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.