Fit For Purpose

My new personal trainer, Mary, came over today to meet me and assess me. She quizzed me about my health, my fitness, the sort of exercise I like and don't. We ran through my past sporting activities, and I as I listed them I could scarcely believe the decline in my physical enterprises. I used to play tennis, squash, racquet ball and table tennis, even rounders a few years ago with an adult team. I went cycling, did sprinting, circuit training and weight training. Walking on fells and downs took in long distances and extremes of heights. We used to ascend peaks in the Lake District, happy to be using strength, stamina and agility. But there's no point in looking back. Mary and I are going to do boxing, table tennis when the weather is nice, and lots of building up of muscles. We're starting on Thursday. I'm very excited. God, do I need this now.

Hugo looked on with popping eyes as I was put through some paces on the stepping board. She's finally gone mad, he seemed to say. Wait till he sees me in my boxing gloves punching into Mary's defended hands.

I cracked another problem today. The boy is a reluctant drinker at the best of times, and when we've been out on long summer walks he won't touch his water no matter how thirsty he is. But I've worked out how to take my dog to water and get him to drink. I show him the milk bottle, I let him see me pour a little into his bowl of water, and the entire contents disappear in a flash. He's such a greedy little scamp he doesn't realise there's a lower substance to aqua ratio than there is in homeopathic remedies. There's a downside of course, a direct correlation between input and output. But we don't mind popping outside, especially when the weather is as nice as it was today. Another cracker.

Taking Action

I have a personal trainer! Well, if your bones are crumbling to dust you need to look sharpish at your muscles. Puny legs and floppy core won't cut the mustard when you're teetering on the cliff's edge and one false move means you're over the top. I exaggerate, but I feel a strong urge to toughen my body up, the bits I can anyway. A horrible episode the evening after I began taking the very powerful meds that rebuild bone density left me feeling very shaken, and I've been walking with a tall stave ever since, a long slim branch of a tree. It's not like a walking stick: I'm not disabled. But it gives me confidence and I rather like striding about the fields and lanes like a shepherdess minus the flock.

I woke this morning to a white world, the heaviest frost so far and it's finally done for the dahlias which can now be safely lifted and stored. I slept deeply and heavily but Hugo was still curled up in a cosy ball when I emerged after 8am, both of us blinking at each other. How can he possibly need so much rest? He's back to getting down from his sofa and greeting me like a long-lost friend after a period of just opening an eye, wagging his tail a fraction and going back to sleep. But why does he always choose to shake his head wildly the moment I bend to kiss him? It hurts, the whiplash of ears flicking across your cheeks, but neither one of us ever anticipates it. I realised his coat was in the car when we set off for our walk, so he stood in the sun beside the garage door as I retrieved it. But he was trembling all over despite the warmth, his poor thinly covered body reacting to the chill in the air like a highly-strung racehorse. I quickly buckled him into his sheepskin and rubbed him all over until he was cosy and we set off. He seemed impervious to the frost-hoared grass, cantering along and stopping to sniff as usual. We both often paused to look, him for hares or other quarry, me to take it all in and file it neatly under Things To Recall in January. I just hope my filing system works in two months and I can retrieve the sense of pure joy I relished today.

Stars Gazing

We finally made it to Huntingfield today, and it was everything I expected and more. We began in the pub, the Huntingfield Arms where, at the risk of sounding like Jay Rayner, I had a traditional roast beef lunch with all the trimmings including eye-watering home-made horseradish sauce, washed down with a pint of Adnams and Ruth the vegetarian opted for the beetroot bourguignon and same bevy. I brought Hugo's bed and tucked it behind my chair where he curled up and watched everyone through one sleepy eye. People couldn't get over him. "What a beautiful little greyhound," said one man who went on to rave about him and try to draw us into conversation all through lunch even though we were deeply engrossed in an engaging and thoroughly scandalous bit of social analysis, or gossip as baser people might call it. Others joined in with him, and we allowed ourselves to be interrupted, Ruth the sometime caretaker taking as much pride in the praise as me. "I couldn't bring my dog to somewhere like this as he certainly wouldn't be so well-behaved," said one stout matron who looked as if she might try to snatch him, and her friends all agreed so heartily with her that we wondered what on earth her dog could be like.

Lunch eaten, goodbyes said to Hugo, we set off for the church around half a mile away. I wish I'd brought my camera. The church, the old school built by the Reverend Holland and the rectory were all there as imagined but more so, almost like a film set I'd wandered onto. I've always been a bit star struck. As a cub reporter on the North London Herald group of newspapers I was sent to review a musical put on by a local college, The Threepenny Opera I seem to remember. The next day I happened to be in town when I spotted some of the players from the night before. I could scarcely believe that they were walking the same pavement as me. And it felt the same when we entered the church and gazed up at the ceiling decorated so exuberantly by Mildred Holland all those years ago. She really did accomplish this Herculean task, to such beautiful effect, lying on her back on high scaffolding in the freezing cold for seven long years. It really was an amazing feat, much more spectacular than that of Michaelangelo centuries before because he at least had the bright Roman light, and the warmth of the sun to make his job less punishing. I wish I had known Mildred. I'd have been inspired by her and if nothing else might have performed routine household duties on a regular basis. The work is stunning and I could have gazed all afternoon but we finally ran out of pound coins to operate the bright lights.

Next we walked through the churchyard to look at the rectory, now called Holland House, and there were the clipped yews, the stables over which she had her studio, and the attic windows she stared out of when she was feeling lonely. New owners bought and renovated the house nearly fifteen years ago, and it now boasts the sort of comforts - central heating, soft carpets, draught-proof double-glazed windows - that would have warmed and cheered her poor arthritic body. We took the path through the woods behind the house, and followed the stream for several miles before ending up back in the village. The track was thickly covered in bright dry autumn leaves, and while Hugo happily pottered along ahead of us, sniffing and listening but never running off, we kicked and scattered the leaves like kids. I've loaned out my copy of The Huntingfield Paintress so couldn't identify the particular old cottages and shops, though we found the blacksmiths. But I'll be back. There'll be no more trips to the sea for my visitors in future. It's to Huntingfield we shall go and I shall tell them the remarkable story of Mildred Holland who defied Victorian conventions, donned a paid of man's trousers and set about bringing the beauty of the Baroque to a simple Suffolk village church. Amen to that.

Liberation

I'm feeling elated, and not just because of the peach of a day. I left the boy alone for two hours while I went to the hairdressers, the third time I've done it, and he was fine. He was fine! I never thought I would write those words. I can't even begin to convey how liberating this feels, for him as well as me. Now he doesn't always have to sit in the back of the car while I do Waitrose, or the garden centre, and then pant all over me with his horrible breath and cry all the way home. I might even be able to build up to a cinema visit, or a short ushering at Snape. It's taken eight months but now he feels reasonably secure on his own, though I get a rapturous reception when I get home. The experts say you should minimise the fuss when you return, get them to think it's nothing special when they stay on their own for a long time, but I don't agree. He and I both know it's a big deal, and I refuse to downplay his achievement. I suppose that no dog wants to be left alone, and that's where I've come unstuck in the past. If he didn't like something I thought he shouldn't have to do it. But I can't restrict my life like that, and he's showing me that he can do it. He's lying beside me on the sofa now with his head and paws on my lap, staking his claim. And that's just fine by me. He's my big boy.

I took this photo of the wisteria on the front of the house this morning, the leaves burnished gold and tenacious. I don't remember them lasting so long before. Funny to think that in just over four months they'll be starting the cycle again, fresh green pricking through the old stems. That's really not long to wait. Hope springs eternal.

Colours

It's a tawny world out there still, the hedges and trees clinging on to their bronzed foliage like grim death. Even the newly ploughed and harrowed field near us has been scattered with autumnal leaves which bring a gaity to the sombre brown. It's beautiful, as if the earth can't quite yet yield to the pull of winter though November is nearly over. The winds are trying hard to do their job of stripping the glamorous colours away but they aren't winning yet. Walking out on these bright mornings and afternoon is such a joyful experience, the air clear and chill and the sky a lucid blue. Hugo was skittish at 8am, charging ahead and then flying back to me in an exhilarated burst of spontaneity. It's impossible not to smile - laugh even - at his antics. How I wish I had his energy.

Bearing in mind that I currently have a table and chairs for sale on Ebay, I had a disturbing session with a client this morning who was taken to the cleaners by a fraudulent seller. She bought an ex-rental hot tub for £850, and at the seller's request cancelled the Paypal payment and did a direct bank transfer instead. The thing was delivered but it was useless, and the man has since moved on, changed companies, changed phone numbers. She's unlikely to ever see her money again. OK, that was a bit gullible, but I've decided that if anyone wants my goods they can hand me cash when they collect them. I'm not falling for any scams. Chatting in the office afterwards everyone had a story of a client they had seen who had innocently handed over huge sums of money for nothing in return. I suppose we all want to think the best of each other, but you can't do that these days, not online anyway. Lesson learned, my lady went away with a form for the Small Claims Court but not much hope. It was really chastening.

Strengths and Weaknesses

I've been feeling distinctly wobbily since my diagnosis of severe osteoporosis last week. Held together with string and selotape, that's what it feels like. So it's weekly drugs for the next five years if the side effects aren't too awful, and lots of exercise like brisk walking and gentle weight training. I probably won't end up folded completely over, and I'll do my best not to fall and break something. Anyway, after a visit to the gorgeous Dr Wright this morning - lovat green tweed suit, no checks, purple striped shirt, purple patterned tie, the man has style as well as an handsome smiling face - I decided to seize the day, begin my new routine and go for a long stomp up and down the lanes, load-bearing heaven. It's not as if this doesn't happen every day anyway, but I have to be DOING something positive.The afternoon was just glorious, sunny and very windy, and we admired the remaining copper leaves still attached to the trees and hedges though most went in the overnight gales. Hugo was excited by the strong breezes and bounced along with ears erect and nose high in the air, searching every field with laser eyes for hares, squirrels, rabbits or birds, anything to give him an excuse to gallop off. He looks so self-important in this mode he makes me laugh. He didn't find anything luckily. Washing his feet, legs and undercarriage is not something I want to do too often, and lifting him into the bath is out of the question now.

The new kitchen table and chairs underwent a trial run on Sunday and acquitted themselves admirably. I should have changed the other one years ago; it's always been a bugbear for me. It was too small, though we did have a long dining table then too. It's on ebay now, beautiful photos taken to show it at its best, and hopefully someone will buy it. In the meantime the garage is housing it and its uncomfortable chairs. Good riddance I say. About time. And just in time for heavy use at Christmas.

On Saturday Nick arrived with his axe strapped to his bike, and worked like a beaver. He whistled through the front garden cutting down all the dead perennials, and trundled all the detritus around to the field behind the garden. As soon as there's a long dry spell I'll be out making fire again. He cleared out the excesses too, the extravagant overabundance of Japanese anemones and echinops and bergenia that are nice in small doses but not so appealing when they barge into other plants' spaces and take over. He also chopped a big pile of wood into neat logs, and helped me move some furniture. Now there are just millions of amber leaves waiting to be collected, and that's be a job I'll enjoy when they dry up a bit.

There's biblical sky again this afternoon, scudding low cloud backdropped by high, heavy pewter but relieved by a huge expanse of blue beneath. There's such power out there, such unrestrained force. It does put things in perspective. And I needed that today.

Flares

Wearing his little rubber boot hasn't slowed Hugo down at all. This morning was so gorgeous I decided he could manage the fields, and he soon made up for lost exercise of the vigorous kind. It's not exactly a well-fitting bit of footwear, being designed for a bigger dog with a round foot and a fat leg, but he's managed really well. I tie a bandage around the pads before attaching the boot, to minimise friction, and all I could hear as he ran backwards and forwards was a kind of a squelch, a flump. It reminded me of the time many years ago when we were followed through the woods by a man playing with his exposed organ, swinging it enthusiastically from side to side. Anyway, It was a relief to be on the hoof again for both of us. A bit later I went off to Earl Soham to have my flu jab and left Hugo behind. I was gone an hour or so, and he hadn't wrecked the place, or gone mad with anxiety. What he did do was stick close to me, no matter how often I moved from room to room. That is until Sammy arrived whereupon he threw himself at her and stuck to her like glue, forcing her to stroke him for hours. I took a picture of the two of them together, Hugo sitting upright beside her on the sofa like a sphynx.

Before she came I decided to rearrange the furniture a bit. With Christmas coming I have to find a way for everyone to be able to see the television, mantlepiece notwithstanding, so I removed the cabinet which supports it. Next I brought down the bookcase from the spare room to replace it, denuded of books natch, but it didn't look right. So then I stripped another display case of its CDs and tried that, and it worked better. It isn't permanent, but it will do until the new year.

Sammy was brimming with ideas for the garden, but once we were indoors again, Hugo comfortably settled on top of her, she really came into her own. I showed her my father's RAF records and she was able to tell me exactly what all the entries meant. Apparently he was part of the elite Pathfinders Force which went ahead of the bombers and lit up the route to the sites to be bombed. Sammy's father was an RAF pilot, and she was a career RAF officer too. She's already investigated his wartime experiences. It was very enlightening.

The boy and I had a late walk when Sammy had gone, darkness already having descended. He skipped and hopped along the lane, squelch, flump, but it was evening and there were too many cars around to be comfortable. We only went as far as third oak and skeetered back indoors. Too late for a walk, but my goodness, so early to be hunkering down. I suppose we get used to it.

Joining In

My weekend visitor went home today. No more tea in bed in the morning, and cosy chats about this and that until hunger forced us up. Hugo was not going to be left out, and so we spread my navy blue dressing gown on the duvet between us and he practically hit his head on the ceiling in his eagerness to join us. He hasn't been very well behaved, oh no. The first few nights he settled on his sofa as usual when we said goodnight, but minutes later he was bounding up the stairs, tail wagging and legs dancing delightedly. "You forgot about me," he said joyously. "But it's OK, I remembered!" We laughed at him, but sent him back to the kitchen. He couldn't believe it. Down two steps he'd go, then he'd look back expecting a reprieve, and so on all the way down. At the bottom he galloped back up again, only to have to repeat the performance. Oh, the disappointment. Last night he got his revenge. When I opened my door in the morning he ran out of the empty bedroom to surprise me. "See me," he said. "I'm here. I've been here all night!" And when we examined the bed he had not only been on it but in it, head resting comfortably on the pillow. The light sprinkling of short black hairs showed where he had slept. "I think I'll sleep there in future," he told me seriously, "then you won't have to worry about being up here alone." Oh no you won't Hugo. I'm remembering to close all the bedroom doors in future.

Modelling knitwear in the bathroom, very niche

Our walks have been very limited because of the sore paw, but it's healing rapidly, and so we went down to the bottom of the hill this evening after his feed. He had his shoe on, and it didn't seem to bother him. At 4.30pm the light was already fading fast. It felt so good to be out, striding along the silent lane, when suddenly a barn owl swooped low over our heads, huge wings sweeping the air so close we could feel the draught. It curled around in front of us and glided past again, this time a little farther away. It's all part of the rich pattern of the countryside, one of its many delights. Hugo took no notice, but I allowed myself a long admiring stare. We'll have to set out on our walks earlier and earlier as winter approaches and engulfs us. Roll on those long, lazy summer evenings when the sky is literally the limit.

Stages

I'm reading, inter alia, A God in Ruins by Kate Atkinson: this is my bedroom book but I have three others on the go as well, in different rooms. A God in Ruins follows on from Life After Life and covers many of the same people, especially the heroic, the lovely, the truly decent Teddy. One-word reviews on my paperback edition include 'Magnificent', 'Heartbreaking', Breathtaking' and 'Dazzling', and they do not exaggerate. It's a wholly absorbing book, luckily very lengthy, and its only mild irritation is its temporal agility. Completely absorbed in Teddy's wartime experiences as an RAF pilot, you turn a page to find the next chapter covers the present day, and vice versa. It only annoys for a second because both periods are fascinating, emotionally inclusive. Anyway, steeped as I have been in the exploits of the Halifax bomber Teddy and his crew are flying, I find myself thinking again about my father, a rear gunner in an Avro Lancaster. Bomber crews didn't stand much chance of surviving even one tour which consisted of 30 missions. Thousands upon thousands of them lie rotting at the bottom of the North Sea or are buried all over Europe. Or not. Many died on landing when their shattered planes crashed, or on training flights. The figures are staggering. But among all the statistics one stands out for me: only one in four rear gunners survived. My father didn't talk much about his experiences, but if certain German cities were ever mentioned - Dresden and Hamburg chief amongst them - he would say ruefully "We dropped a load on them". We didn't ask and he didn't tell. How I wish I still had the chance.

I've got his wartime records, and on sudden inspiration I decided to ask Roger if he could help me interpret them. Roger was a career RAF officer, but he said the records only showed his postings and I needed my father's log book to see how many missions he went on, and their destination. Alas I don't know its whereabouts.

On a different tack I have a real wounded soldier on my hands. Hugo has a sore foot, probably caused when he careered wildly around Sizewell beach with his friends last week. He's had cream and bandages applied when he's gone for short comfort breaks, but today Ben the sweet vet checked it over and it's healing nicely. On the way home I stopped at the pet shop and bought him a rubber shoe that rises up his skinny leg and is held in place with velcro. He did very well this evening, limping at first but then trotting confidently. He has to be the most accommodating dog ever.

That Time of Year

It always oozes gunk into the oven. I never know when it's cooked because, since 2006, I haven't had a stove I can trust. I take it out, I poke it anxiously, then lovingly wrap it in folds of greaseproof paper and tinfoil, only opening it over the next weeks to pour brandy through forked spikes. Then the burnt-on gunk has to be scraped from the oven, which close proximity forces me to examine the whole Rayburn and see that the enamel needs cleaning, every bit of it wanting some spit and polish. But the payoff for all this labour is the 'lickies', as we used to call them (still call them) which I share with Hugo this year - spoons, bowls, knives, mixers, bowls, more bowls. I put the scruffy, much scribbled-on recipe away for another year. What is it? It's the Christmas cake. It's that time of the year again.

Before, too high

Shaggy drive

Shaun IN the hedge, standing on sawn-off stumps WITH A CHAIN SAW!

Lee clearing the detritus halfway through

Glorious autumn colours

The same bed a year ago

The same bed 2 years ago, the garden newly created

Neatly shorn by Shaun

No more wild brambles to fight through

The men came yesterday to cut down the hedge, brothers Shaun and Lee. There's nothing as pleasing as the sight of a man up a ladder with a chainsaw making mincemeat of a horrible job. They came late and didn't finish so had to return today, but what a difference they've made. Often in the summer, at around 9pm at the end of a lovely day, the field behind me is still in sunshine while the garden is in shadow. I know it's nit-picking since I have a garden with no shade at all for the vast majority of the day, but that last half hour grieves me. Now with my shortened hedge I'll have sun until minutes before it sets. It changes the look of the garden though, makes it look a bit suburban. But I'll get used to it. And best of all I can trim it myself now to keep it in shape, though I'd love to own the extra long hedge cutters they used that just sweep up and down with smooth swipes to leave a lovely surface.

We walked at Sizewell after the men had gone, expecting gales and maybe rain but instead finding the coast to be cold but calm, and not so chilly when the sun came out and spread its rays all around us. The sea was like a millpool. The dogs were delighted to see each other and charged around madly, Hugo by far the fleetest. By the time we got back to the car there were loads of them including a small black and grey dappled German pointer who once I would have given my lower set of teeth for, but out of loyalty to Hugo I tried not to make a grab for him. After a cup of tea at Sammy's I stopped off at the Walled Garden centre and bought my last two shrubs of the year, a lacecap hydrangea and a very pretty emerald-leafed fuschia. They will be just right for the focal points I have saved.

Blowin' in the Wind

It's a gorgeous day so far, fluffy high clouds scudding along in the strong wind with the sun so warm I had to take my jacket off to rake up the leaves. Tomorrow the men are coming to cut down my hedge by several feet. I had hoped they'd get here before the gales stripped the trees bare but alas not: according to the weather forecast they are due later tonight. It doesn't matter. I just pray that an emergency doesn't occur in the meantime - trees across roads requiring their removal would be the most likely - to prevent them coming at all.

Five slates missing from the left

We had a really lovely day yesterday, mostly just the two of us. If you had told me four years ago that I would revel in such a day I would have glared at you with blazing eyes and told you not to be ridiculous. What could anyone else possibly know about loneliness, in my case the irrational fear of abandonment? Desentisization therapy works by gradual introduction to and eventual emersion in the thing you fear, and I suppose this is exactly how it happened for me. I wasn't suddenly alone, and I had massive support when I did move into my own house. To begin with I obsessively organised every weekend, the thought of one without company just too horrifying to contemplate. To my amazement I don't mind now, most of the time. Tony came early to affix the stones to the edge of the pond. A few of them kept sliding in when Hugo bent down for a drink in the summer, and they allowed earth to seep through as well when the rains were heavy. I had emptied the pond and cleared the space with Ruth's help, the stones neatly arranged on the grass. How was it then that when Tony came to put them in place there weren't enough? From photographs I counted exactly the same number. Misterioso. I dashed off to the garden centre I bought them from but they had sold out. Bleedin' typical! But it's OK, chillax, they will be in again in a few weeks and Tony will return to finish the job.

Can we go now, pleeeeeze?

Well, I'm off

When he'd gone we pithered and pottered, some ironing got done, some Italian was revised, and some cooking was conjured, the heating making the house cosy and the sun still shining until it was time for a late afternoon walk. With light rain falling and strong winds blowing we both wrapped up well and set off across the fields. Hugo ignored the mild confines of his red coat to charge after a hare, a nimble, speedy one this time, and he was gone for nearly half an hour. Back home, I got in the car to hunt him down when I spotted him creeping along the farm track. Oh, we were pleased to see each other. He hadn't been in danger, running away from where any traffic might be. Without stopping to check how muddy he was I shoved him into the boot with three huge bags of compost, slammed the lid down and hurried home. He was too exhausted to protest. Once he was clean, dry and fed we hunkered down in front of the woodburner, thorougly relaxed. A very nice day indeed.

I listened to Ali Smith on Desert Island Discs this morning. I don't know exactly why but I found her story terribly moving. As she finished I realised that, of all the people I have admired during my life, she is the one I would most like to be. She's a genius, but it's not just that. She truly lives life, and she lives life truly. You can't say that about many people.

Looking Back

I have to admit to a sneaking concern that, if push came to shove, whatever that means, Hugo would choose Penny and Roger over me. They feed him delicious food when they have charge of him for goodness sake. What dog in its right mind would pick the person who sticks to the book when it comes to mealtimes and only occasionally provides treats? This boy would go to the ends of the earth for you, just for love. But that was before tasty titbits entered the equation. Today I returned early to collect him but he was out walking with Penny. Roger and I sat chatting for 20 minutes or so before they returned, whereupon the lad threw himself at me in paroxysms of delight, and refused even to countenance Roger. I was slightly embarrassed at his reluctance, but secretly thrilled that I am still number one in his eyes. He's my boy! The bond is stronger than lovely treats!

Yesterday we walked alongside the sugar beet field where the microlight aircraft had lost its engine. No fewer than five tractors were making short work of the task of uprooting the beets and preparing the field for the next crop. I was fascinated by the conveyor belt that raised them from the earth, shrugged the mud off them and deposited them in a cage to be offloaded into a truck, thence to be conveyed to the Tate and Lyle factory in Bury St Edmunds. I was so busy watching that I failed to notice the hare until Hugo was 20 feet or so away from it. Nor had the hare seen the dog it seemed. Off they tore, Hugo so close he was almost touching it. Over the horizon they raced, down the hill to the valley below, then back again past me by which time Hugo was slowing a litle and the hare was getting away. Through the hedge they pelted, across the lane - heart-stopping moment for me - then off across another series of fields before they came back again. I rushed to the lane to try to head him off but he was nowhere to be seen. Back at the house I spotted his brave little black body running towards me. What could I do? I patted him, praised him extravagantly and hooked him onto his lead again. He must be getting fitter with all this racing as he was barely panting. It's a fine balance, letting him off the lead. I think it's vital that he has that freedom to run, and have to weigh that against the very small risk of him running in front of a car. What is life if you're not free? I know the answer to that, and it applies to him as much a me.

Last night I relayed the tale of the microlight to my neighbour Sarah who came over for a drink, and she knows the owners. I've been trying to contact them for days to tell them where their machine part is without success. But she promised to pass on its whereabouts, or its ex-whereabouts given that it must have been discovered by the farmer when the field was cleared. Sarah is as much in love with this place as I am. She moved across the lane just a few months before me, and has been a wonderful neighbour and friend. We're going to record the lives of as many locals as we can before they all disappear for good. Sarah was a BBC camerawoman, and she has all the equipment still. Together we drool over what we know of the village history, and the role its inhabitants played in times past. We can't get enough of it. Soft pair of dates, we are. But whatever makes you happy.