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.
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