Musings

Went to a concert of Hugh Masekela at Snape last night. He had the packed house of not terribly young people on their feet shaking their booties when he sang "Bring Home Nelson Mandela". Wonderful stuff, Afro-Jazz. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. All day long a tractor had journeyed up and down the stubbled field behind and beside me, dragging two sharp blades through the ground gouging out runnels about 10 feet apart. I don't remember seeing that before. The guy sat in his cab for around 10 hours, and then he was back this morning for another four. He had a radio in there, and some magazines or papers, and from time to time he parked up and had something to eat, checking texts. Anything to pass the time I suppose. What a lonely job, but how much better it must be now that tractors are covered over, the driver not exposed to all the elements. Better still than trudging through deep mud with a hand-held plough and a horse. I can't help having these thoughts, making comparisons with a time when things were much worse, or much better. Perhaps its living so close to the land, and the rawness of it.

I took a bit of a rest from weeding today, sitting in my reclining chair and looking out over the pond. There was no one to bring me a cup of tea, but I was content just relaxing, and gazing. Along came Master Hugo, and he gently, oh so delicately placed his paws on the seat between my legs, and looked at me lovingly. I stroked him with two hands, the sides of his neck, the sides of his face, his flanks, his legs. All the time I coo-ed at him, beautiful boy, where's my beautiful boy, my lovely boy with his dear, sweet face and his dear sweet nature, who's the loveliest boy in the world, that sort of thing. I used the voice I discovered when I had babies, when I focused intently on them and coaxed smiles out of them long before they would have normally come. Who's a beautiful girl, mummy's most beautiful girl, mummy's clever girl, that sort of thing. I wasn't very imaginative. The next time I used the voice was on a half Siamese cat called Snoopy who captured all our hearts and dominated the household for 19 years. I could turn that critical, demanding feline into a ball of furry jelly. Alas, she is no more. Now Hugo has the voice to himself, and when I stopped stroking but kept murmuring to him he raised his two back legs and proceeded to arrange himself on my lap. All 40lbs of him. He's never done it before, and I have to say I was charmed. So we sat there in the garden, this large black dog curled on my lap trying to pretend he's a small black puppy, me with my arms around him and my face against his neck. And them my legs started to hurt under the weight, and I stuck it as long as I could bear, longer, and then gently lowered his rear end on to the ground. Together we got up and went into the house for refreshments.

There are much nicer things than having someone to make the tea for you.