Repetition, Deviation, Hesitation

Everything I say to the dog I repeat. Perhaps it's a natural skill I used on my children so they'd have double the chance of understanding. "Who's a good boy then? Who's a good boy then? What a lovely morning. What a lovely morning. Shall we go for a nice walk? Shall we go for a nice walk?" It's driving me nuts but I can't seem to stop. It just feels right to do this with a juvenile creature who can't answer back. It's probably getting on Hugo's nerves too. One day he'll just snap, "Oh, for heaven's sake it was dull enough the first time. Please pay me the compliment of assuming I understand your banal drivel." Except he's too polite. I say he's too polite.

Off again then, another day. We're into our second week together now, and he's obviously feeling more settled. He doesn't follow me around quite so much. He knows if I turn left it's for the loo or the freezer, and I can do both of those things alone, though he'll potter around just to check; if I go straight ahead I'm going upstairs and that will take a little while so I will definitely need company. Off on our morning walk, he never gets excited but instead drops down by my feet and puts his head on his paws and waits for my shoes to go on, my coat. Then he stands patiently while I tighten his collar - small whippet head, easy escape - and fasten his lead. He was ready for it when we got outside, the air filled with bird sounds and intoxicating smells - but my heart was heavy. It's me knee, Guv, been giving me gyp. I rubbed in some Ibuleve earlier, took some Panadol, put on my new knee brace and started walking, but quite quickly it began to hurt. Damn, damn, damn. New dog, Spring here, walking and gardening to enjoy, then this. I tried different gaits but they only helped for a while. Then I remembered my feet when I got into bed last night. They were tight, stiff, and I thought then that I must work them more. As I have no padding on the soles of my feet I tend to wear thick reinforced socks all the time, and comfy shoes or boots. I decided they weren't getting enough movement. So as I walked I began putting my heels down and then really stretching out the toes before letting them follow. I could feel my shin muscles aching but it made an instant difference. My knee is hurting because my feet are not doing their job properly. Feet, what's your problem! Do this correctly now or you'll get your marching orders.

Knees and Other Crummy Joints

Now that Easter is over the weather has improved. And the little dog continues to astonish me. I have no idea what time he wakes up, being such a heavy sleeper myself, but when I open my bedroom door just after 7 he's ready to throw himself rapturously at me. What a greeting! Then we go downstairs, I make myself a cup of tea, he gets back into his bed, now returned to the kitchen, I read the papers for a bit then, at around 8am, I feed him. He gollops it all up, goes back for an extra lick, and then is back in his bed again for more snoozing. At this point he hasn't been out yet, not for the loo even. When I've finished my breakfast I'll ablute and then consider a walk. It's one of the highlights of my day, regardless of the weather, though on a morning like this one it is sheer magic. I say to him, "We live here. Aren't we lucky." And he looks at me with his soulful eyes and winks ever so slightly in agreement. He just couldn't be easier to live with. What a good boy. Good boy!!

We encountered a pair of hares down Boundary Lane this morning, and despite my efforts to turn the other way so he couldn't see them, they were soon spotted. They played in the field, did a little boxing, some chasing each other, and I felt his power, his strength, shoulders hunched, flanks lowered slightly. If he decided to go I don't think I'd be able to stop him. Thank heavens he's been so well trained. I took him to the vet yesterday just for a general check-up, and he weighs 18 kilos, that's nearly 3 stone. Nearly as much as me. No wonder I can barely pick him up. At the vets we also bought a toothbrush that fits over my finger, and some poultry-flavoured toothpaste. It seems he already has a bit of plaque, but regular brushing will sort that out. I don't mind probing gently around his gums, but squeezing his balls to make sure they're soft and spongy is really a step too far, and I'm never going to cut his nails. I still remember the spurt of blood when I tried doing that before.

On our evening walk he was absolutely alert walking past the fields where he's seen hares. It was completely still, and warm after an afternoon of sunshine. I love this time of the day, when the damp is rising from the earth and it smells so good. But bugger me if my knee, already painful, began to really hurt. I've avoided the hilly walk for a few days to give it a chance to settle down but it hasn't got the message. I suppose I've been going at it a bit, harder and more purposefully than usual, but I have a little chap to exercise. Don't fail me now knees.

A Little Mistake

Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Hugo is not perfect after all, oh no. This morning in the pet shop he peed up against a pile of lovely new doggie bedding. I think I stopped him before more than a dribble came out, but that shocked me I can tell you. Probably there was just too much temptation in there, but even so. I thought he had better manners. We bumped into Sally in the car park and she duly admired the boy. That was before his infarction so I didn't have to admit to it. And a man in the post office said he looked very fit, obviously got a lot of exercise. Well he does, but the sedate walking pales into insignificance when I let him tear around the garden at high speed, turning on a pinhead. He has a real fixation with the field. He stares across its emerald reaches as if some ancestral urge is telling him he should be out there, should be doing something, but what? I call him away each time and he comes at once. He doesn't run for long before he's ready to come in and flop in his bed. But what would happen if he saw a hare and went after it? How far would he run?

I had my answer on our evening walk. As we left the house an owl flew right past my ear, crossing the lane into Sarah's drive, soaring past the big barn and quartering the field. I noted the time, 6.10pm, so that the owlophiles coming to stay this weekend will be able to take up positions for a sighting. We returned 40 minutes later, and there he was again right beside the house, swooping over the field. But during that walk Hugo spotted a hare a few hundred yards away, sprinting across a freshly ploughed field, and he was ready to go, body stiff with tension and power, ears pricked. I checked him immediately and he stayed put, but he didn't take his eyes off the running hare and I kept saying quietly but firmly, No, No. He knows the land around our home is his natural territory, and watches intently for prey. Even playing in the garden, chasing balls, he ends up at the wire fence staring out, hunting with his eyes, haunted by primeval spectres. Like, genetics is everything, innit.

Nature

The lanes are full of brightly coloured little birds darting in and out of the hedges, busy nest-making. I'm sure this is a very different picture from the last few years when I bewailed the scarcity of songbirds. Little yellow bodies have been the most striking, but I don't know what they are. When I was in the prep school we used to go on nature walks through the fields towards Willian, past the decadent St Christopher's School where the co-ed boarders wore no uniforms and the boys grew their hair very long, way before the Beatles. They were forever putting Persil or something into the fountains of this garden city, which we thought was racy and everyone else found thoroughly annoying. Anyway, there were miles of meadowland, and we wrote down everything we saw in our exercise books, the birds, the fauna, the flora. Back in the classroom we would put names to what we hadn't identified, and then draw and colour them. There were lots of little yellow birds. I remember the yellowhammer and the greenfinch, and hope it is them I see now, survivers of the countryside's savage mutilation. My plans to have my hedge shortened have been put on hold for this year for fear of interfering with someone's home-building preparations.

As we walked back in the early twilight last night from our evening outing the air was filled with song. There really is not a nicer sound in the spring or summer. The chiff-chaffs have arrived - I astonished Nick by telling him this before he could tell me, and only because Simon Barnes who used to live in Nick's village reported it in his Times column. Ruth rang me earlier, ecstatic, to tell me that the huge branch of the massive old oak tree that hung over the lane towards her house and gave her palpitations in every high wind had come crashing down, missing her garden wall by inches but landing on two cars and blocking the road. The new lightness in her house was thrilling her. I've never heard her sounding so happy. Yesterday too we met Chris, a colleague, in the Victoria in Earl Soham for lunch. I assume Hugo had been in a pub before, but this being Easter Monday and the place packed was a challenge. He rose to it though, eventually settling down beside my chair after he'd licked a toddler's ear and sniffed a few passing bottoms. But somehow he kept turning his rear end into the path of passing people, and I was terrified that his tail or a paw would get trodden on. Everyone stepped over him and stopped to admire him, and he took it all in his stride. As we left he dropped a present right in the middle of the lawn before I could stop him and, horror of horrors, I had no bags in my pocket. He was the only dog there. We're marked now. We can never return.

Howling (the wind, not the dog)

I'm thinking of changing the name of this blog to Tales From Hugo's Life. I can see he is going to dominate it. Yesterday morning we walked down to the Bruisyard valley and up to the church, a lovely morning and so good to be out early. One of the best things about having a dog is the exercise I get. My hips were aching a bit after all the hill walking at speed, but they've settled down now. At one point a hare trotted across the lane and Hugo was very interested indeed, ears pricked, body tensed. That's the trouble with sight hounds, little furry creatures is what they do. But not this one, not here. When I do eventually let him off the lead it won't be anywhere near a hare. Hugo greeted Ruth warmly when she arrived for lunch, and was very friendly with her. He even followed her around a bit. Hey, Hugo, don't forget whose dog you are! But again I can see how well beloved he has been, how lovingly treated. He's lived in a happy family, that's for sure, and is used to friends coming and going. How lucky I am to have inherited such a socialised, well-mannered boy. This morning a gale is blowing and the lane is strewn with branches. We tried to walk, making it to Boundary Lane in the opposite direction from usual because there are fewer threatening old oak trees there. Hugo had his coat on, I was bundled up in thick clothes, but we didn't get very far before we agreed to turn back. The winds were so ferocious we were in danger of being blown away. The dog trotted staunchly beside me, but retreated, I think, with polite relief. The kitchen was a warm haven when we came home. He was asleep in his bed within seconds. And he doesn't even snore!

This is how I wait patiently for Mummy to get her shoes on

I may look hangdog but this is just a Whippet face

Waiting to go out

All Conquering

Yesterday I was again working at Snape, this time the Tallis Scholars and wonderful music of the Renaissance, with some modern but not unharmonious input from Arvo Part. Truly it was bliss on legs. The previous day I'd been paired with a lady called Mary, a real music afficianado and we had wonderful conversations and were equally blown away by the music. For the Tallis she was a punter, sitting right in the  front row, and she greeted me like an old friend, such a lovely person. In the interval she came over to me, eyes shining, and asked me what I'd thought of the music. I hardly needed to speak, and she embraced me with sheer happiness. She used to work for Mills and Boons apparently. I must find out more about that. She's well past retirement age. I think she might have mentioned a great-grandchild. Anyway, back to Hugo. We parked very close to the entrance of the concert hall in the early stages of a gale, everything blowing wildly. I took Hugo out for a stretch and a pee, and we met Frances who was walking her tiny King Charles spaniel, a rescue bitch who had been locked in a barn and used for breeding. Ye gods. We puttered about together for a while, then put our respective dogs away in our cars. Again Hugo hopped into his crate and settled down. Again it wasn't a long concert, and when I came out the storm had hit and it was lashing. I jumped into the car thinking I could drive home as we were, but he got distressed very quickly so I stopped in a garage forecourt under shelter and carried him onto the back seat. He settled down and we drove home. And that night? I left the door to the stairs open, and I didn't hear a peep out of him all night. He was rapturous when I reappeared in the morning, and so was I. Those reunions are so special. Later I found out that he'd slept on the spare bed, luckily not yet made up. Tonight I'll put his bed on the landing and close all the doors. I'm getting there Hugo. I'll catch up with you.

We had a long walk this morning in the Easter sunshine, but he wore his sheepskin-lined coat because the wind was evil. Yesterday we joined Sammy and her black labrador/staffy Stella for a walk in the woods, and the two got on really well together, though Hugo can't be let off the lead yet. They had fun together, and he loved the interaction. Ruth is coming for lunch today and to meet him. He's a wonderful, delightful, perfectly-mannered boy, the best there could be and so beautiful. I couldn't be more pleased with him (understatement of the century).

Success - Nearly!

OK, I can't leave this blog in suspenders any longer. Did it work out alright? Yes, it did! On Friday (I'd only had him for 48 hours!) I was on duty at Orford Church for a concert of Haydn's Seven Last Words on the Cross, with Sam West reading poetry between each one. I admit I was nervous as I really didn't know what to do with Hugo. We had a good walk in the morning, and then I strapped him into the back seat and off we set. Not a murmur from him as we drove there, though when wed arrived I realised he'd wriggled out of the harness. Fair do's. I'd do the same if I was a dog. I parked in a lane beside the church in the shade, let him have a pee, then put him into the crate in the boot, lid off obviously. He climbed in, lay down quietly and looked at me. What? Er, what's going on, I thought. But I closed the hatchback door, opened all the windows a few inches, and went off. Two hours later I went back, the car thankfully still in shade, and he hadn't moved, rug not rucked at all. This was wonderful, and I let him out and hugged and praised him to death. Sammy and I took him to the village pub, and while she led him to a table I went to get the drinks. When I came back he had been sitting beside her but he got up immediately I appeared and wagged his tail ferociously. She said he'd been fine but hadn't taken his eyes off the door. When Sammy left we went for another lovely walk along the shore and up on the sea defences. Tired but happy - I know - we went home. I won't go into details about the night, but suffice it to say he had to go into the crate again, and I resorted to earplugs.

Learning Curve

Sammy rang to find out how it was going, and I told her about Hugo's traumas of the night (and mine of the morning). She recommended getting him used to the crate by putting his bed and him in it while I'm in the room. I did this, with a juicy bone thrown in for good measure, but he was the same as in the car, very distressed, trying to bite through the bars, throwing himself around. I squirted him with the water pistol a few time to no effect, and the minute he was quiet I let him out and praised him. Now I don't know what I'm going to do tonight, or tomorrow when I have to go out. Do I crate him and risk him having a panic attack, or do I leave him free and risk the whole house being wrecked? We had a nice evening walk, him trotting along beside me like those Dalmatians behind carriages. He's such a good, sweet boy, so willing to please. Are we going to get past this obstacle?

Nightmare in Medlar

At least he was my best boy. That was before the Night from Hell. We had a pleasant evening together, Hugo padding silently around the house beside or behind me, and he settled down on the rug in front of the fire once I'd lit it. But when I put him in the kitchen and went upstairs to bed - quite early as I was shattered, and I thought he would be too - the howling started again. As before in the car, it rose to a crescendo and lapsed into loud sobs, interspersed with heart-rending wails. Then the banging started as he threw himself against the door and tried to scratch his way out. I'd been primed about how to deal with this, and ignored it. I stuffed in ear plugs and took a sleeping tablet, but I had an uneasy night. Early next morning I saw the damage: one of the five doors out of the kitchen had been nearly shredded across the bottom, showing the poor quality of the workmanship. Put it this way - it's not solid wood. He had climbed onto the work surfaces and padded all the way around. The only casualty was a pot of coriander which had slipped into the sink but was unharmed. God, this was dispiriting. Worried about what else was to come I rang his foster mother Jenny, and she was very helpful. When he'd cried the first night in the kennel she'd thrown a jug of water over his head and told him to shut up. It worked! I'm not going to do that to the dear boy, but I need to distance myself from him for short periods during the day, to show him he can't be with me all the time. He has to learn to be alone. I fed us both and we set off for a walk, the early morning slightly chilly but fresh and clear. Once home I put him indoors and finished dog-proofing the garden, then I let him loose. Oh, he loved it! He flew around full pelt, and when I threw a ball for him he enjoyed bringing it back to me. He is a lovely boy, but he's still staying very close to me. I have to keep up the training.

Hugo

It was a round trip of five hours to see a dog I didn't think I'd like. The whippet rescue woman had rung me to tell me about him, and to ask if I was interested. "He's a big boy," she told me, "but the foster carer who's looking after him said he's a lovely person." He was nearly 5 years old, black, kind and gentle. He had been loved, that was certain, and very well looked after. Why was he being rescued then, I wanted to know. But apparently nobody ever tells the truth about these things. Seemingly his owners were moving somewhere they couldn't take him. Hmmmm. I agreed to go because he sounded so nice, but I didn't like the sound of 'big'. I was as nervous as someone on a blind date. Well, I met him, he put his head on my lap and looked up at me, and I was hooked. Beautiful, darling boy. Four days later I went and got him, terrified that I was making a mistake and I'd regret it. All the way home in the car he howled, two and a half hours of howls. It was truly awful. Poor little terrified boy.  Twice I stopped and walked him a little and gave him water, and on the third lap he was more settled, just whimpering a little. Once home I took him into the field which seemed to amaze him, he peed and pooed, and I brought him indoors to show him his new home. Oh, is he ever a lovely person. He's steady, calm, quiet, gentle, compliant, loving, sweet, funny and easy, so easy. He has the best manners imaginable. Upstairs as I led him from room to room and looked out of each window, he delicately, so sensitively, raised himself up on exquisitely soft feet to peer out beside me. Every time I've left the kitchen he's followed me, so silently I sometimes don't realise he's there. He is a peach of a dog, a class act. He's called Hugo, and he's my best boy. 

Spring Has Sprung

What is it with lovat green check tweed in this part of the world? I went to a drinks party down the lane today and it was wall to wall. Lovely it is, but why do they all like it so much? Sarah and Hugh collected me and we walked together on what had become a pleasant midday. I had things to do in the afternoon so I stuck to the elderflower cordial and didn't get squiffy.

Which was just as well because the sun came out later, the skies cleared, and I decided to try out my new lawnmower blade. I attached it firmly to the engine and started to cut. But what was this? The mower glided fairly effortlessly up and down the lawn and I merely followed obediently behind it, steering from time to time. The hill was still there, the collecting attachment still full and heavy with grass cuttings, but I wasn't panting, or pushing flat out. As I say, it glid. And then it occurred to me: with the blades round the wrong way I had been working against a resistance that wasn't meant to be there. The father of Lee and Shaun (Stephen, he's called) has changed my life. No more will I have to dread the twice-weekly assault on the grass. This first cut of the season took me 20 minutes. I only sat down once, and that was more to try and work out what was going on than exhaustion. I shall stop off next time I pass his workshop and tell him what wonders he has performed. I'm thrilled to bits!

Mind What You Say

Who said truth was stranger than fiction? I was ushering at Snape tonight, on the main door with a chap I hadn't met before, called Dick. He was of a certain age, or to put it another way, old. We chatted as you do, and at some point he told me he was - not had been, still was - an optomotrist. So I told him my story which continues to amuse me after six years. When we first moved to Wilby our friend Judy recommended an optician in Halesworth, Jeffries by name, "but ask for young Mr Jeffries," she said. When I turned up for my eye test an elderly man introduced himself as Mr Jeffries. "I was told to see young Mr Jeffries," I told him smiling broadly. "That's me," he replied. "You should see my father!" So I'm telling Dick this, and he laughs and says, "That's me. I'm old Mr Jeffries, and I'm still working!" And I thought he was joking so I looked closely at his name tag, and sure enough it said Dick Jeffries. And I buried my head in his shoulder and squeezed his arm and moaned, "No, no, it can't be you, this is excruciating." And he laughed and laughed, and said, Wait till I tell my wife. He's 82, and his son who I mistook for him was only 52 when I first met him. As Dick said, Chris was born old! We're  best friends now. We've bonded and shared a joke, which practically makes us family.

Inside Out

Nothing demonstrates the passage of time more ruthlessly than the knicker drawer. One minute it's full of freshly-laundered frillies, the next it's teetering on the brink of a void. What has happened in between feels like a couple of sleeps, a few crosswords completed, one walk, two and a half friends interacted with, and a supper or three. Where is the pile of 12 you aired so lovingly and folded away a few days ago? Nearly all gone. And so you embark once again on the journey that will leave you feeling happy and satisfied, another drawerful of beautiful bloomers. In a way, as well as showing the fugit of tempus it highlights the utter futility of life. It's the same with everything. You shop and then you eat your shopping. And so you shop again, and you eat it again. You go to a party, then you come home and start being alone again. And so on ad infinitum. Time for a change I'd say. So I may try wearing me pants inside out to make them last longer, maybe back to front, upside down. I might, with a bit of ingenuity, make them last for 48 days. At least I'd feel time had slowed down.

The chilly weather continues, and it's Easter next weekend. I'm gearing up for a very busy week, with whole-day courses, Easter concerts at Orford and Blythburgh churches and finally the Tallis Scholars at Snape on Easter Saturday, three gigs which I was lucky enough to be given. Music heaven. In the meantime I'm manning the main door tonight for the last of the school concerts. I forgot to say that when I ushed on Tuesday, two of the schools were among the most deprived in the country, a primary and a secondary from Lowestoft. It really doesn't get any worse for kids from this area. The standard of education here, like the quality of life and the state of individual health, couldn't get much lower which in itself makes me seeth. For these children, coming to somewhere like Snape, being treated like stars and eperiencing singing on stage to rapturous applause - from their own proud families but everyone else as well - will be something they will never forget. I well remember the thrill of singing Quinquereme of Ninevah at the Hitchen Festival when I was 12. Whatever happens to them in the future, leaving school with a small handful of GCSEs as they will if they're very lucky, I hope their confidence levels will have been raised a few notches and always carry them along. Who said life was fair?

Screw That

I'm not sure who gets the last laugh here, Twinings or me. Yesterday I spent £2.99 on 40 teabags (they don't do 80s in the Co-op) and today I bought 8 packets of 80s in Waitrose (they do everything in Waitrose) for £3 each, reduced fom £4.99. I know, boring, boring, boring, but I've been waiting impatiently for this large reduction. I was just out by one day. I haven't got everything wrong lately. When I arrived at work this morning there was a poem waiting for me, written in my honour by a grateful client who extolled my virtues in no uncertain terms; and a note that another happy customer had phoned to say that he had been reimbursed to the tune of several thousands of pounds thanks to my intervention, and he thought I was wonderful. Thanks guys. It could not be more of a pleasure.

I took my lawnmower blade into the workshop of the father of the two nice boys who have a) ground out the old hazel tree in my garden (good Lee) and b) still not told me when he is coming to cut back my hedge (naughty Shaun). He services mowers, and he took one look at my blade and said "That's an old 'un then!". It's new, I told him, just over two years old. "Then that's an odd'un, never seen the like before cos, see the two blade bits? They're pointing the wrong way." I stared, and he stared and scratched his head. And his little terrier stared and scratched itself. Earlier it had leapt onto the top of a large ride-on behind me and tickled the back of my neck with a warm wet tongue and a few chin whiskers, making me jump sky high. "Thought your luck had changed then," he laughed as he pulled the dog down. Cheek! Doesn't he know about my poet? Anyway, we did some more staring and chuntering, and he explained why the blades couldn't work properly. A factory mistake. He showed me several others he had lying around, all pointing the opposite way, and outlined the science behind this system of lawn cutting. He was very convincing so I let him reverse the cutting edges. I can't wait for the weather to warm up a bit now so I can try it out.

"Don't forget to tighten it up properly," he told me as I was leaving. He only wanted £2 for the work, and as I handed it to him I said I had a good spanner and would attach it well. But lovely man that he is, he looked at me doubtfully. I might have felt affronted, but I can only assume that Lee and Shaun's mum isn't all that handy with the tool box.

Knees Up

I went to see my devilishly attractive doctor today, almost a year since my last visit. (I hope he noted this latter point: I don't want him thinking I'm one of those tiresome people with hypochondriacal tendencies). He was unchanged from last April, the same fabulous lovat check three-piece suit, the same check shirt, bright gold tie, shiny brown Chelsea boots, jazzy Happysocks. His teeth gleam, his eyes are bright and twinkling, his skin is peachy with health. He's truly a glorious specimen of country manhood, and he's nice to boot. But I don't like him anymore. He has diagnosed arthritis of my right knee, and pointed to the bony outcrops not present in the left one. However, we agreed that my regime of walking, cycling, swimming and yoga plus occasional visits to my sports physio and anciliary work-outs at home including a rubber band, balance mat, fitness hoop and various floor exercises, would slow the inevitable tide though not stop it, and help to support the dicky knee with strong leg muscles. I have even joined the gym at Framlingham College, and had my induction minutes before seeing him. I forget that I am 67 - qui, moi? - and get a shock when I'm reminded. Gardening is a buggerance witrh arthritic knees of course, but since I'd die without that it's not up for discussion. I met Mike my neighbour in Waitrose and he suggested we went cycling together. Ur, no I don't think so Mike. Your wife would almost certainly not like it.

Yesterday I arrived at Helen's prior to bridge with the lunch we were supposed to be having at my house, when she revealed to me she can't eat ham, the basic ingredient of the delicious pizza I had brought. She hid her disappointment while I devoured the huge thing single-handedly, forcing a glass of wine on me which I reluctantly drank. That would explain why we did spectacularly badly at bridge. I know I can't mix the two things, but when she gives me a full, extra large glass (just a drop Denise, won't do you any harm) I find myself sipping it to the end. I will learn, I will. After bridge I hurtled off to Snape again where I was ushering at the schools concert. For a few seconds the tiny tots of the first group to sing enchanted me, but then I became bored stiff with the endless flat wailing ssmall children do when singing together. A couple of big brassy girls came on eventually and livened the place up with their raunchy singing, and the finale with all the kids working with professional musicians was brilliant. I couldn't wait to get home for a cup of tea, but it was then I remembered that I had run out of teabags. I've been punishing Twinings for changing their packaging and reducing the number of bags from 100 to 80 while keeping the price the same. Iniquitous! So I've been waiting until they reduce the cost which they do periodically, and then buy in a dozen packets. I played dare too long this time and they won. No late night cuppa. Hoist by my own petard.

Hare Time

I stood in the garden room gazing at the reddening sky when two huge hares pottered up to my fence and began nibbling the field. They don't usually get this near, but it was my third close encounter in 24 hours, as yesterday my path was crossed by two young hares darting uncertainly across the lane in front of the car. Luckily I was going slowly and had plenty of time to let them make up their minds. On the same trip out I spotted a barn owl sitting on the grass verge just looking around. This is the second time this has happened: last year I saw one just along the lane, sitting a few feet from the tarmac. It was there for ages, not injured, not unwell, just looking. It was a remarkable thing, and there was this other one doing the same thing. These are such happy events, meetings with beautiful wild creatures. A friend visiting the village told me she saw a weasel pop its head up out of a storm drain, look all round, and then pop back down again. Normally they move too quickly to really see.

Everywhere the banks and verges are smothered in primroses, but they might change their minds and retreat now the cold weather has returned. It's freezing! Hard to believe that I spent two wonderful days emptying the pond, clearing out all the blanket weed that was choking the plants, then scrubbing the lining and refilling. The wind was cold even then, but the sun was really hot and I ended up in shirt sleeves. I'm sure that when I were a lad the weather warmed up gradually from the beginning of March, got very hot, and then slowly cooled down again from late October to reach its icy nadir in January. Ah, those were the days. You knew where you were in t'olden times.

I found a wonderful book of memoir in the library, Half An Arch by Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy. I know his son Jason, an artist who holds exhibitions of local work in the family farm down the road every year. He's frightfully well connected, and belongs to the sort of dissolute/posh family who knew everyone in the Benjamin Britten era, and some of whom behaved outrageously. They are deliciously awful but interesting, and his father Jonathan seems to have been the best of them in every sense. I had a quick look before I went out yesterday and was immediately hooked, making myself late as I forced myself to walk away. The local artists he shows include Mary Newcombe and her daughter Tessa, and good old Maggi Hambling. Jonathan himself draws in scribbles that turn into nice cattle and horses. They still own the big house at Great Glemham, and most of this part of Suffolk. Come the revolution .....

My rush out of the house was to sell programmes for a concert at Snape, a job I love and often volunteer for. I really should have been a shopkeeper. I worked until they all went in to the hall, and then met Sammy who had come to join me for a free supper up in the bar. She had the biggest glass of wine waiting for me with my lasagne, which I shall blame for what happened next. I went back to work during the interval, stuffing some money from the till into my pocket as a float so that I could wander between the punters. I sold a few more programmes, then bagged up the takings, sealed them away and left them with the woman in the shop to put in the safe. When I got home, just in time to make a cup of tea before Happy Valley began, I found the pockets of my coat stuffed with notes and coins. So embarrassing. It was the wine, m'lud.

Togetherness

A marriage made in heaven - beautiful Xmas present jug vase and divine arrangement of Mother's Day blooms. I threw out some aging daffs and did the switch. Perfect.

It's a nasty day today, exactly what you don't want when you're hitting Town and quite keen not to add an umbrella to your baggage. As usual I found that the morning dragged as I waited for the hours to move to Train Hour, a wasted chunk of time which I filled with trivial chores. It's always the same when I have something planned for later in the day: I can't concentrate on anything and pither and pother around uselessly. The rain has been incessant since last night with no sign of a let-up before tomorrow. There was much gazing through windows - first onto the front garden, then the back, and around to the front again. Admittedly I spend a fair bit of time when I can't go outside staring out of the window, and anyone passing by might see me and think I looked sad, lonely. But I'm not! My gazing is a rich, nourishing experience as I ponder on what I see, and how I plan to change things. I've always done this, especially when I worked from home and stood up to stretch from time to time. The one house I lived in which didn't have vertically-opening windows nearly killed me.

Last night I fiddled around on YouTube for a while before bed, watching musical performances and comparing voices. I heard Veronique Rapin, naturally, and then the little boy treble from King's College who so entranced me, young Tom Pickard, singing Pie Jesu from Faure's Requiem. His voice is lovely, pure and innocent, but the most lovely boy soprano ever was Aled Jones, and I watched and listened to him sing this same piece with the amazement. He's in another leage with his rich, vibrant sound that would be more at home coming from a woman, you would think. He really was incredible. I floated off to bed. I do seem to spend a lot of time on Cloud 9 for a suicidal depressive. Joke.

Quelle surprise!

I won the lottery today, and the premium bonds, and I hadn't even bought a ticket. Well, that's not strictly true. First of all I thought I was ushering at a masterclass today given by Thomas Allen, Ann Murray and Roger Vignoles, and then I discovered I wasn't. It was in my diary but I could find no ticket. I nearly decided to miss it rather than unravel the mystery, but thank heavens I didn't, and my ticket was waiting for me in the box office. Because who should have been singing but the girl I raved about last year, Veronique Rapin, the mezzo who sang Handel's Tamerlano in an Andreas Scholl masterclass and blew me away. There she was again, just the same, so highly strung you could have fired a rocket off her. Ann Murray was wonderful, kind, respectful, full of praise. "Good girl," she kept saying as you would encourage a child who was trying so hard to please but felt she was getting everything wrong and might give up the effort. Again and again she stopped singing mid verse, shook her hand in front of her face dismissively and berated herself. The emotion was palpable. In the end the dame put her hand on the slim shoulder (Do you mind if I touch you? No, no, no, of course not, no - jerky smile) and steadied her as she sang. It was a difficult song - Stop the Clocks by Auden, music by Britten - but she was incredible as always. The applause rang out long and loud for ages, everyone aware of the talent they were witnessing. Last year I missed the final recital as I was on a plane to France, but this time I've changed my plans and will be there on Friday. Shame it's Britten and not Handel again, but she could sing Ride a Cock Horse and I'd pay to hear it. And I wouldn't be the only one.

On a more prosaic note I took a photo of my helebores as they are looking so pretty, some of the rare colour in the garden at the moment. Indoors my house looks and smells like a florist shop, clouds of gorgeous blooms catching the ey at every turn, but it's still quite bare outside. The daffs will be out soon to join the helebores, the primroses and violets and pansies, the pot of small purple irises beside the summerhouse. But indoors it's already summer.

Seizing the Day

Gosh it's wintry out there, snow swirling in agitated, surprisingly wet, flurries though not settling, and freezing winds making a trip outdoors highly inadvisable. I had to leave the house to go to yoga this morning, though, swathed in layer upon layer of garments which I only divested myself of gradually. It's the worst hour of the week as my stiff and sore muscles are slowly, agonisingly teased apart, stretched into a semblance of normality and comfort. But how can you maintain this state throughout the winter when, of necessity, most of the day is spent sitting? Playing bridge, revising Italian, learning the million and one ways to help CAB clients, reading, doing the crossword, eating, going to the cinema, driving - most activities are carried out in a sitting position. Milder days spent in the garden usually end up with an aching body, but it's a good soreness resulting from hard and satisfying work. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours clearing out the shed and returning the bricks and floor tiles used to batten down the plastic sheeting placed on bare beds to stop any growth of weeds. My legs were wobbily and jelly-like, pathetic sticks that threatened to fold under the weight of my body as I wheeled a heavy barrow up and down. Hard to imagine that soon they'll have toughened up again as the weather softens and the garden makes ever more demands on my body. I long for it with a desperate yearning. Some of my friends say, "Oh, you're so good to do so much in the garden," or "I do a bit and then I get bored and have to stop." I simply don't understand them, as much as they find me baffling. There is nothing I would rather do, nothing. Hurry up and be over, cold snap, and let spring commence. There's only so much a body can bear.

The M Word

Not trying to be overly sentimental, but being a mum has been the most significant, most rewarding part of my life. So it was lovely to receive, via the same delivery van, two beautiful bouquets of flowers to mark the day. It surely goes without saying that my children are the most remarkable offspring that anyone ever produced, and here they were proving it. I knew at once which flowers were from whom, but as I arranged them in vases and went to photograph them to demonstrate their beauty the camera told me it needed its battery charging. Perfect timing, thanks camera. Here they are though; I snapped them as soon as I could.

Stunning white bouquet next to early photo of the donor

Joyful spring bouquet in gorgeous jug

This morning I found a fish in cheese sauce dinner in the freezer, placed there a month ago but forgotten about. And though I had an empty wine rack I did find an opened two-week-old bottle of red wine, enough for a glass and still not too bad since I'd pumped all the air out. That's my supper organised painlessly then. The woodburner is lit and it's nearly time for Call the Midwife and The Night Manager. Sunday night bliss. Cheers, to mothers everywhere.

Flying

Yesterday was mind blowing. It had taken around three years to get there, and for me it climaxed perfectly with the conversation between Olivia and Ali Smith at the British Library, attended by family, friends, publishers and fans, hundreds of them. It's been recorded, so hopefully I can listen again on YouTube or wherever, and enjoy it calmly. There's something about these big events that numb my brain as well as stimulate it almost to excess, so hearing it again will be wonderful. My friend Judith, having bought a copy of the book, turned to get Olivia to sign it for her, oblivious to the fact that she had crashed a huge queue waiting for Olivia's moniker. Her face when she saw them looming behind her was a picture. Anyway, the girl is flying now, rave reviews on both sides of the Atlantic, and she ain't going to land anytime soon. Her future is secure. Hallelujah!

I wasn't confined to bed with a bug as I dreaded, and unable to get to London. It has been worth stuffing my nose with endless squirts of First Defence to the point of nasal septum deterioration just to survive the germ-ridden situations I've been exposed to. I can't believe that an over-the-counter - OTC in marketing terms - product, not expensive, that promises the near-miracle of blocking infection really works. But it seems that it does. I will never be separated from it again.

I got in a bit of a muddle with the train journey, and travelled home first class using the wrong ticket. Luckily I wasn't challenged, but I had genuinely made a mistake, booking the premium tickets for a journey I will not now be making. Seemed fair to me, and what a difference it makes sitting in the comfortable, peaceful section of the train when you're ready to collapse at the end of a thrilling day. My car was enveloped in ice when I climbed into it, and the sky was black and clear, but I barely clocked the incredible stars when all I had in mind was hot chocolate and bed. Hot chocolate and bed. It's a beguiling mantra when you're on your last legs.

The Long Weekend

Time was when a long weekend was a glorious thing to be savoured, appreciated, wallowed in. It would come at the end of a bank of working days when it was a relief to switch off the computer and make plans. But that was then. Nowadays a weekend can be a trial, when two short days can expand into the longest time imaginable and hang around like compost flies on an airless summer day. I endured one of those a few weeks ago but its effects didn't end on the Sunday night. I was still feeling crushed several days later, and being cheerfully urged to "join groups, make new friends" only made things worse, as did the thoughtless "Have a good weekend!" when I patently wasn't going to. Anyway, that's my beef over, and I did recover my good humour eventually. It's impossible to stay miserable when the countryside is springing into life, small green shoots of hope popping up in the hedgerows and the soil.

This last Sunday I was looking forward to lunch and an afternoon of bridge at Judy and David's, now that Caroline is back from America, but it nearly didn't happen. An email from Caroline on Saturday evening checking that we were still on to meet at my place threw me into confusion, and I quickly rang the others to see if they too thought it was to be here. Yup, they said cheerfully, 12.30 at yours. Aaaaargh! On my way to the cinema a little later I stopped off at Waitrose to buy the ingredients for Sunday lunch, all the time thinking: what if I'd driven to Wilby, anticipating roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and they'd all come here to an empty house, no food anywhere, no welcome, no comfort? In the end we had a lovely time, all pleased to see Caroline in her trendy new American clothes, and looking so well. She's moving up t'Midlands in the summer, and will be missed.

Caroline looking glamorous

I finally got round to having my flu jab on the last day of February, to the consternation of the Boots staff, and then worried I'd left it too late and would probably get flu while I waited 14 days for it to kick in. Why did I not have it in the autumn? Good question. I have no logical answer. But so far I've stayed healthy this winter, and I think the powerful probiotic medicine I've been taking since September has kicked my immune system into some semblance of working order, and it's been protecting me. Yesterday I sat for three hours in a CAB training session, a small, warm room where someone sneezed non-stop and failed adequately to catch the germs in the tiny tisssues she used. I could have throttled her, but instead sprayed my nasal passages with First Defence, and prayed. Really irresponsible behaviour. Later in bridge I obsessively washed my hands as often as I could, trying my hardest to make myself repulsive to bugs. I should have concentrated on the cards more, but you can't do everything. Helen was very forgiving.