Water Under the Bridge

Blasts from the past have abounded these last few days. We're staying not 500 yards from where we lived in the 80s, Hornbeam House. The hornbeam tree has gone and the navy blue shutters have been painted green, but not much else has changed. There's more traffic of course. Walks with my little girls along the much quieter road involved stopping and stooping, tiny trusting hands in mine, to observe and comment on every dandelion, every stone, ladybird and leaf. We never got very far. After a few years we moved up the hill to Vine Cottage opposite Gold Hill Common, and yesterday Hugo tore around this lovely open space where once we spent many happy hours playing, ball games in summer and sledging down the steep slope in winter. Today we visited another old favourite, following the path along the River Misbourne - a stream really - from Chalfont St Peter to Chalfont St Giles. It was a superb day, with temperatures above 20 degrees, and we made the most of it. But boy did the memories come flooding back. The last time I was by this river was 1984, August 18th to be precise. The girls and I spent the day damming up the stream and it was very hot. We had a picnic with us, and we lingered all day, paddling to keep cool before clearing the dam to go home. I was due to be in London that evening, and for two pins I would have cancelled. The thought of Town in that heat was not attractive. In the end I decided to go. Fate hinges on such decisions. That night my life, all of our lives, changed for ever.

Dam it

We had a pot of tea in a pub garden beside the river in the sunshine. Well, one of us did, the other one had a glass of Prosecco. I know. We reckoned it was a six mile round trip, and it was really delightful wandering through the water meadows mingling with sheep, cows and horses. You don't find walks like that in Suffolk where the land is mainly given over to arable farming. Coming back we must have passed the 1984 dam spot again without my realising. Apart from the memory of that day there were no pangs of nostalgia. It had been a wonderful walk and we all enjoyed it. Tomorrow it will be November and the temperature is due to plummet. Things can change dramatically from one day to another. That's life.

Settled

We were spending the weekend in a very nice house, a very naice house, know what I mean, nudge nudge. White is the predominant colour, pale carpets, nothing out of place. Hugo had been invited and was keenly anticipated. But there was the small issue of the something unpleasant he had rolled in which left a slightly odoriferous area of neck, and the puzzling fact that he is moulting a little, in the autumn for goodness sake. I decided to give him a bath before we left, his second since I've had him. I don't really know the protocol for dog washing frequency, but Hugo is a particularly glossy dog with very short hair and a decidedly non-doggy smell. He doesn't get dirty apart from his feet after a good gallop across the fields, and a bowl of warm water soon sorts that out. The first time I bathed him not long after he came to live with me he was plastered in mud after a misguided yomp, and I remember him trembling all over as I washed him, and then shaking himself furiously as soon as I stopped. This time he stood calmly in the water, gently lifting each leg as I soaped him and then rinsed him off. He might have been in a trance, lulled by the gently murmured words I kept repeating. I rubbed him lightly with a towel in the bath, then lifted him out and dried him all over as well as I could. Finally he shook himself though there was nothing left to shake, and he was off, charging from room to room, rolling wildly on the floor then racing around again. He was crazy with joy for some reason, and I laughed at his antics which made him perform them ever more madly. He reeked of Johnson's baby shampoo all day but it's worn off now.

The boy was still damp when we set off so I wrapped him in my fleece. The journey took three hours thanks to an accident outside Royston, and we had to go through the town to avoid the blocked road. It was the first time I'd been there in 55 years since my best friend Jenny moved away. I used to stay at her home, an old four-storey townhouse with a huge kitchen/dining room in the basement where I first encountered spag bol and had to be taught to wind it around my fork with the aid of a spoon. When I got home and told my sister about this amazing dish we set about recreating it with mince and tomato ketchup, but we couldn't understand how they had cooked the long strands of dark blue paper-wrapped spaghetti as it wouldn't fit in our largest saucepan and we ending up breaking it into smaller pieces. Her father was head of a boys' borstal, and there were always a few sullen youths around as well as Jenny's three glorious siblings. It was an exotic set-up compared to my conventional home life, and I loved staying there in the holidays. On one occasion, aged 12, we rushed back to excitedly report seeing a vision of Jesus as we walked on the golf course, and Jenny took me to visit the prehistoric cave hidden under the shoe shop. It's still there, but now entry is through a designated cave shop. If Hugo hadn't been with me, stoically enduring the long journey, I'd have stopped off for old time's sake. The memory of it is still vivid.

We arrived at last for a late lunch. Hugo was at the end of his tether, beginning to pant with distress after behaving immaculately for so long. We were warmly welcomed and went indoors to recover. "I'm not doing that journey again," he declared. "I'm staying put. You go if you want to, but you go without me." I agreed with him, it had been a feat of endurance. So that's it, we're staying in Gerrards Cross now, no more to go home. It's lovely here. Ciao.

Something in the Air

I try not to stare at aircraft in the sky. I'm always afraid that I'll force them to crash by some hidden psychic powers. But I did watch in amazement today as an Apache helicopter performed perilous-looking manoeuvres over the town of Saxmundham, ducking and diving, weaving and spinning. I can scarcely believe they are allowed to fly like this over residential areas, though one once flew so low over my garden that I could see a spot on the end of the pilot's nose. It didn't crash despite my close scrutiny, but the aircraft I watched not two hours later did. It was a microlight flying through clear blue skies towards Hugo and I as we took our evening walk through the fields. The sun from the west bounced off its fuselage, and we stopped to watch as it neared. I even waved, it was such a pleasing sight. Not 50 yards away from us it suddenly emitted a very loud bang, and a large piece of metal fell away from it and landed in the field next to us. It must have been the main engine, because it became very much quieter and began to lose height. The pilot steered it around in the direction from which it had come, and disappeared behind the trees on the edge of the field. Was that me, I wondered, heart thumping, but we were as far away from being able to follow it as we could be, trapped in our field by a thorny hedge and then a very wide ditch. We had no choice but to continue on home, when I got straight in the car to find it. It was further away than I had expected, right at the edge of a field where two men from a support car were already trying to fix it. "Is everything OK?" I called across. "I saw it come down." Clearly the pilot was not hurt as the three of them were chatting as they fiddled under the bonnet. "It's fine," they said cheerily. "Thanks for asking." Blimey. That was scarey. I'm sure it was nothing to do with me but I'm keeping my eyes on the ground in future when I hear overhead activity.

After such a lovely day the clear skies made the evening a bit chilly, so it was with great pleasure that I lit the first fire of the autumn. I forgot to have the chimney swept but I think it will keep for another year. Gosh, it does make the sitting room cosy. Too cosy perhaps as I've ended up with a headache. But I'll get used to it again, temper the heat a bit. A woodburner is a very economical way warming a room, most effective.

Last night while I read in bed before turning the lights out I heard a noise from the kitchen and went down to explore. Nothing seemed to be amiss, but when I went to check on Hugo I saw that he had my recorder in bed with him. My recorder, which had been on the table. Funny boy. I'm going to keep a tally.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night

After a disappointing day yesterday when our plans had to change because one person had a bad cold and sore throat and another did what he does best to drive me to an early grave, today was simply brilliant. My lunch in a posh restaurant in Cambridge was thwarted, though the day turned out to be fruitful enough. The previous evening Hugo had inexplicably got wind of half a bar of Ritters pepermint fondant-filled chocolate, tucked away in my handbag and forgotten about. I did my usual scan of the kitchen before I went up for the night - more a full body search with sniffer dogs these days - but could see nothing that he could eat. So I was close to being distraught to discover bits of wrapper in his bed in the morning. Surely he wouldn't survive another assault on his digestive tract? Oh but he did! No ill effects at all. He's a dog after my own heart: a half bar of Ritters does me no end of good too, as long as I don't eat it too close to bedtime. So there we were, me havering about the wisdom of driving all the way to Cambridge with a dog who might be sick or worse, when his babysitter for the day reported being unwell. The posh lunch was postponed until next week, and I set about dragging the hoover around the house instead.

Today was much more fun. Nick arrived nice and early, the day was dry and warm, and he set to moving all the shrubs I've decided were in the wrong place, and planting others I've bought and stockpiled since. He shifted barrow loads of lovely soil, the result of all those turves we piled behind the summerhouse last year and covered with tarps. Talk about friable - you could have eaten it. Nick is beginning to feel his age like me, but he kept going for five hours until the sky darkened and drops of rain splashed on the pond's surface. He'll be back in a couple of weeks for another marathon, digging out the nettles behind the back fence, and generally tidying the back hedge. Another terrific man, Shaun, brother of the heroic Lee who ground out my hazel stump in a hurricane last year, is coming to drastically reduce the side hedge. It's taken me a while to decide that this is the best tactic. Last year I had it reduced by around 20 feet, probably the first time it's been so tamed, but if we'd only gone to another 10 feet I could have kept it under control myself. You live and learn. Or do you?

So, my hypericum has been clipped back hard and moved to the space where I always knew it should be, the crocosmia Lucifer has taken its place, a climbing rose and a lavatera have been planted in front of the big field maple, an abelia and a cystus with which I optimistically filled a space in the front garden but which disappeared from view never to be seen again until now, have been rescued and found new places near the woodshed. A slightly vulgar fuschia has been taken from its pot and put near the pond, and an orange montbretia shoved in the space behind the summerhouse where all the turves were stored. It's a wonderful achievement, one the old me would have taken in her single-handed stride but which the new me can only watch and admire. While Nick hurled his spade into the ground I wasn't exactly idle: I cut back dead and dying lupins, delphiniums, phlox and aquilegia, hauled at overgrowths of Johnson's Blue, clipped back the voraciously spreading vinca, and generally cleared and dead-headed. It's all relative.

I've finished The Huntingfield Paintress. I can't express how much I admired and enjoyed it. When Mildred Holland decided to paint the nave ceiling a few years after completing the one above the chancel she was already crippled with arthritis. She could barely get out of bed, and had to slide down the rectory staircase on her bottom every morning. Yet she insisted on being winched up three flights of scaffolding in a sling to the top of the church where, suffering from terrible vertigo as she always did as well as having agonising pains in her hips and hands, she lay on her back in the darkness and the bitter cold for three years and completed her incredible work. All of that time the church was closed and her husband the Rector and the villagers walked to the next village of Cookley for Sunday services. It was an act of massive charity on his part, and amazing tenacity and courage on hers. I'm hoping we can go and see it soon. I'm already awe-struck.

And finally: https://www.facebook.com/BeethovenOnlyBeethoven/videos/974039686057244/
Nothing makes me happier. It's not Beethoven though. It's Clementi's Sonatina in D Major. For my friend F.

Amazing Tales

We popped into the vet yesterday to put Hugo on the weighing scales. I've changed the components of his food around a bit over the months, dropped a sloppy brawn sausage that he was having when I first got him. It looked and smelled revolting though he seemed to like it, and had nothing nutritious in it. My anxiety was put to rest as he remains a healthy weight, and one look at him shows his condition. The young vet Ben came out while we were there, and dropped to his knees as always to let Hugo lick all over his face. "No more chocolate buddy," he said rubbing his tummy. He shook his head in disbelief when I told him the boy likes to eat acorns too, if I can't stop him quickly enough. They are highly toxic to dogs. The trouble is that when I tell him not to eat something like an acorn he doesn't realise the injunction applies to the next one he sees too. I'm surprised he hasn't put on pounds given the number of treats he's given by his foster parents Penny and Roger. Yesterday they greeted me with long faces, telling me he had been very bad, and then they broke into smiles as they described how he had stolen Roger's lunch baguette, still warm from the bakery. There it was, half eaten in his bed as he looked at them with long whippet face and doleful eyes which they can't resist (like me). Later in the evening I spotted the tube of tiny treats that are meant to cure bad breath (they don't) in his bed. I had only left the room for a minute. "Hugo," I said sternly. "What is this? Have you stolen your treats as well as a baguette?" He turned to look at me and then cast scornful eyes over his teddy lying beside him. Me? he seemed to say, turning his back in disgust. No, it was him.

Me? No, it was him

Look at the equisite shapes I throw

And how neatly I fold myself away

One of my obelisks has gone. Lesley and Dave came to take it away yesterday when I realised I had overdone it a bit by acquiring three. This one was painted a very light colour, and I realised the eye was immediately drawn to it like a bandaged thumb rather than it blending in with the surroundings. The garden looks much better now, and I'm sure they got home safely with it sticking out of the back of their car.

I'm reading a book called The Huntingfield Paintress, a fictionalised account of the real life wife of the rector of this village not half a dozen miles from here. In the middle of the 19th century she painted beautiful images on the entire surface of the church ceiling, lying on her back on flimsy scaffolding for seven years scandalising everyone around her. She was transgressive in the eyes of all but her husband and the archhitect engaged to help renovate the church. The paintings are a tourist attraction, and have recently been cleaned. Mildred Holland kept diaries and letters, and others retained her correspondence so there is much information to create a story around her incredible life. I've passed this church a hundred times, maybe a thousand, on my way to and from Halesworth and Norwich, but to my shame I have never been inside. When I've finished the book Ruth and I are going on a pilgrimage to see where she lived, the school she and her husband built, the cottages they provided at a very low rent for their poor unemployed parishioners, the Rectory which has been renamed Holland House, the footpaths she trod in bored and lonely desperation until she began her massive project. It makes the spirit soar to think about her courage and determination.

Girls

Hugo started to pant heavily as soon as we turned off the Aldeburgh road towards Snape, but this time I had taken precautions. He was wearing my old shrunken polo neck sweater firmly anchored in place by his harness, temporary substitutes for the swaddling bands I've ordered, recommended for easily stressed dogs. I think it worked because when I returned to the car nearly four hours later he was asleep and calmly watched me as I opened the door. The panting started up again when we were halfway home, but he soon recovered as we trotted down the lane for a last comfort break, manfully struggling along with his dangling sleeves. Once indoors and stripped of his covers he rolled around on the rug, legs kicking joyfully in the air. I didn't take any photos, it seemed too mean to prolong the embarrassment, but here he is in an earlier photo minus the harness.

The evening was nightmarish, a collection of great Suffolk bands with the biggest, loudest amplifiers imaginable. I already have tinnitus, a gift from an evening long ago when my then 15-year-old baby went to her first gig at the Pyramid Centre in Southsea and, fearful for her safety among the moshing crowd, I surreptitiously hid beside the gigantic amp, prepared to dash in and rescue her if the going got too rough. Next morning the tinnitus had set in and so it remains 22 years later, worsened considerably this morning. Thanks Snape.

My American friend Mike responded to my piece about mistakenly reading A Girl on A Train, and this is what he had to say about it:

Your comments on both A Girl on A Train AND The Girl on The Train were amusing.
And then, in today’s mail, I received the current issue of The New Yorker magazine.
There is a review of The Girl on The Train film by The NY’s Anthony Lane.  Let me, 
at a risk of boring you, quote from his review (The New Yorker, October 17, 2016):

“Half the sentient beings on earth appear to have read the book, alleging with near
unanimity that they couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t pick it up. I tried, frequently, but it always fell from my grasp, tugged down by the dead weight of its prose. The tale is set largely in a suburb on the Hudson [River], and nothing is duller or more stifling, as a rule, than people who wish to make it perfectly plain how stifled they feel by their dull suburban existence.

“Does it matter that the plot is so full of holes that you could use it to drain spaghetti? (For a more water-tight version consult Agatha Christie’s ‘4:50 From Paddington,’ in which a passenger—a chum of Miss Marple’s, thank heaven—sitting in one train spots a strangling in another.) Last, and least, there is the title. Whether there was an overt attempt by [the author] and then by the film-makers, to cash in on ‘Gone Girl,’ I cannot say, but in both cases an enfeebling example has been set. By any measure, the principal figure in both works are women, and to label them as girls is to taint them with childishness, as if they were easily cowed by circumstance or stormy feelings, and thus more liable to lash out, or to sink into a sulk, rather than submit their troubles to adult consideration. In 1942,
Katherine Hepburn starred in ‘Woman of the Year’ as a prize-winning political columnist. Try zipping back in time, telling Hepburn to rename the movie ‘Girl of the Year’ and see how far you get.”

Thanks Mike. I suspected as much. You've saved me from another boring read.

And lastly, I mowed the lawn yesterday and clipped the edges, and though we're halfway through October there is still plenty of colour, and I had to admit it looks darned good. It's a little over two years since the transformation from donkey paddock to garden began, so for the record here are the comparisons.

Hedges on L and R lopped right back, stables gone, donkeys gone!

Getting there

Spill The Beans

Shame on you

I came down yesterday morning, warm and flushed from my night with the electric blanket, to discover the remains of a cocoa tin in Hugo's bed. The lid was off, the tin lining had been chewed and peeled right back, dried powder on his cushion. Panic nearly blinding me, I tried to remember how much had been left when I made a mug of hot chocolate the night before. A third, maybe a quarter, and the tin contained 125g. That meant he had eaten at least 30g of highly concentrated chocolate, the most toxic of all varieties for dogs. I rang the vet who checked Hugo's weight from his last visit a month or so ago then gave the verdict that it was indeed a very high dose of poison but probably too late to do anything about it. I know from experience now that when he does his foraging around the kitchen he does it shortly after I've gone to bed. After that he sleeps too soundly to move. That meant he had eaten it around eight hours previously. I was told to watch out for anything suspicious and call back immediately. But there was Hugo, gazelle like in his grace and beauty, gobbling up his breakfast and avid for a walk. How could this be? I spent a very uncomfortable day alert to any changes in him but there were none. There could have been a completely different outcome, and I break into a sweat every time I think about it. I must never again leave anything out that he might take a fancy to and apply his brute strength to accessing, no matter how innocuous or impenetrable it seems to be. He might be my best friend, my soulmate, but he is still a dog.

The Evidence

I spent much of the afternoon with him stretched out beside me on the kitchen sofa, the Rayburn creating comfort where outside there was nothing but drizzle and chill. I was reading Girl On a Train because someone had told me it was very good and I'll probably see the film. But where was the female protagonist's alcoholism people kept talking about, the abuse, the memory loss? My version had none of that. My kindle told me I was 60% through and so far nothing more than a rum and coke had been consumed. I decided to google it, and that's when I discovered that I'm reading Girl on a Train by Alison Waines, not The Girl on The Train by Paula Hawkins. I'm not the only one. Alison must be laughing all the way to the bank thanks to the thousands of people worldwide who have made the same mistake. I did wonder. It's a thriller too, but not terribly good, not awfully interesting though enough of both to keep me going. I'll have to finish it now, and then I'll buy the best seller. Out of interest there is also The Girl From the Train by Irma Joubert. What is it about girls on trains, all written by women?

We went to see King Lear last night, Ruth and I, transmitted live from Stratford. It's a long play, two hours before the interval, so we had supplies: wine, coffee, sweets. I popped out at one stage to check on Hugo in the car and he was asleep. But I'd only been back a few minutes when the sound disappeared, and we watched the actors moving around on the stage with mouths opening and closing like fish. The stage had been pulled right through the stalls, and the audience lined its length. The silence made you focus on the choreography as the performers covered the whole space, weaving around each other, something I probably would not have noticed before. We waited for 20 minutes, and then one by one we got up and left. There will be a full refund. But will we ever get to see Anthony Sher strut his stuff live from the RSC? How sharper than a serpent's tooth is a rudely interrupted play.

New Home for the Lawnmower

Covered

Never Had It So Good

It was pheasants after all running down the lane the other evening. We came across them when we drove home yesterday, a whole gaggle of them scuttling in front of the car, strutting around with their heads held high on slender necks at the bottom of the hill. They are so tall that I can see why they resembled miniature people in the gloaming. Mystery solved. The day had been wet and a bit dismal, but we soon warmed the kitchen up with the Rayburn, and when we walked after Hugo's supper he wore his red waterproof coat lined with sheepskin to keep him cosy in the damp air, a gift from the rescue kennels. It's quite smart, but perhaps a bit big. I'm going to buy him a tweed coat for the winter, lovat green like the suit my devilishly handsome doctor nearly always wears. "God, do you think he's attractive?" asked Penelope when somehow or other we got onto the subject of ailments. "He gives me the creeps!" Not only are she and Roger having the boy while I go back to work on Friday, but they are "borrowing" him on Saturday when their son Jolyon and his girlfriend come for the weekend. Apparently these young people are desperate to meet Hugo, having heard so much about him. Well, I've been wanting to buy some new shoes and some daffodil bulbs, so I'll take advantage of that.

I went into the sitting room to watch Cold Feet, and had to wrap my fleece around my legs to keep warm, stubbornly refusing to put on the heating or light the woodburner. I was only in there for an hour, not worth it. But when I reached my bedroom later the chill hit me. In a flash I'd unearthed a pair of cosy winter pyjamas for the first time this year - beautifully ironed from the last time I wore them in the spring! - and rescued the electric blanket from its drawer. Within seconds of getting into bed I was toasty and smiling. It was a far cry from when I lived in London in the early 70s and shared a freezing bedroom in a South Ken flat. My roommate and I would ring each other if we were going to be home late, with instructions to get each other's blankets switched on. It used to take hours for them to warm up, but oh the pleasure when you'd strip off in a blast of icy air from the ill-fitting window and slither between those hot sheets. Nowadays you can get an instant flash of warmth if you wake in the night feeling cool, but let's not forget how hard things once were. Delayed-action electric blankets - now that's proper cruel. If I ran the government I'd issue an electric blanket to every elderly person in the land. Instead of suffering from the cold in the daytime when they didn't dare put the heating on they could at least get into bed for a while and get warm in a trice. They cost nothing to run, and would save lives.

I must be feeling better. I walked the whole way round the big field twice today and didn't struggle. But I've still had three too-long sleeps, and my head remains a bit sore and woozy. On the mend anyway. Definitely on the mend.

Morning

I jumped out of bed with a small spring in my step at seven on the dot this morning, and could tell at once through the open window that there was a nip in the air. And other cliches. So much easier than being original, but it's early. Hugo is hard to shift from his comfy sofa these mornings, and I had to whistle three times yesterday before he leapt up the stairs, not at all resentful finally at being disturbed. Gone are the days when he went crazy with delight just to hear some movement from upstairs, but I put that down to complacency, in a good way. He's feeling secure and settled, and that makes up for the absence of jubilation whenever he sees me. As I put the kettle on and open the newspaper online he gets back to his warm spot and feigns sleep again. People are always surprised at his laziness. They think whippets are on the go all day, charging hither and thither. No, they aren't. Two good walks, two good meals, and they will sleep for around 20 hours on and off.

It was time for the first guernsey of the autumn, and by the time we hit the field I was swathed in warm clothing. The air was crisp and fresh but there had been a heavy dew - rain even maybe - and wellies were needed. I like nothing better than tramping off on mornings like these when everything seems to be reborn. Late last night as we took our final comfort break the stars were eclipsed only by the very bright half moon, and I stood for ages looking up while Hugo followed his nose up and down the lane. We have to be very alert to the sound of cars as he's off the lead now, but he stops the second I call wait, and then runs to me on command. It may sound ridiculous, OTT like so much else that I feel, but my heart glows in my chest with the pride I feel for this dog.

... Und ...

We had a very late start this morning. I was singing Wagner all night so didn't get to sleep until the early hours, and we had only just got back from our walk when the Waitrose delivery man arrrived. Thirty two huge bottles of sparkling water in packs of four, weighing a ton. I don't know how I dared. Last time I ordered water in bulk it was a woman I know from the store who brought them, and I was so embarrassed.

I was singing and dreaming of Wagner because I saw Tristan und Isolde last night, and of course couldn't get the music out of my head. In fact I've just remembered I plan to play my recording today to see how it compares. It couldn't be better, and it's unlikely to be as good. But a strange thing happened as the performance began. No surtitles. A few people got up and went to report the fault, and the projectionist tried to retrieve them but to no avail. There was sighing in the half-empty cinema, mutterings, and hisses of Shhhhhh! Some people left. But after a few minutes I realised I didn't miss them, in fact I concentrated on the music and singing much more than I would have done with them popping up all the time. This came as a big surprise, surtitles being such a fantastic boon to opera-goers normally, and this is hard-core opera, not for the faint-hearted. OK, it was hard to follow the action, set as it seemed to be on a military ship with a lot of thuggish, muscled men threatening both Isolde and her maid Brangane with sexual violence, a million miles from the usual medieval knights and masted sailing ship. The staging was harsh and industrial, monochromatic like the singers' costumes - floor-length tweed overcoats? Huge boots? And that was just the women. Horrible.

But the music! I've seen this opera four or five times before and have never loved it as much as this. Sylvia, a fellow Snape usher, came and joined me in the interval and then remained in the seat behind me. "I'm walking out if they haven't come back in Act 2," she declared. "I might as well be listening on the radio." I told her I thought it was much better without but she didn't agree. The second act began and still the screen was bare. But the singing, oh, it was in a league I've rarely witnessed before. Nina Stemme was incredible, singing as she does constantly for most of the four and a half hours. Stuart Skelton was an almost unbelievably beautiful Tristan, plus the thrilling Ekaterina Gubenova and Renee Pape as the other two main characters. In the past I've always loved Act 3 best, but it was this middle act that just blew me away. I realised Sylvia hadn't moved, and in the next interval she was as amazed as me at how much better the experience had been without the surtitles. Come the third act, and it took a while to realise that they were back. But what a nuisance they were, what a distraction.

I don't think their absence would work for many operas, but it did for this one, with this cast. The music is as sublime as anything ever written, more so, and Wagner with his feet of clay was surely directly connected to the divine. There are many things in the world that inspire us to experience utter and complete perfection, pure unexpurgated joy. But I've never found one that does it as completely, as gloriously as this one.

Something Afoot

I've had my nose stuck in my Kindle nearly all day and felt a bit goggle-eyed when we stepped into the field for our last proper walk of the day. So the sight of two large hares cavorting a few yards away took me a while to take in, but luckily I hadn't released the boy before I twigged. Not in there then, so we turned the other way and walked down the lane. What we then saw confounded me so completely that I still have no idea what it was. The evening was heading towards dusk, my eyes trying to adjust to the change from cones to rods and the light correspondingly poor. Down the lane were several small figures - maybe a dozen - all walking away from us. What on earth were they? I struggled to focus, but they could have been anything, wood pigeons, pheasants, hares, even rabbits. It was such an odd sight as they moved along, sometimes going from side to side. Hugo was very interested but was still on the lead so could only stare like me. For a moment I wondered if they could be the little people, the Tuatha De Danann, as they were upright, not low on the ground like rats, and bigger anyway. In the growing gloom they straggled onwards, and reluctantly we turned back towards home. It really was the oddest sight. But passing the next field we spotted four huge hares - four! - gossiping on the edge of the stubble. How Hugo kept his cool through all of this I don't know but he was strangely subdued. Something was afoot out there this evening; not a full moon but we had a glimpse into a dimension we hadn't experienced before.

Hugo usually crashes out after this walk, even if it is still only 6pm. But this evening he followed me around the kitchen, and then settled on the sofa watching me, eyes following me everywhere. I'll admit it was a bit unnerving. "What's up?" I asked him a few times, but he continued looking at me, just watching. Eventually he fell asleep, but he knew something and he tried to tell me. Pity I don't speak Dog.

Who's a Pretty Boy?

I caught the end of a programme about a Yorkshire vet last night as I waited for National Treasure to begin. (He's guilty by the way, not just of violent acts against women but of deliberately driving a wedge of ice between his daughter and her mother the better to further his own ends. He'll be found not guilty of rape, I'm guessing, but they all know the truth anyway. What a chilling drama, really unnerving.) In the vet programme a jolly lady of late middle years was talking about finding the love of her life, her true soulmate, after ditching a disappointing husband some years ago. She and her new partner are blissfully happy, a right old Darby and Joan. And who was this paragon of companionship and amour? A crotchety green parrot, that's who. I thought she must be joking, but no, she shared her innermost thoughts with it, cooked wonderful meals, treated it like a king. The rude, aggressive, luridly-coloured thing that blew kisses at her and uttered pleasantries in exchange for treats was her idea of an ideal relationship. OK, I'm quite attached to Hugo, very attached. But he's not my friend, and if I ever start along the same road as this lady I would like to be taken outside and shot. I even have a gun. Just tell me when and I'll load it myself.

I walked around the whole of the big field with Hugo for the first time in weeks this morning, not too tired until the last lap but with the same throbbing head that rarely goes away. I keep waiting for a surge of energy - moderate will do fine - but it doesn't come. I missed Covent Garden's live broadcast of Norma last weekend, but I'm darned if I'll cancel the New York Met's Tristan this Saturday. As long as I can drive to Aldeburgh, all I'll have to do is sit tight for about five hours. It's not as if I'm singing. The wind has been lively and strong today, battering at the walls and windows of the summerhouse where Hugo and I lay on our separate day beds. I brought his travel bed out of the car for him for once, as I won't allow him on the cream chair cushions and the floor is not comfy when your shape is so bony and awkward. Not that he complains, but he popped into his padded space immediately with a sigh that could only have been of pure happiness. I wasn't being completely unselfish. When I try to sleep out there his constant shifting around, his grunts and twitches and the noisy banging of his head on the floor in the search for a soft spot keep jerking me awake. "Sit still," I tell him crossly, "stop fidgeting." Today there wasn't a peep out of him with the result that I slept for over an hour and a half without moving. Is there anything more blissful than lying back and letting yourself drift off? It's a hard feeling to beat, but I'd prefer to restrict it to night time only, and save my days for something a whole lot more useful. Are we there yet?

Company

Penny and Roger missed having Hugo yesterday when I was still unable to do my voluntary job. So they took him for the whole day today, overjoyed to see him again, and vice versa. It's such a happy arrangement for all concerned, another huge piece of luck in the grand scheme of things: "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world ..." etc. Fortune has smiled on me my whole life though there have been black looks too, and I can't complain. I don't complain. The funny thing was the emptiness after he'd gone, the first time I've been at home without him for over six months. I kept looking down at his bed, turning to see him follow me into the garden. When they brought him back I was in the summerhouse with Ruth and Lesley, just finishing a few hours of Italian conversation. Reunions with him are always wonderful. If you're in the garden he charges towards you at such speed that he ends up on the sofa, the farthest point from the gate. It was so good to see him, and they had had a lovely day with him, full of talk about all his antics and exploits.

Yesterday I was sprung from my metaphorical sick bed and taken to the beach. We bought a picnic lunch at Waitrose, Ruth and I, where we bumped into Helen just back from a holiday in Bulgaria. She'll be coming up later in the week, without the usual bottle of Prosecco I hope. Sizewell beach may be close to two nuclear power stations, but it is one of the very nicest places in Suffolk to walk. The greensward is soft and springy underfoot, and there are sand dunes and rabbit holes, loads of gorse with the scent of coconuts - Ambre Solaire - and always the sea crashing gently or fiercely onto the land. You can walk for miles in both directions, to RSPB Minsmere and Dunwich one way, and Thorpeness and Aldeburgh the other. I've loved this place since I discovered it nine years ago, and it's where Hugo can run wild and free with plenty of other dogs to play with. To this paradise I was driven, and while I sat in the car after we'd eaten, and watched the sea, Ruth took the boy off for a long stomp. I couldn't believe how invigorating the change was.

I think this horrible bug is receding. I'm definitely not feeling so awful though I'm still easily tired and sleeping a great deal in the daytime. We've managed to survive, this sweet black dog and me. I've never felt so dreadful that I couldn't take him into the field, even if I didn't wander very far and just watched him doing his thing. And people have helped, and walked him when they could. I can't imagine my life without him now. He's the best of companions, the dearest little boy. If only he could talk.

Daughters

As the mother of two girls, now happily way past the middle teenage years of experimenting with everything - clothes, hair, make-up, music, love, sex, self - I read this article by Caitlin Moran today with a lump in my throat. It's such a tricky passage to negotiate, the burgeoning physical maturity paired with a lack of experience that only time can provide. It needs so much encouragement, and trust, love and tolerance even when inside, and sometimes outside, you're screaming "No, no, no, you CAN'T go out looking like that!" Yet every physical manifestation however weird or wonderful is an expression of them, not you, and you marvel at their creativity, their imagination, and their courage to go against the grain and be different, to look amazing in unexpected or unsuitable ways. We had it all at one time or another, the teeny tiny skirts, Doc Martins painted fluorescent pink, oversized men's jackets and skimpy tops, kohl-black eyes and garish lipsticks, caked-on foundation. They have to find their own level, discover who they are, what kind of things they like, what type of person they want to be, what their boundaries are. It ain't easy, as any parent of adolescent daughters will testify. But it's absolutely fascinating, watching them grow out of childhood, listening to their arguments, agreeing with them when you can and countering them when you think it wise. Oh, they teach you so much, these young women who may appear to be sure of themselves but are really testing everything, especially you. If they're half scared of their developing bodies and the power they bring, it's nothing on your fear for them. But your pride when they turn into unique individuals with principles you admire and skills you envy, that's the reward. So thank you Caitlin, you mother superior you.

http://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/caitlin-moran-listen-up-girls-m6jrlz82p

And just in case that link doesn't work with the pay-as-you-go Times website, here it is in full for the record:
“Mum, how do I look?”
I look my daughter up and down. She’s wearing mum jeans with turn-ups, brogues, a shirt printed with spaceships, and a second-hand, bottle-green Burberry mac she found in a charity shop. She recently dyed her hair white-blonde, and she’s wearing a Second World War-style red lipstick. She looks like Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits, about to visit a library to borrow The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I could not be more proud of this look.
She looks so wonderful, in fact, that I am going to crack out one of my two peak descriptors.
“Ah man, that looks ace. You look really, really … comfortable.”
Her face immediately takes on the unmistakable expression of a 15-year-old girl who is sorely disappointed by her mother. For those who don’t have 15-year-old daughters, and have never seen this expression, let me assure you: you’ll know it when you see it. Nature has designed it to be distinct.
She leaves the room. I hear her go up to talk to her younger sister.
“ … And she said, ‘Ooooh, that looks comfortable,’ ” I hear her relate.
“Oh God, I know,” her younger sister commiserates. “Yesterday, when I asked her what she thought of what I was wearing, she said, ‘Oh, that is jolly.’ ”
Lovely girls, let me tell you why I will never call you “hot”, “on fleek” or “bang on trend”. Let me tell you why “comfortable” and “jolly” are the two best things a young woman can be told she looks.
By and large, being in possession of a female body is not a comfortable thing. Onto your basic skeleton, Nature has strapped two wibbly-wobbly hassle magnets (your breasts), and inserted some mad blood cupboard in thrall to the Moon, which explodes every 30 days or so (your uterus). Nature has also made you a couple of inches smaller than the half of the population that generally invents things – so you’ll spend your whole life putting your back out trying to lift cases into luggage racks, and using kitchen worktops so high you feel like an Oompa-Loompa.
The majority of your clothes revolve around items that function by way of a textile sudoku: they will tax your ability to puzzle abstract concepts to the limit. Remember the first time you tried to work out how to fasten a bra clasp, putting your arm sockets in a stress position more commonly used in torture? Or the first time you put on Spanx, an experience not unlike trying to punch a gigantic flesh balloon into a compression sock?
I’m also going to say “crotch poppers” here – not a special kind of amyl nitrate, but an ingenious device that allows the fumble-fingered to staple their genitals with a snap fastener while in the toilets of a nightclub.
On top of this: bodycon dresses! Stack heels! The Daily Mail’s Sidebar of Shame! Waist trainers! Thongs!
In a world so loaded against female physical comfort – in a world where this word is never mentioned on fashion websites, in women’s magazines or even in conversation – instinctively to discover and embrace comfort shows you at your best: confident.
At ease. Finding your own things. That’s why “comfortable” is one of the two greatest descriptors of what a woman is wearing.
And “jolly”? Why is “jolly” good? Because “jolly” shows you’re choosing happiness as the main thing you project. It shows how clever you are, beautiful young girl – that, because science makes you happy, you want a shirt covered in spaceships. That you love old Hollywood – but the Marilyn you chose is in jeans, in Nevada, rather than drunk, fragile and unhappy in an evening gown. That you’re happier picking through a charity shop for an old Eighties coat – with your headphones on, listening to Joni Mitchell; I saw you through the window – than wishing for a credit card, or buying sweatshop tat. That you think your mouth is pretty – it is – and that is why you have painted it the colour of hard cherries.
“Jolly” means that, against all the odds, you radiate joy that you are you. The odds are stacked against you at 15 – your brain’s rewiring; your unwritten future presses down on you with all the terror and excitement with which the blank screen and the flashing cursor burden the novelist; you still haven’t worked out exactly how you sign your name. I have seen the notepads where you practise a dozen signatures, over and over again. But you like your foundations. You have a vague idea where you’re heading. And that your instinct – your bright, correct instinct – is that the person who enjoys that journey most is not coquettish, “red-carpet ready” or heroin chic, but just … “comfortable”. “Jolly.” She turns her face to the sun, and smiles.