Just Imagine

So, I was working at Snape on Wednesday night, sitting at the very back of the hall watching to see if anyone fainted in the heat, or had a heart attack so that I could rush forwards and save their lives. The doors closed, the lights went down, the National Youth Choir launched into their first song. And when they finished the latecomers were let in, a couple who came and sat near me, and a man on his own carrying a very large briefcase who moved down towards the front. A man on his own carrying a very large briefcase! What? My imagination went into overdrive. Of course he was a terrorist, and any minute the whole hall was going to be blown to smithereens. I braced myself, and planned that as soon as the bomb went off I was going to leg it, no heroics for me, I'd be out like a shot, down the secret staircase which luckily was right beside me, the way staff nip in and out of concerts without disturbing the punters. I tensed, my wits tight about me, my mind alert, every nerve alive to the possibilities. And then it was the interval, and nothing had happened. I spoke to my colleagues, six of them, and asked what they had thought. And not one of them had been suspicious. Roger Wright, the head of Snape, stopped beside me for a chat on the way back to his seat after the interval, and I told him of my fears and asked him if he had shared them. And he was very jolly, and said he'd noticed the man and thought nothing of it, nothing at all. But how wonderful that you were super alert he said. Another little anecdote to add to his store.

Are they all mad? Or is it just me. Well, I know what I think.

Poorly boy with bandage

On the Hugo front, we're still battling. I now have an antiseptic cream to wash his feet in after his walks, visions of Jesus there, and some steroid cream to rub into the poor raw one. There are also pills to reduce the irritation. He's had a little bandage on the wounded paw to try to stop him licking it. He's such a long-suffering, patient little patient. If these don't work it'll be a visit to the pet dermotologist, Dermot O'Logist as a waggish friend remarked. Sore feet and mouth notwithstanding, we had one wonderful walk in the wild woods last night where he raced like a mad thing, chasing rabbits and birds, and then charging back to find us again, me and my weekend visitor. He went out like a light when we got home. I'll be so relieved when it's all sorted out. He definitely doesn't have his usual bounce.

Flowers from the garden

The lanes all around me are filled with aged cyclists staying in the grounds of Framlingham College in camper vans, caravans and tents. I think they come every year, from cycling clubs all over the country. They are so jolly, so fit and impressive. They wear brightly-coloured cycling clothes, and bend low over their racing bikes. They'll probably live for ever. But we've had our moments too. Olivia has been reading the five Ripley books by Patricia Highsmith, and has recommended them highly to me. "Oh, I've just remembered, I ordered a couple to be delivered here this weekend so you can start on them," she said, and at that very moment, that identical second, the postwoman walked up the path and knocked on the door with the parcel. Now that's impressive.