Scare

The other day I went to see a showing of Akenfield, the film of Ronald Blythe's seminal book of interviews with the people of two Suffolk villages in the late 1960s. It was directed by Sir Peter Hall, his favourite of all the films he's worked on. I've read the book a few times, no, pored over it, soaking up, sucking up every little detail. It's like manna from heaven for me, learning about the lives of these people who were tied to the farms they worked on, and exploited until they died of exhaustion. Obviously it's not all doom and gloom. The humanity of these people, their sense of decency, is remarkable under the circumstances. If Lark Rise to Candleford is one of the best fictionalised accounts of life in the early part of the 20th century, then this is its factual equivalent. The screening was in a small packed studio holding no more than 50 people, all of them my age or older, and at the end when the lights went out we sat in silence for several seconds, and then broke into spontaneous applause. There wasn't much talking on the way out. I for one couldn't have spoken if I tried. Moving? Powerful? Phew.

I came down the next morning to find Hugo collapsed on the kitchen sofa. No greeting for me, and when I sat down beside him he didn't look at me or lift his head. "What's the matter?" I asked him, but of course answer came there none. For several minutes I stroked his face and his back, panic rising in me. There was little life in him, no response. I rang the emergency vet, and related Hugo's condition in a shaking voice. Bring him right in, I was told, and we'll have a look at him. I wasn't convinced I could lift him into the car, but I raced upstairs anyway to throw some clothes on, feeling sick with dread. And lo! what happened next? He raced upstairs after me! He does have a problem though. He has been scratching at his mouth and nose, and excessively licking his paws. According to the internet this could be an allergic reaction to something. His gums look sore, and he's obviously in some discomfort. So it's the vet for real this afternoon.

Yesterday I cut down the massive solanum crispum which has so prolifically covered the one bit of fencing in the garden. I wanted something to screen the wood, but this thing behaved as if it was a triffid, and grew wildly in a mass of leaves and a few flowers in every direction, but especially outwards into the garden. I got sick of reining it in and decided it had to go. As usual I forgot to take a before picture, but the space is now cleared, the huge roots dug out, and it will be replaced by a climbing rose that I bought along with two others for a snip in a garden centre sale. That's gardening for you. Some things work, some don't. Some flourish and some get eaten or ravaged by disease. It keeps you on your toes.

Talking of toes, Hugo sped off on his after a hare this morning and did the one thing I have dreaded: he chased it right out of the field and straight across the lane. As usual I couldn't get there very quickly, but before I reached the gap he'd raced through there he was, nonchalant as ever. He stopped to relieve himself before coming back to me. Chasing hares does that to him, all that adrenalin. Yup, that's what happens alright.