumbled and stuttered a bit until my brain negotiated with my tongue and the right words came out. Very disconcerting. I didn't have this problem when the oil delivery man came to fill my tank. As he climbed down from his vehicle and came towards me smiling, I could see that he was engaged in a conversation with someone on his headset. For the ten minutes it took for the the oil to flow I mooched around the garden pretending to be fascinated by something in the hedge while he carried on chatting. He completed the task, wound his long hose back up, gave me a receipt, smiled and left, without a single word being exchanged between us. Now that was weird.

One notable thing though: I was outside without a coat and it wasn't cold. Now that's progress.

By The Water's Edge

Hedgerow birds may be declining in alarming numbers, but there's no shortage of seabirds. The haunting, liquid warble of the curlew filled the air along the River Alde as I walked in dazzling sunshine yesterday, and the water's edge thronged with busy small white bodies. The tide was half in, the air still and clear, so it was a surprise to see the huge wherry, red sails hanging loose, adrift in the stillness. It's normally parked by the Maltings, though visitor trips down to the sea and back are a highlight of summer. It was barely moving, but as I watched it drifted slowly back towards its berth. Such a magnificent, unexpected sight. These wherries once worked the Norfolk Broads and coastal region off Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth in great numbers, but there are barely a handful of them left. To see this one in full flight whirling along the Alde past ancient, isolated Iken Church, tacking in great arcs with its massive sails straining against the wind, is unforgettable. Today it might have been limping but it was still impressive despite a lack of power.

The sunset that followed this heavenly day was leisurely and dramatic, the sky shot with exotic crimsons, mauves, purples and pinks spreading ever further as the sun disappeared. I followed it back in the car, seeing and losing the full globe until, back in my kitchen, I watched the drama unfold from the window. It was only as I unpacked my shopping that I realised I had boobed. If my Waitrose shop includes a stop in the cafe I usually throw a few things into my trolley to show it is taken, and then remove them later. How did I not notice these unwanted items at the checkout: three extortionately priced bunches of asparagus freighted from the other side of the world?

Everything

Today there was everything. I woke to see six hares racing around the field like kids playing tag. The light was poor and the sky low and murky, but the intense cold had lifted, and maybe they were celebrating. I've been told to imagine them wearing fur-lined onesies (as if they'd be so vulgar) and think of how warm they must be in all weathers. Once dressed in my twosie I set about painting the very dark brown curtain pole in my sitting room a nice light colour, Job's White by Farrow and Ball which is really a shade of  putty. Pretty putty. I thought this was probably a daft idea, especially the 16 rings, but it was a doddle, and by lunchtime it had all been sanded down and given two coats. One more to go. My plan was to watch Kontiki at Aldeburgh cinema in the afternoon, but it's Six Nations Rugby time, and Ireland were playing Italy, so that couldn't be missed. In the event I recorded the match to watch later because I just had to get out for a walk. And what thrills awaited me outside.

The holes in the lane have been filled in, and the last of the hedges clipped back. This latter job done by tractors is a labour-saving alternative to the old laying down of hedges that farm hands took so much pride in doing every winter, and it's brutal and ugly. But once the leaves come it results in a much thicker barrier and the savage chops cannot be seen. To my delight the ditches all along the lane, for a mile or so, had been cleared out too. It's a job I itch to perform, and which is rarely done any more. But how lovely it is to see the water running freely as it is meant too, instead of  struggling through a weed- and detritus-filled jungle. The primroses along the banks have survived, and many were already flowering. Of course there is mud everywhere, and here and there a spillage of the huge, heavy sugar beet that have fallen off a lorry bound for the sugar factory at Bury St Edmunds. Whenever I see these monstrosities I can't help thinking of Hardy's Tess digging them up and loading them on a cart by hand in the coldest, most hostile month of the year. No heavy-duty rubber gloves, or sheepskin ones either. I don't know how she bore the intense chill.

Mud had incensed the nice lady in Esme's House in Fram when I popped in for paint yesterday. It's a smart interior designers, and she had just returned from seeing a client, hugely embarrassed about the state of her car outside their immaculate house. "I'd just washed it and it was plastered again," she moaned. I commiserated. It shocked us when we first moved to Suffolk. Like her, we built a large porch for muddy shoes and boots, but this beautiful addition to the house got messy too, and so we built a wooden boot house beside the porch. "That's what I want!" she cried. "But with three kids it wouldn't be enough. We need a covered walkway from the car to the porch, boots exchanged for slippers at the far end! I dream about this!" I laughed, remembering how strongly I used to feel the same. Now I have a series of strong plastic bags in the cupboard beside the back door, and all muddy footwear is immediately packed out of sight. Easy to do when you live alone.

I had a sudden surge of joie de vivre - no other way of describing it - when I walked in the light mizzle along the lane. It came from nowhere, a familiar friend. I used to think that these eruptions of intense happiness, inspired by music perhaps, or a smell, or something lovely, were because I was with the person I loved. But they were entirely from me, and so they remain. Had I realised this sooner I might have gone my own way years ago. Still, never too late.

Boxing Hares

Two very large brown hares were doing anything but relaxing in the sunshine when I looked out of the window this morning. They were close enough to view clearly with the naked eye, but through field glasses I could see every detail. Their ears were erect, the dark brown tips pointing into the air like antennae, and I could see their eyes, flecked with gold and slightly bulging. They seemed to be playing, running around and then squatting together side by side. Then one would turn to the other who would rear up on hind legs and bat out with extended paws. At one point they froze like that for many seconds, one arm each poised mid punch. But what were they doing? This is mating behaviour, a so-called "Mad March" ritual with the sally discouraging the passionate but unwanted approaches of the buck, presumably hoping for a better offer. With temperatures hovering a little above freezing most days it can hardly be the end of the winter. Perhaps the heat of the sun put some pep in the male's steps. In any case the female was having none of it. As spring approaches the pace hots up, with the buck chasing the sally around and around for hours until I can hardly bear to think about it let alone watch. Does he catch her and force himself on her? Or does she give him a black eye and send him about his business? I've never seen the denouement, but can't help hoping it's the latter.

Today is the usual waiting in for the BT engineer who comes but never fixes the problem. Otherwise, yet another Italian exercise book arrived in the post, spurring me on to greater revision and practice. My unconscious theory seems to be to fill the house with books, as if the mere possession of them will turn me into an Italian speaker. I now own seven or eight where I only really need one, and there are four CDs and DVDs. But there's no alternative to knuckling down and learning verbs, vocab, phrases. I love it really, but it's funny how many urgent things must be done first, like rechecking for emails, looking out of the window for hares, and writing shopping lists. If it weren't for these distractions I'd be fluent by now.

Things That Go Bump

Yesterday I had tea with Sarah across the lane, and met Caroline, wife of Patrick who goes to my Italian class. The talk ranged around the village, the notorious harvest supper, Wolf Hall, trees and their diseases and, finally, ghosts. Both lots of people live in old houses, Sarah's dating back in part to the 17th century, and the others' to the early 19th century; mine is a relative baby at 1870. As the snow fell outside and the wind rattled the window frames Sarah told us of noises she hears but dismisses as the normal creaks of an old house. What sounds like footsteps is just the timbers contracting at the end of the day. Her partner isn't so sure, whispering tremulously when he visits, "What's that?" as another unidentified groan echoes around the back staircase. But Sarah refuses to be intimidated. You just have to take a firm hold of your imagination, she believes. Even her eyes widened at the real ghost story. For years after the other pair moved into their house, in the darkest months of December and January, the doorbell would ring at all times of the day and night. The scent of roses along an upstairs passageway was a powerful presence from time to time, and Caroline and her daughter would often feel that someone was near them, or just passing by. One evening Patrick saw Caroline walk into the boot room at the end of a corridor, and he called to her. No answer. He called again, and still getting no reply went looking for her. But she was upstairs at the time. We sat there, smiling reassuringly at each other, but when the cat flap went suddenly with a loud crack we all jumped.

I've been measuring my oil usage in this first year in Medlar Cottage, aware all the time of falling prices. The usual cost is around £600 for 1,000 litres, which amount of fuel seems to have done me for at least 12 months. This morning the paper warned of a bottoming out of the market and soaring prices due to American wells at a standstill, and so it was with a sick heart that I finally ordered a refill. The heart recovered rapidly when I was quoted £414, a saving on last year of nearly £200. Sure, if I'd ordered earlier I'd probably have got an even better price, but I needed to know what my consumption is, so great news all round. Inexplicably the people who had the house before me used twice as much oil, and nearly twice as much electricity. What the hell went on here, cannabis farm in the spare bedroom?

Weekends

I watched Midwife and Halifax last evening, my one night of indulgence in front of the television. The lesbian partner might have been killed off in the latter series, but there's a new one in Midwife, and I'm interested to see where that will go. Another storyline concerned a young husband and father-to-be who is arrested for gross indecency with another man. Shock and horror all round, and the price to pay for his sin was hormone treatment, oestrogen pills until he had developed breasts and no longer fancied men. The loathing and ostracism of him and his wife by all the neighbours was just a side show. He was born a few decades too early. Bad timing mate.
 
The weekend was much enlivened by a visit from a daughter. We always have such fun, whichever daughter it is, and we make the most of this playground that is Suffolk. Lunch on Friday, arrival day, was at the Golden Keys in Snape. Who should be front of house, serving behind the bar, taking our food orders and bringing the dishes, but Constantine who often did work for us in Wilby. He was actually employed by friends of ours in the village who run a duck-rearing enterprise, and now he's designing menus for this pub. He's come a long way from Romania. We had a terrific lunch, then a walk to the top of the lane, before hunkering down in front of the woodburner as the weather took a turn for the worse. On Saturday we did the antique shops, spending £4 on a pair of ostrich feet ice tongs; they're very posh in Cambridge. And in the evening we watched "Goodnight Mr Tom", and sobbed our hearts out, as you do. We explored the church across the lane on Sunday, musing on what a great place it would be for a wedding. An easy, convivial weekend. My American friend Mike, who I met on a plane 4 years ago, told me that when you are a parent, you’re a parent all your life, and when you’re a child to that parent, you’re a child all your life. He says that love for your children never abates or morphs into something else, or at least, he adds, it hasn't for him. Dear Mike, one of the sweetest men I know, has a wonderful relationship with all of his children. I agree with the first bit, it's true. But for me it has morphed into something else, and that something is friendship. I don't think I anticipated it all those years ago when my role was 100% that of nurturer, but it's more equal now, and the caring comes in both directions.

The final lap was a treacherous drive in the sunshine to Saxmundham on icy lanes, and a half hour wait in the car as we realised we'd got the wrong train time. But why was there a coach and a large minibus waiting at the station? Who could they be expecting? The answer was supplied when the London train arrived and dozens of young musicians tumbled off, instruments strapped to their back or carried by hand. They'll be Snape bound I'll bet, and what a happy sight it was. Once they've thawed out they'll be making music, and how I wish I could have crept among them and been a fly on the wall.