All That Jazz

I met the vicar at the village plant sale yesterday, but because it was held in Framlingham I assumed he was the local incumbant. As I shook his hand across the table where I was selling everything from primroses to giant echium, I asked him where his church was. You know, just making conversation. He was a giant of a man, not the sort you'd forget easily. "Why, your village," he said, and roared with laughter Brian Blessed style. Well I'd never seen him around before, but them I'm not a regular, or even a one-off. Caroline told him where I lived, and he apologised for not coming to see me. Gawd! No worries mate. He invited me to attend a service any time I liked, but I told him I liked knowing that he was there, praying for the likes of me, but I had no wish to join him. He bought three hellebores, and I gave him a fourth one as a gift. I thought it was the least I could do under the circs. It was a good morning, and I'll warrant we made a decent sum. To cap it all I won a hamper of fruit which might take me a while to get through but I'm leaving nothing, not even a pip.

When I got back, having left Hugo alone in the kitchen for a few hours, he'd been everywhere. The counters were covered in muddy footprints, the result of him knocking over a glass of water and walking it all over the surfaces. It says a lot for the state of his feet. The windows were covered in nose rubbings and, most poignantly, there were pawprints on the glass at the stretched height of a desperate whippet. Cleaning those regularly is clearly going to be my job. I did what the experts say and didn't make too much of a fuss of him at first. It seems I may have been overdoing that, letting him follow me everywhere, allowing him to bully me with his powerful nose into stroking him again and again and again. Persistent he is. It has to stop. I'm not giving up the sofa-snuggling though. He is a whippet after all.

I ushered last night at a gig given by Jacqui Dankworth in aid of the Bury St Edmunds Diocese. Tragically, almost comically, only 180 tickets were sold out of a possible 850. This was due to appalling publicity by the organisers who had only hired the Snape concert hall but not any of their other services. Shame. It was excellent nevertheless, though not my kind of music and I nearly fell asleep a few times. Beforehand I'd given Hugo a free run, and am ashamed to say that he peed up against the leg of Sarah Lucas's giant shire horse. Oh well, it probably just looked like a tree to him. He charged around as usual, targetting an old, half-blind labrador who tolerated him and whose owner said in awed tones "My god but he can run!" Yup. I thought he'd be exhausted, and he probably did sleep in the car. But it was a cold night, and he sneezed a few times on the way home. He did that other thing too, hyperventilating at a terrifying speed, and crying in between gasps. I spoke to one of the ushers, Frances, who I've bonded with over our dogs, and she gave me the number of a trainer she knows who might be able to help. I'll try anything. I just want the little chap to be happy.

My reward for manning the plant stall with Caroline came this morning when Patrick brought me the dearest little pot of flowers. He came in a flurry of snow. Yes, snow.