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.