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?