Stroke of Luck

Village life is lovely. Small statement, big truth. The village I live in is spread along nearly a mile of lane humorously called The Street. At one end lives the man who sells vegetables from a stall beside his gate, great veggies and lovely fresh eggs. I'm at the other end, the last cottage before the 30mph signs. There's no village green, no pub, no school, no focal point apart from the village hall where parish meetings are held and the occasional celebratory function is arranged, though the less said about those the better. People are not on top of each other, they don't interfere or fuss or push themselves on you. But they're there. This morning Mike, a village stalwart enjoying his retirement, stopped by to deliver the parish magazine. As we chatted I asked him if he knew of someone who might water my garden while I'm away on holiday. "I'll do it," he responded immediately. "I didn't mean you," I said quickly," but he was adamant. "It'll be a pleasure," he told me, and he meant it. I took him into the back where the donkey paddock he remembered has been transformed, and he was full of praise. I know he'll enjoy caring for my plants in my absence, and I couldn't be more relieved that someone responsible will be keeping an eye on things. I suppose good neighbours can be found everywhere, but I like to think of them as a village speciality.

On Thursday my new pond is being dug out, and then later the lining will go down, a bank will be built behind it from the clay spoil and spread with wild flower seeds, and planting will take place. I'm having water avens, flag irises, great spearwort, common water crowfoot, bog bean, amphibious bistort, brooklime and marigolds, and ten black ramshorn snails. It's going to be beautiful, a real eye catcher. And tomorrow the man who built my summerhouse is returning to do a few repairs, especially to part of the roof that suffered in the last terrible storms a few months ago. Given that the company is based in Scotland I feared that I would never see them again.

Last night I went to Italian feeling down, arriving a bit late, and was greeted rapturously by Wendy whom I sit next to. "I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "We're working in couples on this exercise, and I've actually done all the work for a change to save you doing it!" She was so pleased with herself, and disappointed to the same degree when she realised we haven't got to that section yet. We chatted about our mutual Altzheimer's fears, and I left feeling that my brain is just fine, perhaps a little stressed still from all the changes I've made, but in full working order. How else could I more than anyone in the class have remembered both the past and future tenses of all the verbs we discussed? Sara bene, as they say in Italy. It will be OK.