Christmas, Happy

Christmas, with all its heightened expectations, loaded associations and potential for deep disappointment. Is it worth the effort, the work, the preparations and the money, the nostalgic dreams of perfection? Yes, it is! In spades! They came in droves on the 23rd, and some of them are still here, lingering for just another day, and then another. God, we've had fun, we've reminisced and made plans, we've played games, and gone on long walks, visited the sea, and the old church in Huntingfield with its painted roof, and we've fought for tables in crowded pubs to fulfill Boxing Day and other traditions. Star of the entire procedings, every day and for every visitor, has been Hugo. He's been worshipped, glorified, beatified, sanctified, and through all the attention he's been perfect, loving everyone equally. What he'll do when the last one has gone heaven only knows. And what I'll do without my morning cup of tea in bed I don't know either. But too much has happened to remember so I'll stick in some photos instead of words. Happy Noo Yeah!

Taking a breather from roasting the turkey

Tom and Olivia in the sunset

Traditional Christmas spread

Daughters and selfies

Sisters from behind

And the front

Daughters

Sisters again

Hugo on the morning bed

Tricia talking to Hugo

Frosty Morning

Family Shadows

Hugo Church Lookalike

Another meal

Kitty pouring

With John in Walberswick

Walking in the Sunshine

Is John Asleep?

On Walberswick Beach

John and HugoSaying Goodbye

The aftermath

Found in Hugo's bed when we went out for a few minutes, stolen from Olivia's bag, some of her stocking fillers including chocolate pennies

Surprises

Two Christmas drinks parties down and I was looking forward to my third today, back in Wilby where I would reconnect with old neighbours. When Judy rang last night I thought she might want me to bring something she'd forgotten to buy. "Where were you yesterday?" she asked, her cut-glass voice making the phone sing. Odd question, I thought, but I gave her a quick resume of my activities. "Then why didn't you come to our party?" What? What? "But it's tomorrow, I'm coming tomorrow," I said thinking, oh dear, she's losing the plot. "It was today, and you were missed. Only you, and Roland and James, didn't turn up. Everyone was asking about you." I struggled to think. How could I have got this wrong? But of course it's one of the perils of changing to a new diary which doeesn't begin until 23rd December; you memorise the last few days from the old and move on to the new. Or fail to memorise them correctly in my case. I grovelled, I apologised, and Judy laughed. She's a very nice woman. "Come to lunch tomorrow then," she invited. "The dog's bed is still here waiting for you." So no more champagne for me until Friday at the very earliest. Their parties are famous for the generous quantities of the golden nectar that they used to bring back in the car by the caseload when they went skiing in France every year. David has found another source now they no longer ski, and it still flows. Perhaps there'll be an opened bottle in the fridge.

We walked in crisp sunshine this morning, the sky completely clear apart from three planes on the same trajectory presumably heading for Stansted, or Lu'on. Yesterday as we drove on the back lanes to Snape we passed a field of dazzling emerald brightness, and there in the centre in sharp contrast to the green was a cluster of white swans, a group of fourteen grazing on the new growth. It was such a surprising sight that I had to stop and stare. No camera to hand of course, but the memory is vivid in my brain.

Ouch

As I stretched to reach a high shelf in Waitrose this afternoon I felt something land on my shoe, and it was a sock that had remained in my trousers overnight and managed to wriggle its way out. I had to pick it up oh so casually, open my bag slowly, slowly, and then pop it away with an air of complete indifference. Or is that how seasoned shoplifters secrete their stolen wares? I think the store was too busy for the staff to detect a wrong 'un, but I felt as guilty as if I were being filmed thieving. It's not as if it's the first time it's happened. Standing on the platform at Gloucester Road tube station waiting to go to work one morning I felt something moving down my leg, but it wasn't until I was seated opposite a whole row of passengers that it actually emerged. I think they were mostly Australians with huge backpacks who had got on at Earls Court, so that probably didn't weigh too heavily on he embarrassment scales. But still. Shake and hang will be my new year's mantra.

There are few nicer things as the evening deepens than to remember that you have half a takeaway Indian meal in your fridge left over from yesterday. As Christmas nears with all its intense focus on food and menus I find that routine cooking just becomes tedious, so I give up for a few days. I've got a Charlie Bigham for tomorrow night, lasagne I think. The shopping is mostly done now, and I've succeeded in getting it into the fridge and larder without his majesty stealing anything. It's not as if he hasn't tried. Returning with two big packs of water I found him again with his long beak in a bag, sniffing around like a gourmand getting a hint of buried truffle. I gave him a look and it was enough. He just can't control his impulses, defer gratification. At five years old he should be close to this milestone. I'll be watching.

Sharp Practices

The Suffolk lanes are filled with East European drivers trying to deliver parcels for Christmas but unable to find their destinations. As I returned from hand posting cards to my neighbours up and down the lane I heard raised voices coming from behind the thick hedges and trees surrounding Sarah's house, a male Polish-sounding one and the other a tinny American woman. The man seemed to be talking to a machine, and after several minutes of increasing querulousness on his side she told him to "have a nice day now", her sing-song drawl reaching me clearly. He made his way along Sarah's drive and across the lane to me. His name tag told me he was called Stefan. "These parcels for you," he told me. "Is Red House Farm, no", indicating the house behind me. It wasn't a question. "No," I said anyway, "that's Red House Farm", pointing. "No, machine says this Red House Farm," and he tried to walk past me. "No, really, this is not Red House Farm," I insisted, but he showed me his screen firmly placing his quarry on my side of the lane. "Is here," he said, moving towards the gate. "Is not!" I assured him. "Is not! Is over there, Red House Farm." "Says only Red House on gate," he argued. "That's because other half of gate, bit with Farm on, is missing. Is Red House Farm." "OK", he said placidly, "I leave these here for Red House Farm. Is nobody over there." And he was gone.

I decided to cut the lawn. Well, I say lawn. Is not lawn, is field. It's the first day in a while that hasn't been damp and misty so I grabbed it. Tony was due to come and tweak my radiators so I had to be quick. Ten minutes later I was backing into the field as usual to dump my load when a large white van drew up beside me. I paused the ride-on and took off my ear defenders. "Where Red Brick Farm please?" the driver asked. "I have no idea I'm afraid," I told him. "I've never heard of it. You don't mean Red House Farm do you?" He looked at me in disgust and drove off at speed. Well, there's no pleasing some people.

I have another bugbear. It's not the beef with Twinings who slyly repackaged their tea last year and then sold it in multiples of 80 and 40 instead of the former 100 and 50, but at the same price! I call that daylight robbery. Do they think we're stupid? I got the better of them in the end though. At surprisingly regular intervals Waitrose offers their Assam at a much reduced price, and then I clear the shelves. But this is a different bugbear and it concerns loo paper. It isn't just Andrex who perpetrate this heinous crime but all of them as far as I can see. Hasn't anyone else noticed that the rolls are hugely reduced in size, I'd say about a third smaller than in their prime? Why are the consumer programmes not bristling over this chicanery. Put the price up for heaven's sake if you must, but don't try to deceive us. If we staged a mass sit down in protest, we loo paper users of the country, we could wipe the floor with them.

Sinner

I did a massive shop today before collecting Hugo from his foster carers. By the time we got home it was only 4pm but the day was over. Dusk was gathering, so I donned my wellies and we set off around the familiar fields at once without emptying the car of bags. It was his second run today, and it must have been heaven for him after being confined to the lanes for a week. We made it back just in time before visibility was reduced to nil, and had just got snuggled down inside when I remembered the shopping. Out again then, and I staggered in to deposit the first bag on the floor. Hugo was out for the count on the sofa. Or was he? When I returned with a second bag a few seconds later I was just in time to see him walking to his bed with a half pound of butter in his mouth. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed in astonishment. It was funny really, the sauciness of it, but I wasn't going to let him know that. "How dare you steal my shopping!" He dropped it at once and slunk away. "Horrible greedy boy," I told him. "Horrible boy." Was he really going to eat a whole packet of butter? Almost certainly yes. Just as I returned with the last bag I received a text from Penny telling me that, when I collected him and we were chatting in the hallway, he nipped back into the sitting room and stole Roger's jammy dodger. I glared at him. Horrible, I mouthed, just horrible. I hope he was disgusted with himself and won't sin again because I've also bought three of his favourite cheeses. I know this because he ate them all the last time. And the time before. I've put them right out of his reach. But I don't trust him an inch any more.

I was being assessed at work today and I was feeling a bit sick in anticipation. It's one thing to see a client, and quite another to be watched and judged doing it. But strangely, as I sat down with my first clients of the day, a father and son, I found that I was perfectly composed, completely confident, alert to what they might be bringing and how I could help them with it. I suppose the point is that the focus is entirely on them, not you. You are a conduit, an agent. They want answers that they can't provide for themselves, or pointers to be able to go away and tackle the problem on their own. It was a good session, and the assessment went well. That's OK then. Moving swiftly on ...

Genius

The mist didn't clear yesterday but it did today. As we drove to Aldeburgh this morning to do some more Christmads shopping the sun came out, blinding me a few times as the car faced directly into it. I'd avoided Waitrose as I assumed it would be heaving, but when we got to Aldeburgh it was dead, nobody around. The beach was deserted, I could park right outside the cinema, and there was no fighting your way to the tills. What's going on? Did everyone assume it would be busy and stayed away? We made the most of it, and because the beach was empty of dogs as well as people I let Hugo off the lead for his first run in over a week, not counting his great escape. The shingle is not the easiest place for a gallop but that didn't stop him. It was lovely to watch him flying around, coming as soon as I whistled and then careering off again. I could almost see him smiling.

I'm thrilled to bits to see that the cinema is broadcasting live a performance of Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto from the Berlin Phil under Simon Rattle's baton. Is he still there then? I thought he was moving to the LSO. Anyway, the pianist is Daniil Trifonov, and if there's a better pianist in the whole world I'd like to meet them. He loves Rachmaninov, though I can take him or leave him, and I've already seen a recording of him playing this piece. He's extraordinary to watch, like a child with his lack of barriers and defences, just pure raw emotion, a lot of talent and an awful lot of sweat. His very straight hair drips constantly as he plays, but it's not a distraction for him or us. Looking at him when he speaks, which he doesn't do much, is like looking through the innocent pools of a child's clear eyes, no guile, no falseness. I saw him at the Wigmore Hall earlier this year when he shared the stage with Gidon Kremer, another icon, but I'd have preferred a whole evening of Daniil. So, bliss to come.

We met a big butch hare on our evening walk as the darkness gathered and the trees continued to drip. If there's a downside to living in the countryside it's got to be the mud. You never get used to it. Where there's fields and tractors there's mud, fact of life. I steered Hugo along the dry parts of the lanes and he came home relatively clean for once. With a dog in winter, the washing machine is rarely off. He saw the big hare just a few feet away, and I could feel his lead vibrating, such was his reaction. He wanted to go, and he's a strong boy despite his slightness, but I held him fast. There'll be plenty of hares to chase when his legs are better. At least I know they'll almost certainly get away.

PS

This makes me laugh so much

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZCsfyaOGdw

In the Bleak Midwinter

It's not exactly midwinter, but boy is it bleak, and not in the way that Christina Rossetti meant. There is no snow, only a horrible warm dampness. My buoyant mood of the other day has gone, or modified a bit. It was caused by a thick mist covering the land all around me, emphasising the sense of the world slowing down, wrapping itself up for the long dead months ahead. Hibernation feels so natural at this time of year, and I relish it. The mist is still there, muffling the air, and as we walked today there was complete silence apart from the tinkling sound of water running in the ditches. The trees dripped on us, soggy were the verges and muddy the lanes. Cross country is off bounds at the moment, and Hugo has to content himself with trotting along beside me on his lead. The mist might clear. It did yesterday, leaving a beautiful sunny day when Nick and I worked in the garden in shirt sleeves. In December! He cleared the leaves and cut back more dead things in the front while I did the same in the back. I also raked my perennial bed, removing the debris and smoothing the earth. I have to admit that bare, even beds often please me more than full-flowering ones. But there was a shock around the summerhouse. Some creature - a rabbit? a squirrel? - had attacked all my bulb-filled pots, flung aside the pansies that decorated the tops and dug deep into the compost. I guess it must have taken the tulips, daffodils and irises planted there in October. I can't decide what animal it must be. Despite the oak trees that proliferate all around I hardly ever see squirrels, and never in my garden. A rabbit has been getting in from next door through the only insecure place where wire meshing isn't dug into the ground. I've seen the holes it has dug around my rhodendrons and azaleas. But could it climb up the taller pots? Whatever it is it will have to go. There's only room in this garden for one critter.

Be Well

I could have called my last post The Night of the Hunter, or is that too old a cultural reference from 1955 to have any relevance today? Steps have been taken to ensure we never have a repetition of the great escape. Leads will be kept on in future when it's dark, and fluorescent garments will be worn by both of us. I don't know why it has taken so long for me to think of this latter idea. Cars are rare around here at night, but when they do pass us on the lane it's not a comfortable feeling. I've cancelled my duty for Handel's Messiah at Snape for tomorrow night. Leaving Hugo in the car for around four hours with still open wounds, even if an Elizabethan collar is being worn, would not be right. Instead I shall play my CD and singalong. I took the dressing off a while ago and I'm still feeling wobbily. The inner bits were stuck on so I soaked them as shown. One came off easily but the other didn't, and when he yelped I jumped in horror. To show I meant no harm I quickly gave him a big biscuit. Otherwise he lay beside me like a canine Job, not knowing why such trials were being inflicted upon him but trusting that all would be well. Well, it will Hugo; all will be well and all will be well. Now that IS a quote from Julian of Norwich. Let her have the last word.

Night Terrors

It started off as a normal last walk before bedtime. 'Walk' is a bit of a misnomer, glamorising the quick peeing on the verge and, usually, the rest. But last night he didn't perform, and given the erratic nature of his, um, performances over the past few days, I decided to take him a bit farther. There was a full moon or nearly, but though it was quite light there was cloud and the mist lingered, obscuring my vision a bit. All went well until we passed an entrance to a field we rarely go into though there's a footpath right through it. One minute he was beside me, padding along in his bright blue protective wellies, and the next he was gone. I called, I whistled, and I shone my little torch to no avail. After half an hour during which time, mercifully, no cars appeared, I decided I had to run home and get my big flashlight, and the car. There's been a lot of heart pounding since I got Hugo, but never as much as now. Should I risk a car coming by in the minutes it would take me to return? I decided I had to, and off I went like the wind. As I reached the house a car came towards me, fast, and I stepped out into the lane waving my torch and my arms frantically. It slowed momentarily as it came alongside me and then accelerated away. I stared after it in disbelief, waiting for the screech of brakes and the crunch I knew would follow. Silence. Back at the vanishing spot with the car, I shone the powerful light across the field, calling and whistling all the time, but the mist prevented the beam from penetrating very far. I felt powerless. Where on earth was he, with his injured legs? I drove along the lane, so carefully, and down towards Boundary Farm and all the way to the Fram Sax road. He could easily have chased a hare this distance. I came back, stopping and scanning, calling, calling, then back to the house praying that a smll black person would be sitting by the door. No. Back again to the field, aware that it was now past midnight and he'd been gone for over an hour. I shone the flashlight across the field again, whistling, and suddenly I saw two pricks of light heading towards me and he was back. His wellies had gone, one dressing was completely missing, and the other was covered in mud. He was panting fit to burst, and as I opened the car door he leapt in, shaking and heaving. I sent up a prayer of gratitude.

Back indoors he drank his fill then got up on the sofa so I could examine him. He was dirty and wet, his exposed sore pad muddy. When I removed the other dressing it was soaked through and muddy too. Luckily I had the spare set the vet had given me so I set to and cleaned, dried and redressed. It must have stung, but he lay quietly on his side half dozing, every now and then gazing at me with what my addled brain could only interpret as pure love. It's reciprocated Hugo. He slept upstairs again of course, and there he will stay until the last of the Christmas guests has departed. The mud has dried on his undercarriage and I've brushed it off as well as I can. There will be no bath until his pads have healed, and then I won't be administering it. But dirty or clean, he's safe and he's home. Best Christmas present evah.

Non-matching legs

Harmony

It's rare that I have an entirely clear day with no obligations or plans. Or maybe it just feels that way after a busy day trying to work through people's problems and difficulties, and make sense of them, for myself and the client. Whatever the reality, today has been an unusually calm and restful one. It's very still outside, damp and mild, and the clear view of earlier has been gradually dimmed by an encroaching mist across the fields. Dusk is not far off. It feels exactly what it is, the beginning of winter and not far off the shortest day. I'm hibernating in my cosy house, hunkering down, winding down for the long haul until shoots start to appear again in the garden and the birds begin their nest-building. All day I've been hyper-aware of how natural it feels to be experiencing this, in a cottage on the edge of a small Suffolk village. It must have been thus for generations, and now I'm part of the cycle. I'm playing Byrd's Mass for Three Voices, recorded at Christchurch, Oxford, and it's so appropriate for this time of year, the pure a capella singing music that feels timeless, ageless. It's winter music, though heaven knows it's equally glorious at any time of year, the roundels rolling on and on, over and over in a near seamless flow. Everything is in tune, the music, the darkening evening, the stillness and sense of an ending, the serenity I'm feeling. I can't think of anyone I'd change places with today.

Oh What a Night

It didn't go well when I tried to replace Hugo's dressings with fresh ones as instructed, and so we ended up back at the vets. He obediently lay down on the sofa beside me, and kicked up his legs in anticipation of a good tummy rub, rolling and twisting his eel-like body. Who could resist this? I scratched and tickled him for a while, and then began by removing the very strong adhesive strip which had been attached at the top of the bandages to stop him chewing them. But, horror, his hair and skin was coming off too. He yelped, and buried his head in my lap. With shaking hands I cut away the parts I'd managed to free without hurting him again, and started work on the three layers of dressing before getting to the sterile patch underneath. I might have guessed, it was stuck fast to the wounded pad of his foot, dried blood glueing it firmly in place. Could I continue? No, I could not, and so we leapt in the car in the rain and dashed into Fram. He stood gamely as the nurse applied spirit to the tough adhesive, carefully avoiding the sore bits where the flesh had been pulled away while I muttered about the idiocy of applying such a thing in the first place. With water she softened the dried blood and succeeded in getting the patch off painlessly too. Me? I held his brave little head, kissed his long sweet nose, and coo-ed at him, brave boy! beautiful boy! all the time feeling faint and sick. Newly clad in pale blue dressings this time, back home he strutted around the kitchen like a stiff-legged manequin, coming eagerly for the biscuits I just couldn't resist feeding to him.

Lea' me 'lone

At bedtime he left his cosy sofa and followed me upstairs. "Go down," I told him, "go back to your bed." But he walked into my room instead and curled up on the floor. I knew I couldn't send him away, not after what he'd been through, and he knew it too. I fetched his bed, and he got straight in and lay down, watching me. It was a long night. I was aware that he hadn't had a proper walk since lunchtime on Saturday, and nor had he performed as usual. Concerned that he might need to go out in the night, I only half slept. At 2.30 he tried to get into bed with me but I sent him away. At 5 he was wide awake and frisky. At 6.30 he tried again to climb up with me, and this time I got up and took him out to the field where he performed both of his jobs immediately. But now he wanted to play, and I was like a zombie. I'm still like a zombie; I don't cope well on less than eight hours sleep. He's fast asleep again, blue legs stuck straight out in front of him. I can only watch, and envy.

Extraordinary light on the distant trees

Pontificating

Call me old-fashioned, but I was taken aback by a conversation I overheard in the vets the other day. The receptionist was chatting to a woman waiting for her poorly rabbit to be returned to her after treatment. Both were probably in their 30s, maybe late 30s, and they knew each other but not very well. They probably went to the same school; it's like that around here, people tend not to move very far away. They were nice women, and the way they both got emotional when the rabbit was returned to the waiting room showed what soft hearts they had. "That's made my Christmas," sobbed the owner, clutching her long-eared pet. "I thought we were going to lose him." "Aw," wept the receptionist, "he's as good as new again, bless him." But earlier they'd been discussing motherhood, both with school age children. They agreed that, though they "love my kids to bits", they were bored rigid by spending any time with them. One had a helpful mum who looked after hers while she was at work, or out riding her horse, or through the long summer, the other had a very good husband who "didn't mind" being with them in the holidays and at weekends when she was on duty at the vets. "They want you to do all that cutting and pasting or making stuff all the time, and they never stop talking," said the horsey woman. It does my head in. They're always on at you." "I know," agreed the vet woman, "so boring. Gawd! What's school for!"

I could hardly believe my ears. I don't mean to sound pious, but I stayed at home for seven years with my children until the younger one started full time school. Our days were spent cutting and pasting, doing puzzles, reading, writing, colouring in, singing, going for walks, digging in the sand pit, playing with dolls, hospitals, garages, building houses with leggo, and talking, talking, talking. Sure I was bored sometimes, and my network of friends made up of fellow mums was invaluable to me. We met for coffee, we played tennis and we had each other's offspring for tea, or exceptionally for the day or even overnight if circumstances required this. We supported each other, but we were centred around our children, intent on giving them the very best start in life. My time off work was excessive, I realise that, and I was very lucky. If I had discovered au pairs earlier I would probably have gone back a bit sooner, at least part time. But those were magical times. I entered the world of my children and engaged with them on their level. I didn't judge those times to be boring because I was seeing everything afresh, through their wide-open eyes. And so I felt sorry for those women who limited their time with their children because they found them tedious and irritating. I hope they were exaggerating.

Little Soldier

We've had a minor catastrophe today. Hugo was off the lead, trotting calmly down the lane beside the house on his lunchtime airing, when he spotted a squirrel at the bottom of the hill. Off he went at top speed, and just before he had a chance to grab the animal as it crossed his path he skidded to a halt sending the chippings flying. The lane was resurfaced several months ago but it remains sharp and unpleasant to walk on, even for me wearing boots. I try to keep him on the soft verge but he takes no notice. He ran back up when I called him, and I made a note to check his paws when we got home. But as soon as I picked one up to dry it my hand was covered in blood. He'd only gone and ripped both dewclaws off. He lay in his bed without a murmur as I washed them, applied Savlon and dressed them. It must have hurt. And then it was off to the vet for expert help. Oh Hugo, little soldier. Was there ever anything as heart-wrenching as seeing your liquid eyes gaze lovingly into mine as I manhandled your wounds?

On another miserable note, my cousin Margaret returned home yesterday to find she'd been burgled, all the windows open and everything gone. And she lives in the middle of nowhere too, in the wilds of wildest Scotland. Who would be so mean, two weeks before Christmas, as to empty her chocolate Advent calendar?

Serious Update

It wasn't the dewclaws but the upper pads which he skidded on and succeeded in flaying. They are both raw, shredded and torn. There are other injuries too which the vet spotted, a bruised back leg and various smaller abrasions on the hind feet. She thinks he must have taken a tumble when he braked so sharply. He lay on a mat on the floor of the surgery with his head in my lap, expression patient and gentle, while she washed everything with disinfectant, dressed both legs expertly, applied boots over the top, and prescribed antibiotics. There was still some prosecco in the bottle when we got back but it was a stiff cup of tea I needed. I've missed the opera tonight, but who could listen to lovely music when their traumatised child was miserable in the back of the car? We'll light the fire in a while and hunker in front of Strictly instead. And there's no training tomorrow. Slainte!

What If

Watch out Nicola Adams, there's a new kid on the block. Apparently I'm a natural boxer! My stance is great, my technique is superb, and best of all I love it. I wore a bigger set of gloves this time, and I reckon I could have knocked out Sugar Ray Robinson with them. It feels so good to lunge out and hit your target smack in the middle. I wish the nuns had thought to put boxing on the curriculum all those years ago. My life might have turned out very differently. I had nearly cancelled the session thanks to having stupidly drunk two glasses of prosecco the night before. I woke up with a headache, and taking the dog for his morning romp exhausted me. I wasn't expecting to last even half an hour, and confessed to Mary. You'll be fine, she told me briskly. Exercise will help. And it did. After an hour of jumping up and down with weights, lunging (with weights), and performing all sorts of tricks my body didn't think it could do (yup, with weights) I felt fantastic. Our next meeting won't be until 10th January, what with Christmas, and Mary going off to do triathlon trials, so I'll have to keep up the good work on my own. And I will. I'm all fired up now. Ain't nothing gonna stop me.

Coming back from Snape along the near-deserted A12 late last night I was treated to a very fine sight. First one, then a whole herd of deer stepped into the road and skipped delicately across in front of me. At first I couldn't make out what they were though they were no more than 50 feet away. The leader twisted her body back as she crossed, presumably telling the others it was safe to go. It wasn't! Luckily I wasn't speeding, and they were unperturbed by my headlights. Such beautiful creatures, out there somewhere quietly living their lives undisturbed and hopefully unmolested by us. I haven't seen any near my house for over two years but I'm sure they'll return one day. When they do, Hugo will be kept under lock and key.

Making it Up

I went to a bullfight today, or at least it seemed like it. Here was the slim, elegant matador, agile and balletic in his movements, and there the chunky, heavy, thickset black beast trying to manoeuver his body away from danger. It was of course Hugo and his friend Gemma, a very stocky labrador whom we met on our walk this morning, re-enacting the corrida de toros in the field. Hugo spotted his target from a long way off and charged, flying across the winter wheat at speed, and taking Gemma by surprise. The two faced each other, tails wagging madly, then they spun round a few times before Hugo whizzed off and then zoomed back in a flash. Again and again he taunted, he teased, he flaunted himself and his swiftness, and poor Gemma didn't know which way to turn. Eventually the show stopped and the two rubbed noses, or whatever dogs do. And then he was off again like lightening because now he had spotted Ember, or Amber, running in the next field. For a moment I thought she was a hare and I held my breath, but it was OK. How he loves these encounters with other dogs, and how mischievously he plays with them. Fair lifts the old spirits it does, watching him socialising with not a trace of reserve or modesty.

Italian was a hoot today as one of us, who shall remain nameless, decided to respond to the question "Come passi ti tempo libero" by regaling us with tales of mysterious lovers, glamorous clothing, romantic trips to exotic cities and what she got up to there, having us in stitches. Our Italian was the best ever as we sought to find more imaginative ways to get her to expand and she hunted for ever different means of describing her antics. It provided a rich seam of material, and we've decided to keep it as a weekly staple, this creative make believe. I wonder what Patrick will think of our sauciness when he joins us in the new year.

Ups and Downs

Life: if you plotted it on a piece of graph paper it would hardly meander along in a straightish line. It goes up one day, and as you're enjoying the dizzy pleasures of things going right, falling into place, turning out as you hoped, down it goes again, wallop. All you can say about the lows is: this too shall pass. I thought that might have been a quote from Julian of Norwich but it seems it comes from the medieval Levant. Everything is transient, the good and the bad, but we knew that anyway.

My new kitchen table is so appealing that I spend a lot of each day sitting at it. I do my CAB homework here, and Italian study. It's much better for me than the low sofa which I shared with Hugo but which is not good for my back, especially when I slouch in it. From the end of the table where I sit I can watch the sky in front of me through my very high window. I see the sparrowhawk which spends much of its time hovering with fluttering wings straight ahead of me. Sometimes it dives but I have never seen it emerge with a small mammal in its beak. Perhaps it devours them on the ground. Best of all is the low hedge along the side of the garden, and the gap at the end of it through which I can gaze into the field and way beyond. My eye is constantly drawn to this view through my glazed back door. There's something wonderful about having a long view, especially a green one, where the eye can wander and the imagination follow. It's the same scene from the garden room but I don't go in there much in the winter.

Walking past the front garden I'm assailed by the scent of the winter flowering viburnam growing alongside and through the now denuded medlar tree. I'm hoping the wintersweet will follow suit like last year but it's not looking promising, no flower buds yet. Last night Hugo and I went out at bedtime as usual for a last pee. The nights have been so dark though the moon is getting brighter now, and it was really black. As we walked down the drive to the lane I could hear something strange, a man singing, the croaky, wavering voice of a drunk. I froze and stopped in my tracks. Where was it coming from and, more importantly, who could it be? It was close to midnight, and I could see no lights. It seemed to be close, but the night was foggy and in those conditions sound carries oddly. I'll admit I was frightened, but I let Hugo off his lead and waited for him on the lane, heart thumping. It was odd to be scared in this space where I have felt so safe. He was swift, thank goodness, and we were quickly back inside, doors locked. And that was that, I instantly forgot about it. Now that's a first. In the past I would have been worried all night, and probably barely slept. As they say in 21st-century Levant, that's progress.

Tired But Happy

I came home from a weekend in London to find a box from Interflora on my back doorstep. I missed it in the dark and only discovered it when I went out to the woodshed to replenish my pile for the evening. It was a Christmas amarylis sent by my friend in France and I can't express how touched I was. Merci beaucoup mon amie. Birthdays are such a heartwarming time. While I was gadding about and being feted by my loved ones Hugo was also having fun. He went for two long walks with Maisie and once again they got on like two old pals. In the car on the way to Sizewell beach he cried and panted as usual, but on the way home he was put in the back of the car with Maisie and there wasn't a peep out of him. I asked Ruth how we was at night, and if she put his bed on the landing outside her room. She did, but somehow he ended up sleeping on her bed. I raised my eyebrows at her in surprise, wondering what she thought of that, but she was unfazed. "You know how I wake in the night and read for several hours or listen to the World Service?" she asked. "Well with Hugo on my bed I slept solidly through the whole night." I think there may be money in this. I could hire the boy out to the insomniacs of my acquaintance, maybe spread the joy wider and advertise him with a card in the Co-op. It should pay for the second whippet I'm going to have to get as a companion for the lonely little fellow.

Before going out to dinner at a very chic Italian restaurant we went to see Kieran Hodgson's show again at the Soho Theatre. My greatest desire was to have my photo taken with this beautiful young man, an unusual urge for me, and it was all arranged. But somehow in the excitement of chatting to him after the show and congratulating him on his performance we all clean forgot. His agent, who is not unrelated closely to me, was going to get a photoshopped snap made as a substitute, or even take a picture of Kieran holding a sign saying Happy 68th Birthday Denise, but it wouldn't be the same. My association with fame will go forever unrecorded. It was the same waiting outside a restaurant for my hostess to come out at lunchtime. As I stood in the sunshine at Broadway Market looking down at the Regents Canal and watching the smart young people milling around, Helen Mirren strolled by, hair tousled, no make-up, big jacket pulled around her against the chill, unrecognisable by all but me. Did she acknowledge me? No, she did not.

Penny for Your Thoughts

The beautiful boy stayed home alone again this afternoon and was fine when I got back. I still can't get over the progress he has made. But yesterday his brain struggled with a very simple problem: what to do when you are bursting to go outside. He usually goes into a deep sleep once he's been fed and walked, these days at around 4pm, and then he rallies at around 9 to join me in the sitting room so that he can sleep on a different sofa. He was a bit restive all evening, following me around a bit, but I didn't take much notice. At around 9, stretched out beside me in the sitting room with the woodburner crackling away in front of us, he started licking his lips and swallowing. This continued for a while and, thinking he was about to be sick, I took him into the kitchen and poured some fresh water. He took a sip, but that wasn't it. Still not having a clue, I opened the back door and out he shot to the fence by the side path. Minutes later, I do not lie, he was still peeing. This has never happened before, and is an obvious result of the extra fluid he took on yesterday. But why oh why did he not get up and walk to the door, making me see he needed to go out? I know he's not the cleverest of dogs. He still hasn't got the hang of 'paw'. But something as basic as needing to go to the loo? Does it even take a brain?

As I write that my heart wrenches in my chest. His suffering, his courage, his forebearance! He's the darlingest of boys, affectionate, funny, eager and earnest, desperate to please. The thought of him lying next to me in agony but not knowing what to do about it is heart breaking. Don't worry Hugo, I'll be your brain in future. I will anticipate your every need and try to interpret your signs with a bit more creativity than I did last night. And I'll only add milk to your water in the morning when you have the whole day to expel the excess. We'll get through this.

This morning we walked as usual and came across Charlotte, a young girl who lives with her husband in a cottage across the fields from me, a few hundred yards away. I met her at a drinks party in the village earlier this year, and she's frightfully kinety (county). Real Suffolk or kinety, that's all my neighbours. Only me somewhere in the middle. Good morning, she called. Hi lovely to see you again! So this is the famous whippet! We stopped and chatted, admired the beautiful day and each other's dogs, and made the sort of small talk you do on these occasions. What's your little person called I asked, not wanting to be too gender specific in the absence of being able to focus properly on its undercarriage in the strong sunlight. Ember, she said. Ember? I replied. Yes, Ember, she said clearly. Given her kinety accent I don't know if it's posh Amber or truly Ember, called after glowing hot coals or wood. It could have been either. The dog was ginger.