Fat Boy Slim

There was no possibility of talking a walk. The wind howled across the fields and through the garden, and there was rain and drizzle on and off. Who in their right mind would want to go out? We had to, of course, briefly: nature had to be attended to; but we cut it short. God, it has been a long day. I've been itching to get out into the garden and do all the delicious jobs awaiting me, but it really was too unpleasant. Instead I've watched as my delphiniums have been battered and flattened, hopefully not terminally but I'm not going to check until the weather improves. It's June tomorrow, for pity's sake!

I've been continuing my work of fattening up my skinny whippet, and to this end have been giving him buttered toast between meals. The consequence of these treats is that, every time I get up to do something he thinks it's feeding time again and starts to get up too. "What?" I say as he begins to move. I stare at him and he gently subsides back into his bed or place on the kitchen sofa. "Please," I admonish. "Greed is not attractive". Chastened, he lies back down again, but it doesn't last and we have to repeat the process every time. I think the extra feeding is beginning to work, and the ribs are not quite so obvious. The Adaptil collar may be helping, particularly if the separation anxiety has contributed to the weight loss which I'm sure it has.

Earlier today we played some sort of game upstairs which he delighted in but which left me panting. It was a sort of chase involving me dashing hither and thither while he joyfully bounced after me and wagged his tail a lot. He loves it but I'm not as young as I was. But I can't resist his delight, and so I whizz from room to room, letting him catch me and patting him manically and telling him what a very clever boy he is. And then we do it again. I persuaded him to play with my rescue teddy, and he tossed it around and dived on it, pretending to tear it to pieces. That's a game I do understand - I toss the bear, he chases after it and pounces on it and brings it back to me. But he stops quite quickly, and when I have got my breath back off we go again, me clutching at the bannisters as we pass the top of the stairs because I can just see how that might end. At least it burnt off some energy, though I'd have preferred to do that with a book and a glass of wine - my mind would have been racing, eating up calories. I've corrected that now, and discovered the bottle Ruth and I didn't quite finish yesterday. I have tiny baby potatoes boiling, salmon steaks in the oven, and sliced green beans about to be steamed in the microwave. Good health!

New Ideas

I woke in the early hours and thought of a better configuration for my new path, involving more bricks than I thought I had. I couldn't wait to get out this morning to try it out and see what I could find to make it work. First I took the hound for what has become a twice-daily trip to Pound Farm. The weather forecast was for gales, and already the wind was up and there was moisture in the air and on the windows. We took off straight after breakfast, the great unwashed, but the minute I got back we were in the garden. The new plan is for a wider path, and by moving things around I managed to nearly find enough bricks. Two are missing at the moment but I know where they are, and though the ones I unearthed are mucky and green they'll clean up. As soon as the weather improves that'll be my next job. A sack of fine sand should bed the bricks in well. I'm delighted because the alternative was new stone slabs, and I don't think they'd have blended in as well.

Ruth came for lunch, and we spent the afternoon watching The French Connection which I had never seen and she had watched when it first came out and completely forgotten. What was all the fuss about? Why does it have cult status? For some reason we found it very funny, but neither of us realised that it was based on real events, a massive operation to catch drug dealers which ended in failure and the loss of an awful lot of lives. Really, as the Queen would say. When she'd gone, Ruth not the Queen, I turned on the radio to catch the beginning of Handel's Saul, not the Glyndebourne production which I saw last December but still with Iestyn Davies as David. Heaven. Eat your heart out Gene Hackman.

Dog Days

It wasn't Countryfile but Springwatch that we marched into the middle of yesterday. Michaela Strachan posted a picture of herself in the middle of one of the open spaces where Hugo and I walk, which I've been meaning to snap for days now but always forget to bring my camera. The buttercups are so beautiful, and there are several spaces just like this, as well as woodland walks and wide paths around ponds. As usual when we walked there this morning we were alone for the whole hour we were there. I can't believe how lucky we are having such a place just down the road from us.

The whole of yesterday was spent in the garden, one of us working hard the other sleeping in the sun and periodically dragging himself panting heavily to the pond for a drink, tongue bright red and lolling out of the side of his mouth. I put the parasol up at lunchtime so I could eat outside without getting burnt. Hugo collapsed in a bony heap in a sunny spot beside me, elbows and knees knocking against the concrete. Hugo, I said, if you move to the other side of me you'll be in the shade. He sighed deeply, looked at me sadly and dropped his head onto a forearm again. Minutes later he was back at the pond before returning to his chosen spot in the hot sun. I'm not sure, but he may not be MENSA material. I power hosed the second small terrace, planted a jasmine against the loo wall, and weeded the rest of the shrub bed. And I started to make a path to the elder bench. The terrace came up quite clean apart from against the wall where in the winter the sun don't shine. I'll have to give it another go. And the path is just an idea at the moment. If I pursue it I'll dig the bricks in and make then look a bit better. They are quite old and battered but they suit the house somehow. That's nearly the end of the large store that I inherited. I've used them for the summerhouse path, a small wall separating the shrub bed from the bark path behind it, and as a base for the dustbins to sit on. That's a lot of bricks. We finally staggered in at five to eight. Hugo couldn't believe how long it was all taking me. He'd been trying to get me indoors for hours.

Dahlias etc being hothoused

Terrace after power hosing

The jasmine will be spread out against the trellis

Putative path

Today we met up with Frances and Christine at their place beside the river in Woodbridge. They are fellow Snape ushers, and we became friendly over our dogs. Theirs is Darcey, a tiny, pretty king charles spaniel that was rescued from a puppy farm in a huge barn in Wales. She had borne several litters though she was only four when rescued, and had lived on a concrete floor all her life. She had never been outside, and was terrified of birdsong. Hugo was fascinated by the loud snores she made when she fell asleep, and he kept going up to her to see what was happening. I noticed his Pen One S came out of its sheat though I hope nobody else did. He's not meant to have a sex drive.

I've now bought him an Adaptil collar which means he should be flooded with pheromones all the time and should never have another anxious moment. It'll be hard to tell because he is so chilled out at home, as long as I'm there too. He's zonked out beside me now, away with the gods. But there will be trying times ahead. Fingers crossed he'll be able to take them in his stride.

Out for the count

Ups and Downs

What an odd week it's been. It feels like ages since yoga on Monday. We've been going to the Woodland Trust every day, sometimes twice a day, and it's been great fun for both of us. Hugo keeps an eye on me and waits for me to catch up if I lag behind, or comes to get me if I'm too far back. The main thing is that he's free to charge around, explore by himself, and follow all those delicious scents that he can't track when on a lead. We've met a few nice dogs and owners, though generally we have it all to ourselves. But yesterday evening we encountered a nasty little piece of work called Lucky who snarled and snapped at Hugo, and tried to do the same to me. His owners, trailing a strong smell of patchouli (that's a family code word), just looked on, and so in the absence of a lead I grabbed Hugo by the collar and pulled him away. I must have been hurting him in my fear and anxiety, because he twisted his head and rubbed a warning tooth against my hand. I was totally shocked, probably mostly because I'd been expecting one of us to be bitten by Lucky, and tapped him on the nose with a firm "No, bad boy!" He immediately sank behind me and walked along with his face near the ground. It's OK Hugo, I told him, you didn't mean to hurt me. Good boy! And he leapt ahead at once. Oh, such a dear creature. This morning we walked right into the middle of the filming of Countryfile, with Michaela Strachan making a big fuss of Hugo as they waited for the drone filming overhead. We may be in the next edition. I'm the stripey one with the black dog.

The lawn scrubbed up well

 Wednesday wasn't much fun, or Friday. I'd arranged with the bridge club that it was OK to bring Hugo - no problem, no one will even notice him, I was told kindly. We got him settled beside our table and sat down ourselves ready for the afternoon when the the nice secretary came up to me discreetly and told me that a couple were objecting to the dog. "We'll leave if he doesn't", they had said. So we left. Helen was very disgruntled and wanted to stay for a fight - "let's put it to the vote", she urged. But I wouldn't have enjoyed it anyway. So that's that. Work wasn't a lot better on Friday, not because of any hostility but because Hugo whimpered every time I left the room, and the manager wasn't keen on me taking him in with me to see clients - too distracting. We're going to try again next week but I'm not feeling very positive. Did I say Hugo was a dear creature?

I've discovered there are things you can do to calm a dog, collars and such like. So we're going to try one of them. I've read very encouraging reviews. After a stressful day it was nice to come home and get to work on the garden. The ride-on made short shrift of the lawn, and I was able to trim the edges too because I wasn't exhausted or out of time. We were entertained by the 360-odd runners who passed the house on a 4-mile circular race from Framlingham. The young men came first, effortlessly striding out in their vests and shorts, followed by the young women, and then came the most amazing motley crew of every age, shape, size and level of fitness. I was really amazed and chastened by these people, mostly women. What had made them take up running? They were horribly out of breath as they came past my house, perhaps already two-thirds of the way around and scarlet with effort. I lurked behind some shrubs, though a flier through the letterbox had encouraged us on their route to cheer them on. But one chap noticed the dog and me, and so he spoke and the people with him spoke and the people behind saw this and looked and saw us and they spoke. And I found myself cheering them on, and by this time I really meant it because they were awesome. I'm afraid if I looked like some of them I wouldn't leave the house, certainly not in shorts. Good for them!

That's me bottom left. Head too high but it was a tricky pose

Made For Each Other

I hadn't realised quite how tactile I am, and how much I had missed the hugging and touching and patting - all the little gestures of connection you make when you love someone. I wasn't always touchy-feely, but having babies changed all that, and let me express a side of myself that was a bit repressed. Hugo has brought it all out in me again, and luckily for me he can't get enough of it either. Such a deeply affectionate little boy he is, and what a delight to have him curl up next to me on the sofa, to rearrange his elegant limbs a few times until he is as close to me as he can get, to heave a long sigh and then drop his head in my lap. His body is warm and soft, and his love is unconditional. When he looks at me with his trusting brown eyes I melt, I really do. Every time. So I agree with the medical research that shows having an animal calms you, slows your heart rate, reduces blood pressure, hopefully helps you to live longer. It certainly makes you happier. He couldn't be a better match for me, this glistening, gleaming black seal, black otter. On our walk this morning a scenario played out in my head, the one where someone says they want the dog and they'll pay any amount for him. How much would be enough? I thought of a figure and raised it, raised it again, got to £1 million, and pondered for all of five seconds. There are things I could do with a tidy sum like that, couldn't we all? But I wouldn't sell him. Not for all the tea in China. Or India. I've turned into a bowl of mushy peas, sloppy and wet. But who cares.

Getting It Right

Such a wonderful day yesterday. I worked in the garden for hours, putting in all the plants I bought at the Walled Garden nursery. The area behind the pond is looking magnificent now, though photos don't really do it justice. It's going to be a mass of colour when everything comes out. The shrub bed too is looking very pretty, and the perennial bed is well under way, with delphiniums and lupins already up to several feet and beginning to flower. The wild pink poppies that had seeded everywhere last year and made such a great display are back again this year in even greater numbers. Such luck to have them to bring an extra exuberance to the garden. I've still got plenty of spaces, and this morning we went to another garden centre to see what I could find to fill some of them. I've decided on an area of rhododendrons and azaleas, but at up to £39 a shot I'm going to wait until they've stopped flowering and the price goes down a bit. Bleedin' daylight robbery. But that will nicely sort out one bare part of the garden.

Here will be rhododendrons and azaleas

On the dahlia front I've had 100% success, but it's spoilt the fun of going to check on them each day. Now I know they're all alive and kicking I've rather lost interest. At around 5pm I dragged myself up to the house to make a cup of tea, knees sore from all the digging. Hugo was hungry and I fed him early, which was when I decided to take him to the Woodland Trust to have a proper run. The last and only time we went before we both got plastered in mud, but it's dry now. Talk about dog heaven, for both of us. One of the joys of having a dog is to let it run free, do its own thing but keep any eye on where you are and keep coming back to check on you. You can stride out without the lead to hold. Just to be sure, I taught him to respond to the whistle before we went. I made him stay at one end of the kitchen, blew the whistle and called him, and when he came bounding up to me I gave him a treat. He got it straight away, little pig that he is. And it worked on the walk too! He was perfect, galloping off but always making sure he knew I was following, his ears twitching along with his nose, eyes everywhere. When I whistled he raced back for his treat. Amazingly we didn't spot a single furry thing to follow. It's only just over a mile from the house so we can go everyday when it's dry. By the time we got back to the car I was hobbling, the tendons behind my knees stretched and sore, but my spirits were soaring. As I said before, what a wonderful day. Gardens and dogs. S'all you need.

Tiny Treats

The most thrilling part of my day has been checking to see if any more of my dahlia tubers have sprouted. They are in pots in the summerhouse where a mixture of intense heat and judicious watering hothouses them, forces them out early. If they are still alive after a winter of neglect in the garage that is. I do this several times a day, holding each pot right up to my eye and the light to check for growth - it's terribly hard to see. But so far 11 of them are showing signs of life, which leaves only 3. Or is it 12 and 2? I thought I saw something in one of them that I couldn't later spot. But that's how it is, and that's what makes it so beguiling. Each new sighting brings a shout of triumph and a wide grin. I have three gold flowers with dark leaves, four of the spectacular pink ones with green leaves, some of which I may be able to split (make a mental note to look up "When to divide dahlias on Google), and 4 or 5 of the Bishop of Llandaff, bright red with dark leaves. I'm so very happy they have survived. I kept meaning to keep them warm over the coldest period, wrapping them in nice dry compost and storing them on a shelf. But they won't be lifted again. Now that I have the beds cut to their final shape I can plant them and leave them to all eternity to flower and delight me for years to come.

On Friday we went to the beach with Sammy and Stella as usual, or what's fast becoming usual, and Hugo encountered a trio of whippet, lurcher and greyhound. He didn't realise what they were until he flew up to them, danced around and tussled a bit and then flew away. They raced after him, snouts up his hind quarters, and the look of amazement on his face was a joy to behold. What's this, his face said, I'm the King of Speed on Sizewell beach! Not when those two breeds are around, though he had more verve than the others. It was funny seeing them all together, the whippet tiny, the lurcher and the greyhound - a very small one - not much bigger than him. No wonder people can never decide what he is. But I know what he is, what he still is: a stealth thief. Nothing is safe from his prying, sniffing nose. Yesterday it was the turn of my very nice piece of cooked fillet of bream, meaty, chunky, tasty - gone! He doesn't even do shame any more when I challenge him. He just wags his tail and jabs at my arm with that hugely strong conk of his. Stroke me! Cuddle me! I'm so charming!

I went to see Florence Foster Jenkins with Meryl Streep on Thursday. Well, I went with Ruth. Meryl Streep was in in. I don't know Meryl Streep. It was awful, truly dreadful though I've never seen Hugh Grant in a better light. The Jenkins character couldn't sing but went on to have a highly successful career on the stage anyway, including a sell-out at Carnegie Hall. I thought that maybe she would sometimes be a little off-key but she REALLY COULDN'T SING. It was excruciating. It left me blank with disbelief. Here is a clip of the real woman not making music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMu9PKWthLE Dear god. The emperor's new clothes.

Yesterday Hugo and I walked diagonally across a field, a legit one this time with the footpath carved out between the lines of wheat. All the way across he pulled importantly on the lead, sniffing the ground and every now and again looking across the crop for hares, dancing on his toes to see more clearly. There was nothing there, because he was looking the wrong way! On the other side no fewer than three hares frolicked and raced each other not 100 yards away. Oh it was funny, but a relief too. When he pulls he is so strong I think he'd have me over. Poor deluded skinny little whippet. He'll have to make do with dried dog food and what he steals in the kitchen. Jugged hare is not on the menu.

Perking Up

What a marvellous day it's been. I worked solidly in the garden until hunger drove me in at 7pm to forage for food. Sadly I'm not yet out of holiday mode and though the freezer had goodies in it the fridge did not. Hugo and I shot into Framlingham for a takeaway Indian, not bad value at £12.30 and it always lasts for two nights. Eating too quickly I nearly choked on a grain of rice. With four hours of Nick's help this morning I finally got the bottom of the garden weeded, mainly, and raked, ish. I've now got to plant ground cover urgently before the nasty weeds resurface or return. For the first time this year I feel as if the back garden is under some sort of control, and now I can sow seeds and plant out my dahlias when they are far advanced enough in their pots in the summerhouse. I'm not lifting them for the winter in future, it's too much effort and too damaging to the tubers. Once I've decided their permanent positions they can stay put and just man up to survive the cold. The lawn is looking lovely, and all the edges are cut which leaves a great finish. I wish I'd taken some pictures today when the sun was out.

The front garden is a different matter. Where all is calm and neat out the back, the other side is chaotic. In just the one week I was away everything has sprouted, plants and weeds both, and amongst the beauties are lurking plenty of evils which will need to come out. I don't know what happened to the friable soil that I boasted about not a few weeks ago. It's rock hard now, and almost impossible to penetrate. No more May holidays for me.

Hugo has been more settled today, though the adventure we had this morning might have put him off walking. There's a wonderful track just opposite the church, neatly mown now and very inviting, and although I was told by a farmer a few years ago that it is not a public footpath, I generally ignore him. What harm? Hugo hasn't been down it yet, and this morning I couldn't resist it. He was very excited, knowing there were hares at the end of it, and sure enough a very orangy one popped onto the track ahead of us nearly causing the dog to have apoplexy. He bayed, he let out a bark, he said Let me go! This is what I do! I hung on grimly and he didn't pull, but he danced along on fairy feet eager to do his stuff. The hare disappeared and we skirted the next few fields until we came to a small wood. An enticing looking path led into the trees, and we decided to follow it. Mistake. After a few hundred yards of having to crouch lower and lower and struggle through dense bushes and trees, we came to a very deep ditch with no visible path on the other side. I hate to turn back when I'm so close to freedom, but Hugo wasn't at all happy so we retraced out footsteps. We took another route and ended up just inside a field beside our long lane. But another deep ditch obstructed our easy passage. Gingerly I edged towards it, Hugo on the lead behind me being told to Wait! Wait!, and with one bound I was over, with him following close behind. What a relief. I was beginning to feel like a very reckless mother.

This is nice Mummy

Only three muddy feet, I've kept one on the grass.

He's asleep now, a very early-to-bed boy. I can't believe he's so tired since he spent most of the afternoon on my Guernsey on the lawn, spark out. I didn't mind the appropriation, but he might have wiped his feet first. When I gathered it up to wear it to the Indian I saw it was covered in dried mud. What a cheek!

Staying Close

Sicily - who knew it was such a spectacular island? Mountainous terrain and roads that follow the contours to giddying heights so that at any point you could be hanging over a sheer drop thousands of feet below. Hitchcock directed a film about how that feels. Fabulous baroque towns set on hilltops criss-crossed with narrow passageways and sharp turnings on steep inclines between ancient stone buildings that a handcart would have difficulty manoeuvering around yet we had to do it over and over again in a large car. The car was meant to be small, very small, but Hertz didn't have any so we were upgraded. It was a mixed blessing. But we were genuinely amazed at the unexpected beauty of the places we visited and stayed at: Ragusa, Noto, Siracusa, Ortigia, the latter the jewel in a very fancy crown. Sisters holidaying for the first time alone together in over 40 years, enjoying wonderful food, mostly straight out of the Ionian Sea, and finding endless reasons to laugh, and to exclaim.

While I was having fun a certain whippet was most definitely not. He cried constantly for the first few days until someone came up with an ingenious solution: stuff his dried food into one of those balls with a small hole in, and let him work for his meals, take his mind off his worries. He spent hours at it apparently, and it may have stopped him crying all the time, but he lost a lot of weight so it clearly didn't relieve his anxiety. I was desperate to get him as soon as I could, so hared over from Cambridge to spring him from his prison before noon, closing time. He must have heard my voice as I settled the bill and was debriefed, and as he walked towards me down the corridor he looked tremulous, nervous. "I wonder if he will have forgotten me," I said to the kennel person. "I've only had him for six weeks." But when he came into reception he threw himself at me, sobbing loudly, wailing really, wrapping himself around me, jumping up, rubbing his head into me wherever he could. He was beside himself with relief; I don't even know if it was joy. I think he was too shattered by the whole experience for that. "Well, that answers your question," the woman responded with a broad smile. Once in the car he crashed out and slept all the way home.

Poor skinny whippet. He's happy to be back but hasn't left my side since Saturday morning. He watches me, he gets up when I move, he follows me everywhere. It's more intense even than when he first came here, but I was expecting it and I'm trying to make him feel as secure as I can. He came to yoga this morning and slept in his basket the whole time, a silent black angel. It will be a while before I leave him alone again. It's not all been tragic though. On Sunday we went to Sizewell beach where he ganged up with a pack of dogs and raced around with them, a foursome in flight together. It was so great to see him having such fun, his old self again. I must remember never to go away in May. It's the pretiest month of all, the one when everything really bursts out of winter bindings and blossoms voluptuously. In just one week the hedgerows have filled out, the verges have grown tall and lush and verdant, and the garden has been transformed. It's too sad to have missed all this, and I won't again. The little fellow and I will stay put between April and October, and if we do go away again we go together.

Rabbiting On

I've started driving differently since I've had the dog. No more flying around the many corners you encounter when you live in the country. Every field has to be negotiated lengthily because centuries ago - and even more recently -  farmers refused to allow lanes to be cut through their land. It can involve zigzagging from A to B in a dizzying switchback, and Hugo is not keen. I fit him into his harness which is attached to a seatbelt holder before we set off anywhere, and he settles down along the back seat. At the first bend he raises himself up in a disgruntled way, and if this twisting and turning continues he stands up and leans against the back of the seat. He does not like it, he makes it silently clear. Now my target is to keep him supine, and so I cut corners dangerously to try to keep the car on a smooth trajectory, I anticipate a corner and slide into it so that there is no abrupt movement. Success is him not getting up on all fours. The temptation to accelerate over the humpback bridge and have him lifted off the seat into the air is strong, but I even resist that. I've become a nun, I drive like a nun. The only thrill left is in motoring on the wrong side of the road as we round bends, the better to keep him steady, and even that comes with its own dangers.

He's had some lovely off-lead walks lately. On Sunday Ruth came for lunch and afterwards we went to the annual art exhibition at White House Farm, owned by the Gaythorne-Hardy family whose lives I've been reading about and been fascinated by in Half An Arch. The show is run by Jason - I know - whose father is Lord Cranbrook. I think Jason has a title too. We walked through the fields and up to a high plateau, and Hugo ran free all the time. He even came face to face with a few chickens and didn't attack them. Good boy! The sun was hot, very hot, and we were both red-faced and burnt by the end of the day. On Monday Helen and I went out for lunch, and we followed it with a walk all along the estuary of the River Blytgh, towards Walberswick. Again Hugo was off the lead, and he relished the freedom, and I relished his relish. It's so much more fun for both of us when he can come and go as he pleases, in a safe space.

He's been chasing rabbits today down at the beach at Sizewell. Luckily he didn't catch anything - I think they disappeared into their holes too quickly for him. He's completely zonked now, crashed out in his bed with long limbs hanging over the edge. He's so beautiful. And he's mine.