Nonchalance

What lovely bright days we've had most of this week. I spent some time in the garden each day, cutting dead things back, hauling out the violets that try to take over the front garden and end up choking less aggressive plants, and generally clearing up. I've removed all the earth from my dahlias and they are standing upside down in the garage in their boxes to completely dry out before being tucked into little beds of compost. There's still loads to be done before I retire for the winter, but they are nice jobs. Finally I can look out and not feel a hint of despair that I'll never get on top of the basic jobs, ie getting the structure right. I bless the day my neighbour Mike came to tea and sketched out a plan for me on a pad. Once I had a design in my mind I was able to zoom ahead.

Coming back from the hairdressers this afternoon with those twin familiar sensations of soaking collar and prickly underwear, I spotted a large herd of deer in a field not far from Wilby. I glimpsed the shapes through a thinning hedge, and when I slowed down to look there they were, a group of around 20 nonchalantly ambling around and munching the grass, impervious to my curiosity. If I hadn't been starving I'd have lingered longer. It's always such a cheering sight, knowing they are out there living their lives as they always have, finding a way to negotiate the ever-expanding human presence.

The other high spot of the day was hearing that George Osborne has abandoned his plans to cut tax credits. Meeting people every week who depend on these benefits to boost miserable wages and scrape a living, it's a relief to know those proposed cuts won't add to their constant worry about making ends meet. One lady this week, asked if her income exceeded £50,000, had a prolonged coughing/laughing fit as she managed finally to say "You're having a laugh aren't you? £5,000 more like." People talk in amazement of friends or neighbours who earn £10 an hour as if this is riches beyond their wildest dreams. The older ones are so good-humoured, so accepting of their lot. It makes you see red.

Crisp and Even

The garden was white when I opened the curtains at 7.30 this morning, and I was outside 15 minutes later glorying in the beauty of the day. So the frost finally came, 3 days after I lifted the dahlias. Never mind, I have every confidence in their ability to not only survive the winter but produce even more beautiful flowers next year. I marvelled at the space created by the removal of that hazel stump. If only I'd done it when first I began planning the garden, but since that has evolved slowly over the 22 months I've been here I couldn't have known then what a good thing it would be. I'm virtually there now with the design, and can look forward to more planting next spring, and watching it all mature. The thought sends shivers of delight down my spine and up my arms.

White-out this morning

Now it's gone

Before

After breakfast I wrapped up warmly and set off for my first real walk in five weeks; the stroll along the beach with Kitty last Sunday didn't really count. As I neared the church Caroline and Patrick were just emerging from their car, him resplendant in huge brown corduroys, check shirt, saffron tie, tweed jacket, cap. He took the latter off and performed a sweeping bow before me. I headed off along the lane and then down through Janet and John's garden to the fields beyond. Oh, the exhilaration of being out on a crisp morning when the sky is bright and you actually have energy! I didn't go too far as the air was cold, and once I tripped over a bramble runner and fell to the ground. But I was fine, too full of joy to care about muddy knees. Back on the lane I met Janet on her way to church, and we walked together. Such a happy woman, well into her 80s but you'd never know. She and John had already been down to Rendham to check on the sheep. I left her at the lychgate as Patrick tolled the bell inside. "Stay well," she called after me. "See you again soon." I'll do my darndest Janet. I will.

What a Grind

The darkly handsome Lee arrived with his chainsaw and stump grinder this morning, glowering Heathcliffe looks and a lovely vulpine smile which lit up his face. The wind was blowing a gale, and the rain lashed right across the garden from the north, but he wasn't bothered. Within an hour the huge stump and all its horrible sucklings were sawdust, and there were a few logs to add to my pile. He had to manoeuvre his machine between my precious shrubs but he did it brilliantly, and then tidied up afterwards. All for £100. At last I'm shot of the horrible thing, which I had left in situ for so long because the delightful Julian Barclay who has massively overquoted me for every job I've asked him to consider, reckoned it would be several hour's work, two men, £500. You really make me laugh Julian, not. Lee even asked me if I wanted the elder that Did levelled yesterday ground out, and he did that for nothing. Lovely Suffolk man, one of so many I've employed.

Given the appropriate Wuthering Heights weather outside I had a blast indoors with my own hurricane - a musical one of double Wagner, Tannhauser followed by Tristan. I did my ironing while I listened, but given that this was nearly seven hours of music I did other things too: the crossword, some CAB learning, and some Italian preparation for my class on Monday and the little group of Ruth, Lesley and I who meet once a week to talk Italian. We talk English too, or not much would get said. And then we have tea, with cake.

It's so cold today, a taste of what's to come. There is simply no possibility of taking a walk. I shall continue to burrow in the cosy kitchen until it's time to light the woodburner. I'm doing it for Lennie and George.

Gardenwise

Kitty's flowers from last weekend, still perfect

I've had such a productive few days, gardenwise. Nick really did turn out to be just as he described himself, a lazy sod, but I found another gardener who came and worked for seven hours over the past two days and has transformed the place. I also gave up on waiting for frost to get the dahlias and turn them into wilted spinach, but apparently this process is to stimulate dormancy and not really essential. So I dug them all up and they are sitting upside down in the garage waiting for the soil to dry off and be removed before I store them safely for the winter. Peter cleared the beds and raked them smooth, planted a hundred daffodil bulbs and a few shrubs, and mowed the lawn. He also removed the worst excesses of echinops from the front, not an easy job given the depth, intricacy and determination of the roots to multiply below ground. I was very pleased with him, and shall use him again. He drove all the way over from Orford and didn't mind at all.

Did came while he was still here, and cut down the elder stumps to make the bases for my bench. He then completely removed another elder to ground level, and cut back all the offending growth that stops the very last rays of sun from hitting the summerhouse at the height of summer. Everything was turned into another large pile of logs for the woodburner. It's all so satisfying. Now all I'm waiting for is the massive hazel stump to be ground right out, and I'm done.

Did brought his little dog that was a puppy when last I saw it. It's the kind of dog that people fawn over, and it has had that effect on me both times. He is the perfect little dog, a Jack Russell but not typical of the breed. Honestly, I would have him like a shot. Did said he is going to breed from him, but I think me and dogs have had our day. If only I had had a little chap like him in the first place I'd still have him now.

Did and Bobby

Did and I chewed the cud in the warm kitchen for half an hour or so, and then I had the place to myself again. As I looked out over the sunny garden I thought about Of Mice and Men which I saw last night live from the National Theatre. The plot concerns the desperate search of all Americans, according to Steinbeck, for their own bit of land, somewhere they can be independent. The dream went sour for so many people during the Depression when their farms were repossessed, and it resonated strongly with me. I realised I was George and Lennie as they itemised what they would have: a little house with their own bedrooms, a kitchen with a stove, chickens, a cow that would produce "cream so thick you'd need a knife to cut it with", maybe a pig, an orchard, a vegetable garden, and rabbits, eating home-grown alfalfa. A pup too, and two striped cats. I can live without the animals, but essentially my house, my land, my comforts and my independence mean as much to me as the dream meant to them. Perhaps it is what we all seek. Fortunate indeed are they who find it.

Cloud Cuckooland

Tannhauser is the typical romantic Wagnerian hero (after Tristan) who sings of love and woos Venus, so before I went to see the Metropolitan Opera Company's live broadcast on Monday of what has long been my favourite opera I was thinking: why oh why did they choose Johan Botha to play him? I watched him for five hours in Die Meistersinger last year, and couldn't ignore his appearance. This is him in a still from Tannhauser. The romantic hero.

But something strange happened after the first few minutes. He WAS Tannhauser. I was able to transcend his warthog look (sorry, but it's my blog) and really believe in him. In fact he was wonderful. But there was a problem. For the whole of the first act the music blasted at us at high volume, and it really spoiled the effect. In the first interval I asked everone I knew - Frances and Christine, fellow ushers who were sitting next to me, Nik, my boss at CAB, Paul, another usher and his wife Margaret, and of course Richard. Even Caroline and Patrick were there. All agreed it was far too loud, and nobody was going to do anything about it. These people built empires, or their forebears did. What the? In the end I went to the desk and saw the projectionist. "Everyone is saying it's much too loud," I told him. "Is there any chance of turning it down?" "Sure", he said casually. "I'll do it when I go back up." And he did. And everyone said that was much better, phew, what a relief. Why does nobody speak out any more?

Christine and Frances left after the second interval, and Richard came to join me. I had told him I couldn't sit beside him earlier because I can't bear to be distracted during Wagner, and I laughed at how neurotic that sounded. But I could see that he was feeling what I was feeling. Several times he put both hands on his head, once he covered his eyes, and a few time he used his hands to conduct a little before realising and stopping. At the end he didn't stir for several minutes. It was so wonderful to share an experience like that with someone as moved as me. And then to talk about it afterwards. I left the cinema on Cloud 9, and I'm still there, the music running through my head even in my dreams. I've decided now that I'm going to go to Bayreuth. Anna Netrebko in Lohengrin in 2018, the year I'll be 70. Surely both of those things are enough reason to splash out and treat myself to the ultimate luxury. Or is this really Cloud Cuckooland?

Wet and Woolly

We spotted the deer today, a small herd in the distance but brought into focus thanks to powerful binoculars. It looked like a big family with lots of babies, and maybe a stag. They stood in a patch of sunlight against a row of trees, nibbling the ground and looking up to twitch ears and check on things. Such a happy sight. The weather has run the gamut this weekend from mild, warm and sunny to howling gale and lashing rain, a bit on the chilly side, and on to windy, warm and sunny. We grabbed the opportunity and drove to Sizewell to walk in the sand dunes and skitter along the shingle in the teeth of the retreating but still frisky tide. The sky was slightly overcast when we set out, my first proper walk in over a month, and the sea was the colour of mud. But once the clouds passed by the water turned a bright blue, and with the white foam crashing onto the beach and the dunes and Dunwich Cliffs coastguards cottages in the background it was a beautiful scene. Nothing could top this except a NT cream tea and so we indulged ourselves, lapping up every last crumb and currant.

Yesterday we went to a cat homing fair, not for any particular reason apart from just looking, and were surprised to see that most of the displayed animals were black, the hardest feline to home. Kitty, here for the weekend, was understandably nervous since it was she who came with me to see the puppy that I impulsively bought last year and took home, disastrously. I think she was as relieved as me when I said we should get going. The trouble is I would like a pet, but not enough to commit to getting one. Moving swiftly on.....

We made the Christmas cake when we got home, a joint effort especially when it came to licking spoons and bowls. Why is it that the mixture tastes so much better than you ever imagine the cake will? As usual the Rayburn made me jittery, what with its unreliable thermometer and door that suddenly wouldn't close unless I kicked it. After 5 hours it still wasn't cooked, so I left it in the warm oven overnight, and by morning it seemed to be just fine. I drizzled brandy over the top and wrapped it up tightly to preserve its moisture. Gosh, but it smelled good. Only six weeks to go and we'll find out how good it really is. I can wait for that.

TV Feast

I came home from CAB and promptly fell asleep. It was a tough morning, no clients for the first few hours so the time dragged and I was on the brink of going home when it suddenly got busy. A cup of tea when you're tired can act like a strong sniff of sal volatile, and I had mine with toast and blackberry jam. These dark evenings are so strange still; closing curtains and blinds over early and then contemplating the long hours ahead isn't always a terrific prospect, but once I lit the woodburner the sitting room was deliciously cosy. I was feeling cross because an article in the Times reported that thin people with a bit of fat around their waist were much more likely to die young than fat people. It came hard on the heels of the piece yesterday warning that the WHO and other bodies were about to dramatically lower the safe drinking levels. In fact a glass of wine a night, even a small one, was also going to take years off your life. What the f***! Should I order my coffin now, get in early before the Christmas rush?

I did what I almost never do and watched wall-to-wall TV. Call it escapism, but sometimes you need to switch off and just vegetate. Still, I wasn't unselective. I'd recorded a film some time ago that I thought I must have seen but couldn't remember, and so I flicked onto Babette's Feast, Danish with subitles. I wasn't expecting much, but what an enchanting story it turned out to be. Two beautiful sisters living in a remote hamlet in Jutland with their pastor father and the rest of the plain-living community eschew love in the pursuit of godliness. As they reach middle age, into their lives comes Babette, a French refugee who stays to cook and housekeep for them. The years pass happily until the sisters decide to hold a modest dinner to commemorate the centenary of the long-dead father's birth. At the same time the penniless Babette wins the French lottery and begs to be allowed to cook a special meal for them. Who knew that she had been Paris's most legendary chef at the best restaurant? She spends her entire winnings on the meal which includes real turtle soup, quails in coffins and the finest French wines. Cue boggle-eyed straight-laced villagers experiencing these wonders, and Babette in the small kitchen, masterful, brilliant, generous, ecstatic. It really was enchanting.

Still smiling, I flicked around a bit and found the last 15 minutes of Billy Elliot where the father takes him to London for an audition and then tries to make enough money to allow him to go to the Royal Ballet School. The ending, the ultra-magnificent fully grown Billy leaping onto the stage as the star of Swan Lake in front of his incredulous father and brother in the audience is an instant show stopper. Words just can't express how powerful, how moving it is.

I finally went upstairs to bed, and once undressed I decided to measure my waist and hips with my hairdryer flex. The waist must not be more than 90% of the hips, and what a surprise I got. My waist is tiny, my hips not large but much wider. I'm not going to die! Open a bottle of wine!

Food For Thought

Often on a Sunday evening when one family member or another rings up for a catch-up chat the conversation turns to what we are having to eat. "Roast chicken," they might say, "roast potatoes, gravy". What??? I reply, aghast. What???? Why didn't I think of that? And so I'm left to conjure their traditional plate in my mind's eye as I settle down to pasta, or salmon, the usual. But yesterday I joined in the feast-making. My Waitrose delivery on Friday evening included a fat, free range corn-fed chicken, and I made delectably scrunchy roast potatoes, a yummy chicken gravy and broccoli, eaten in front of the recorded Strictly relegation. I was in heaven, it was that good. I now have a chicken to pick at all week, which is ironic because my fridge is full of bought chicken soup, the better to boost my immune system. Luckily some of the dates are well ahead so they will keep.

The Waitrose delivery was due between 8-10pm, but in the event it came at 8.15pm. How the man found the house in the pitch darkness and rain I don't know but he did. "I spent half an hour earlier trying to find Hall Farm in (named a village), up and down the lanes, couldn't see anyone to ask then eventually stumbled on it by accident," he told me wryly. When the woman opened the door she said, "You're late!" and I told her I couldn't find her house. But everyone knows where I live, she retorted.

My delivery had to be this late because I spent the afternoon playing in a charity bridge match with Judy and David and Judy's daughter Sophie. The hall in Eye was filled with jolly ladies and the occasional man, and we played with gusto and much laughter. At 4pm on the dot we stopped for tea, and how astonished I was to find plates and plates full of tiny sandwiches, virtually all made with sliced white bread and filled with things like marmite, honey, cucumber or tomatoes. What is this, the 50s? Sighs of satisfaction and happiness filled the air as I tried to prize the glutinous white mess off my teeth. Of course there were cakes, one sugary sticky horror entitled The Queen Mother's Favourite which nobody touched, but I had two slices of coffee cake and two cups of tea. Sophie and David were all for playing on beyond 5, but Judy's face was ashen and I thought we should stop. She'd never give in herself but she looked relieved. "Are you feeling pale Mummy?" Sophie wanted to know. "Can't we have another few hands?" But she gave in gracefully and we all got up to leave. We checked the scores. David: minus 230; Judy: 347; Soph: 932; Denise 3,010. Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

Pomes and Things

I set the alarm for 7am as I had to be at the Poetry Festival at Snape by 8.30, then I couldn't get to sleep as often happens when I know I have to be up early. I had a dream that it was 8.15 and I'd overslept, and I woke up and it was exactly 8.15 and the alarm had not gone off. Why didn't my anxiety wake me up sooner? So it was a rush to get there and I was cursing the early start until I met the Irish poet Michael McCarthy. A delightful man in his 70s, and a Catholic priest, he was doing a close reading of fellow Irishman Bernard O'Donoghue's poem Ter Conatus. It could have been a William Trevor story, so achingly painful was it to hear. A not untypical Irish story of the aging brother and sister who had never married but lived and worked together on the family farm. She has a very late, too late diagnosis of cancer, and when he hears he tries to help her in her agony, reaches out to touch her, maybe even hug her, but years of custom have made it impossible and they are denied this mutual comfort. But love transcends everything, and so it does here. Oh my God.


We chatted afterwards, and when I identified him as a Corkman he wanted to know how. My brother lives in Schull, I told him, he's built a house outside the town. My mother came from there, he said. Is your brother an artist then? and when I answered yes and told him his name he said he recognised it from the summer's art festival. He'd look out for his work when next he was there. I confess to never having heard of him, and me after spending four years at Trinity College studying Anglo-Irish literature. But it was Heaney and Kavannah and Yeats and Synge and Swift we read; the little living fellows didn't get much of a look in then. I looked him up when I got home and discovered his own poetry, so perceptive, insightful, tender and respectful. A true Christian then, and a real poet. Hardly surprising that I got back into my car and braved the wet and blustery day outside to go and hear him again, this time reading his own work.

It was worth the effort, of course it was, but the real treat came in the form of the poet who went on after him, one Christine Webb (never heard of her either, sorry). She's an academic, a classicist, who wears her learning lightly but uses language so effectively that her careful annunciation as she read allowed you to practically taste every individual, gorgeous, perfect word. Halfway in she talked about being and looking like a feminist - and she described herself as tall and thin with straight hair, a straight figure. And then she said something I didn't completely catch about how unfortunate it is to look like a lesbian and not be one, or to be a lesbian and not look like one. And she began to read a poem about her female lover who died nine years ago, 40 years into their relationship, and as she voiced the tender phrases a middle-aged blond got up from her seat mid row, brushed past people to the aisle and stomped, STOMPED up the wooden stairs to the door. I felt my stomach turn over with dismay and horror, and faces around me registered the same sick feeling. Oh, but the poet didn't turn a hair, reciting on to the heart-rending end where dreams of togetherness are dashed each morning as reality hits home with sudden wakefulness. I bought her books. Her poem called Martha (Mary's sister) and one named The Midwife's Tale really made me laugh, but Metamorphosis, penned on hearing the sad news of Ted Hughes' death, was vehement, each regretful word projected like a pebble, a tiny missile of sorrow. Beautiful, so beautiful.

Picking Up

Well, it's official: I'm a slut. I haven't touched an iron in more than a month, and my pyjamas and shirts have been worn as the good lord intended - creased. But yesterday I hit an all-time low, and used fresh but unironed bedding. It hurt to put it on, so scrunchy was the brilliant white cotton, so scored with lines. It's got to be a first and a last. I usually get a high from seeing the newly made-up bed, all smooth and crisp and virginal, such a beautiful sight. But you know what? It didn't stop me sleeping like a baby. As soon as I can do more than stagger under the weight of a dahlia leaf I'll get down to the mountain and clear the backlog.

I heard the farmer out cutting the hedges this morning, and got ready to ambush him. Normally he cuts the field side of my long hedge, but this year I wanted him to trim the top too, back to where it was chopped down last year. He's a very obliging chap, and I had a tenner in my pocket anyway as a thank you. But no, he said, wouldn't be going into the fields now the weather has changed and the ground is so wet. Just sticking to the lanes now. Maybe if we get a frost, but otherwise it'll have to wait until next year. I gawped at him stupidly. We've had the driest autumn on record (my record) and he waits until the rain comes? I collected myself. Well, I replied, if are able to do it come and give me a knock and I'll see you right (two forefingers rubbing against thumb barra-boy style). Will do, he said with a grin. Pillock.

Sammy just rang to tell me she was in the process of booking tickets for Suffragette, and did I qualify for the senior rate? Oh how I laughed. She's just turned 70 and looks 55, but me? After 3 weeks of flu and a hard, hard life I would easily pass for 80. But she was serious! And last Sunday Richard, a fellow usher, made a beeline for me again, kissed me ignoring all of his other colleagues, and asked if he could sit next to me. It's all very flattering, but quite ridiculous. Are they all blind?

Little Things

I think I may have called a post this before but it can't be avoided because my life is made up of little things that make me very happy. The latest thrill is that I'm going to have the horrible, annoying, ever-sprouting stumps of my hazel tree ground out completely, and all for £100 (cheque's fine, cash always welcome, know what I mean). The job of a hazel tree is to be continually coppiced and encouraged to grow new shoots to be used for all sorts of marvellous things, like making yurts, or hurdles, or fences. But if you don't want it to do any of these things you might as well wish the rain would only fall at night. Once it's gone the lower garden will be completely clear and can be properly planned out at last. Lee and his brother Shaun are very busy just now, what with the short days and all, but they'll fit me in just as soon as they can. Patience. And next week Did is coming to remove the other woody protuberances, and then I'll have my new living bench.

Last night I forgot to take something out of the freezer for my supper, and so I had to concoct a meal from the store cupboard. Thus I created a dish of orza, fresh spinach, tinned tuna, chopped tomatoes and chopped brazil nuts with lots of olive oil. It was quite nice, but I woke hungry in the night. I'm taking no chances tonight with a nice fat salmon cutlet thawing on a plate. This morning I looked up "How to improve your immune system" on the internet, and I have now added a few things to my regular diet: probiotic yoghurt, chicken soup, sweet potatoes, green or black tea. And meditation. I think I'm sufficiently fed up with getting ill to accept even the tea which I'm sure will be disgusting. Whatever it takes.

Have I Got News For You?

I was telling Ruth about an email I had sent the other day where I referred to Have I Got News For You by its initials, HIGNFY. And I told her that in writing those letters I finally understood the word that appears on the screen before and after the show. How often I have sat there trying to make sense of it and failing, obviously. How baffling it has been. What a twit, eh? And as I spoke I saw her eyes widen and nearly pop out of her head, and then she started to laugh and couldn't stop. Why? Because she too has failed to work out what the letters stood for. "Hi, gnfy" she has tried, "Hinfy", the G silent. Over and over, for years. We could scarcely believe our stupidity. It all seems so bleedingly obvious now.

I had another little walk today in the sun, and pottered a bit in the garden when she had gone. All well and good, but back indoors I'm hacking away like a miner with emphysema, still feeling the effects of the bug. It's 5.30pm now and pitch dark outside. Time to light the fire and snuggle down for the evening. I'm ready to hibernate, but the garden continues to grow and flourish as if it were spring. What a shock all those plants will get when winter really kicks in.

The Stuff of Dreams

What a difference a day makes. I paid for yesterday's exuberance, scarlet of cheek and glassy of eye before the evening was out, and drenched not once but twice during the night. I dragged myself out of bed into a foggy morning, visibility only a hundred yards or so, but by lunchtime the sun had broken through and I had to get out. Funny how my energy returned, though I expended it again quickly by clipping away at the rampant hazel stumps. It was so warm in the sun, and I could have sat quietly soaking it up except that I couldn't help looking around me at all the jobs that need doing and that I can't start in my current state. So frustrating. I talk firmly to myself, tell myself that everything will get done eventually. The trouble is that it's mostly me who has to do everything, and so far other people's mistakes or slowness or plain incompetence has involved me in much harder work than I wanted or needed, leading to the exhaustion which allowed this current bug to sneak past my defences. It makes me cross, it really does. But I have to shrug it off and wait. I still dream of the garden being finished as I want and my routine to be more maintenance than major jobs. Dream on, you may say. But I will. It's what I'm best at.

The eponymous medlar tree, covered in fruit

Higher and Higher

I haven't had much to say for a week or so. It's been a bit depressing apart from a visit from Ruth on Friday. Oh and Nick was here on Saturday. But today was such a beautiful, such a perfect day that my spirits soared. The sky was a peerless blue, the sun warm, the air as still as it could be, not a flicker of movement to disturb it. Someone ran by with a dog on a lead, not a skinny person but judging by the sweat glistening on her face and bare arms she'd been going for a while. Then six cyclists passed the house as I stood on the lane sniffing the glorious scent of my winter-flowering viburnum, currently in full blossom. One by one they called Good Morning, and I replied to each of them, saving a "Lovely morning isn't it?" for the last of them. Two horses were next as I took photos of the autumn leaves. And then it was quiet, no, silent, as peaceful as it can get when insects and birds are full of the joys of life but no human moves. I went for a gentle walk in the sunshine, along the lane and down the hill as far as the big oak tree. It was the first time I'd been out for over two weeks, and it felt so good to be walking. I was easing myself back into the world because I was ushering at 3pm.

Over the field beside my house

Same old same old, buty I never get tired of taking this shot

Behind me

Sunset on Saturday, but it was much redder

But what happened when I drove towards the coast? Fog. Horrible dense fog blotting out the sun and chilling the air. My plans to eat my lunch on a seat in the sun at Snape came to nothing. It didn't really matter. The concert was Imogen Cooper playing a programme of Chopin, and it couldn't have come at a better time for me. I manned the main upstairs door so that I could make a discreet exit if the coughing started, but the sweets I sucked throughout did the trick. It felt like a dream world up there, gazing down at this brilliant pianist who played pieces I've been familiar with since my teens. Sitting next to me was a real Suffolk old "buoy", an ex-gardener he told me, who I knew was a regular at Snape though I'd never encountered him before. He told me he thought he'd like to be an usherette (sic) but didn't fancy driving all the way from Ipswich every time he was on duty. I wondered why this would be a problem since he clearly did the drive often enough anyway, and as an usher his concerts would be free. But he was concerned about me living in the middle of nowhere (at my age implied) and wouldn't I be better moving into Ipswich as he had done to be near the hospital and on the bus service. I told him I don't like people, and I hate noise and traffic and towns, and he laughed. But I was curious about him. How long had he loved music (classical implied)? And he told me he used to have terrible asthma which nearly killed him, but in his late 30s he accidently came across some lovely music and discovered Radio 3, and after a while his asthma disappeared for good. Two years ago he was diagnosed with cancer, so he bought a ticket for every concert going at Snape, and within a year the cancer had gone. We both marvelled at the power of music, which is capable of curing terrible diseases as well as lifting you to a plain so high just being there can make you dizzy.