Flights of Fancy

Pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs from the woodshed to the back door in the cold morning I think of my urban friends who have instant heat at the flick of a switch. But I enjoy this routine and wouldn't swap it for a house near a gas pipe. My log supply is dwindling but I think it will see me through this winter. I'm down to my own timber now, trees that were felled three years ago to clear the view, and a dead one that got chopped down earlier this year and is immediately usable. I hung on to this tree because I liked the ivy draped over it, but it was pointless to keep it. One of my obelisks stands there now. Last week Tim the fencing man came back to put some rabbit wire along the only vulnerable place where the little demons had been getting through. I hope this puts a stop to their sorties to pillage my bulb pots.

Yesterday we went to see The Eagle Huntress, and what an inspiring, feel-good film it was. It's beautifully filmed in the harshest landscape in the isolated mountain region to the north-west of Mongolia, and tells the story of a 13-year-old nomadic girl who defies convention to catch and train her own eagle, and then enter in the annual eagle hunter festival populated by arrogant young bucks and hardened old men - and win! Aisholpan's smile lights up her face constantly as she negotiates the toughest trials to achieve her dream. Let the elders of the region first dismiss her aims and then look stunned when she proves that a young girl can outperform all the pros. They still won't admit that she can do it. They can't bear to. Her family are stars too, praising her, encouraging her, loving her all the way. What a difference that makes to a child's development.

Hugo was snug in his red winter jacket when we got back to the car, limbs folded under him for extra warmth. He's getting fed up with being kept so close to home, though he just stands and looks longingly at the field without trying to make a dash for it. He's showing no sign of injury now, but I intend to follow the vet's instructions to the letter, or nearly. Towards the end of the week I'll take him for a short walk on his lead. But for now, as long as things are going in one end and coming out the other in reasonable proportions, I'll settle for that.

Short and Sweet

Being confined to barracks is not suiting Hugo at all. As I take him out yet again to perform his messages on the drive or the grass verge he looks at me in puzzlement, then at the field or the lane, then back at me again. He tries to gently walk in the direction he is used to but he is not allowed. Oh what a mistake it was to run after that hare Hugo! Will you ever learn? On Friday after work I collected him as usual and he was bursting with energy, forgetting that his leg has been badly hurt. Roger reported that he had not performed all day apart from a few pees, so I tried to encourage him before we went out for the evening. Nothing doing. So it should have come as no surprise as we all sat by the fire with a drink prior to bridge and supper that David suddenly appeared with more logs and said coldly, "There is a mess in the hall." David is not very keen on dogs though he usually bears them graciously, and as well as Hugo, Judy's daughter Sophie had brought Otto the miniature rough-haired dachshund with her. "Well," I declared confidently from deep in an armchair, hand curled around the stem of a rather nice glass of Bourgogne Aligote, "I can categorically, absolutely guarantee that it was not Hugo who would never ever do such a thing," and I looked smugly at Sophie and Otto. Seconds later as we both surveyed the dreadful sight it was clear that tiny Otto was not to blame. The "thing" was nearly as big as him. Oh how I cringed, how I grovelled, how I cleaned up the mess. Hugo was exhilarated, his first huge movement since early morning. I could hardly blame him.

I warned Ruth what might happen the next day when I left him to go to London. He's getting no exercise, and he's on antibiotics, painkillers and anti-inflammatories. His system is all haywire. I left them to it, and had the best time with Kitty, watching her client's amazing show at the Soho Theatre and meeting him afterwards. Six years after a hideous sexual assault by an older man, an act of violence and invasion, he finally found the massive courage to turn it into risky comedy, black comedy admittedly, and won the Edinburgh Festival Award for best act last summer. Kudos for him and her. It was painful and hilarious, and he ended by telling anyone who had experienced something similar to talk about it, get it out in the open. He's a lovely young man, and he impressed me hugely.

Kitty thought this would be funny ...!

Kitty and I adjourned across the road to a restaurant already packed with diners, and caught up on each other's stuff across a sea of white damask. Hers is more interesting than mine I have to admit. Far, far too quickly I had to leave to catch my train. It was that or the dawn one with the milk bottles. "I wish you were staying," she said. "Me too," I told her. It's always sad to go. I stayed the night at Ruth's with Hugo in my room, and every time he moved I turned on the light to check he wasn't relieving himself on the floor. At one point he had climbed onto a chair and was making himself comfortable. "Off," I ordered sternly, and he slunk back down again. It was a long night, but I needn't have worried. Apart the odd mistake, he's always willing to please.

Not Bitter

The dog and I are both looking a bit glazed - him because he's recovering from being sedated and me because I've just paid the vet's bill, all £405 of it. In the end there was nothing serious wrong, just a strain and some swelling, though his pads are cut in places. He's on house arrest for 2 weeks so that he can make a full recovery, and I'm on spending arrest for the forseeable future. The insurance won't cover the bill because apparently I only have emergency cover, and the vet can't complete the claim forms honestly because I rang him the day after the accident occurred. It feels a bit Kafkaesque, and I'm fighting a touch of paranoia, and cancelling my world cruise so that the vet can take my place. At least the boy is OK, though I regret that his days of galloping wild and free are over. What a fragile little thing he is! He's lying beside me, very still and quiet, not quite focussed, but put his food down for him and he's immediately alert.

In his absence I got down to my least favourite task, that of renewing insurances and phone contracts. After half an hour of this I felt as if I'd downed six espressos and a box of chocolate cherry liqueurs. It's the most stressful job there is, what with going on comparison sites and filling in online forms. I didn't make the sort of savings I did with the house and contents, but the car was slightly less than last year. BT have Cransford residents by the short and curlies because no other supplier can offer an alternative in such a remote location. Or so they say. At least my broadband is very cheap, because the service is so poor, but paradoxically mine is better than almost anyone else's in the village. At Christmas all of us were using the internet at the same time and we were still watching Netflix movies on the television. Across the lane Sarah can't even view BBC i-player without a million pauses. Something to be thankful for.

Once Hugo was home (and the bill paid - grrrr) I needed a treat but had nothing in the house, not even a biscuit. So I scraped the bottom of the barrel with a hot croissant drizzled in golden syrup. In half an hour the sun will be over the yardarm. It happens at 6pm or later, but never, ever earlier. There's just under half a bottle of wine in the fridge. It won't be there for long.

Suffering

I had hoped that Hugo's swollen foot and leg might have been back to normal size today but alas not, and so we took the well-worn track to the vets. He's been so brave, uncomplaining and obliging as always, with just that sad, suffering look to remind you that all is not well. Yesterday evening the two of us curled up on the sofa in the sitting room where the woodburner kept us cosy and snug, and it was nearly 10 before he made a move towards the back door. Nearly a minute later, and I exaggerate not, he finished peeing. His courage and forebearance are extraordinary, his bladder cast iron. This morning he had breakfast in bed, his bowl placed on the kitchen sofa beside him where he had made his nest. He was so grateful, so appreciative, it would make your heart bleed. He still couldn't put any weight pn the back leg, and so we made an appointment to see Keiran, who thinks his Achilles tendon is damaged, maybe even snapped. Tomorrow he will go back to be sedated and x-rayed, and treated accordingly. In the meantime he was given an anti-inflammatory jab and a painkilling one which hurt him so much he cried and cried. Was having children like this? How did I survive?

I'm so poorly

And so we're home again where I'm praying the oil won't run out before a refill arrives. The day is dank and gloomy, a shock after the bright, sunny period we've been enjoying, and somehow it feels more cold than it really is. Hugo has a towel wrapped across him, partly to stop him licking his wounds and partly to make him feel cossetted. Tomorrow we'll know the worst. Whatever the outcome, I think his days of running freely on our walks in the fields are over. It will change both of our lives dramatically. But we can't go through this again or something worse might happen next time.

I can't believe how shattered I feel by these events. All I want to do is sleep too. It's never easy to watch something in your care suffer, but my coping mechanism seems to have weakened over the years. I'd better toughen up. This trusting little creature is relying on me.

Worse

I couldn't wait to get outside this morning. It was like a summer's day with birds all around us singing their heads off, and the sun beating down on our heads. What could go wrong? The day had started badly, but it was about to get much worse. Three quarters of the way around our field Hugo suddenly spotted a hare and streaked off after it. This was bad as he was heading towards the lane, not away from it where I normally feel he's quite safe. He disappeared at the end of the hedge, and all I could do was retrace my steps back to the lane as quickly as I could and try to see where he had gone. The nightmare had begun. There was no sign of Hugo across the lane, but everywhere there were hares running around, playing, chasing, fighting - all the panoply of spring. I counted 14 including a few nearly as big as the dog and several youngsters. My heart sinking in my stomach for the second time in an hour I went home for the car and the binoculars, and began trawling the lanes and scanning the fields. For two hours I went back and forth, stopping, scanning, calling and whistling, imagining the worst as you do when you're very afraid but powerless, but I could not see him. Feeling so sick I could barely think straight I spotted him at last through the binos, just a dot without their extra strength. I waved my arms, called and whistled again,and gradually coaxed him back to me. He could barely walk, staggering and zigzagging until at last he reached me. His head was down and he was panting fit to burst, but when he reached me he leant against my leg and wagged his tail feebly. He was coated in muck, and I could see at once that one back foot was twice the size of the other. I helped him into the car and got him safely home where he drank his water bowl dry and crawled into his bed. I can see that one leg is swollen and red, and there may be cuts as well. But I'm not going to touch him until he's recovered his strength.

Poor little boy. He's as much a victim of being a whippet as the hare is of being a hare. I don't even know if he caught one though he looks as if he's been in a tussle. So that's it then as far as free running around here goes for the time being, even assuming he'll still be able to walk any time soon. He'll be needing a bath, but all he's fit for now is sleep. And I feel the same way.

Taste Buds

Looking through my larder for a jar of tahini I came across a forgotten Christmas present which set my spirits soaring and my mouth salivating. How could this have gone right out of my mind? "Posh Chocolate Spread", the label says, with Plumptious Cherries". Plumptious is probably my favourite word (I actually thought I'd invented it) and Chocolate is my second best. Here in one small jar then was gustatory heaven, and I wasted no time tasting it. It calls itself a spread, but I'm not wasting it on bread. A spoon straight to the tongue is the best way I'm sure. The jar gives end of April as the final date, but I'm not taking any chances, risking it going off. I was going to do the crossword while I waited for Ruth to arrive for the weekend but I'm not diluting this experience.The dog is giving me dagger looks, but I'm ignoring him. I'm in a world of my own.

Last night I went to hear Matthew Rose sing Wintereisse at Snape, and began the evening with supper at the Plough and Sail with Judy and David. It was such a treat to go out like this, and I was astonished that the pub side of the place was packed with early evening drinkers. Do people do this every night, or just on Fridays? I thought they were all tucked up at home like me. There's a whole other world out there. The concert was sublime, the music and singing subtle and poignant and beautiful, the piano accompaniment equally so. For an hour and twenty minutes the baritone sang without cease, his long body shifting gently from foot to foot, his hands sometimes clutching his jacket edges and pulling them together, sometimes kneading each other, and othertimes leaning back against the piano as he interpreted Schubert's ragged and ravaged musical emotions and Wilhelm Muller's pleading, tragic words. Schubert's music never fails to touch me deeply: my first marriage failed to the backdrop of his piano impromptus. My own recording of Wintereisse is sung by Brigitte Fassbaender, a doughty woman who I hope shrugged off the - mostly male - criticism that a woman cannot sing this song cycle. I hope she said "Bollocks", and this recording proves that she would have been right to do so. I'm playing it now. It's gorgeous.

The sun if very bright again, and every dancing mote of dust is highlighted in its beams. Massive sigh.

Flowers still looking wonderful

Glory Days

What weather! Several straight days of full sunshine and the ground glittering with frost, making it all but impossible to stay indoors. I did an hour or so's gardening, and I can't describe the joy of working outside again, clearing some of the winter's detritus of dead foliage and scattered leaves. Not a blade of grass moved, the air so still you could hear the dormice snuffling in their hidden nests. Almost. It was magical, a word I may use to near destruction, but it still applies as much now as the first time I penned it. The pond was so frozen that several smashes with the rake failed to pierce its carapace. Later, sitting in the hot summerhouse with Hugo, I looked around with pleasure and excitement. There's work to be done when things warm up a bit, but nothing like the labour of the past three years. I came across a photo taken in the summer, and I could scarcely believe it was my garden. You don't really see the progress you've made when it's ongoing, never ending. But here was the evidence, and I must admit even I was impressed. And this is only the beginning.

Retail Therapy

I had to go to Woodbridge today, and it being so sunny and nice Hugo and I walked along the riverbank by kind permission of Steve, the chatty owner of the boat club. A friend of mine has just bought a houseboat on the river and I was eager to see it. Images of long boozy summer lunches lounging on the deck flashed before my eyes. I then parked in town, but I had no cash for a decent stay so had to settle for half an hour, 50 pence. I left the boy and headed for the shops. But as usual I was quickly at a loss. I do all my shopping online, and I mean all. I browse, I buy, and if necessary I return, usually to John Lewis or Amazon. It's so easy, I'm in perfect control, and I don't have to negotiate actual shops which I hate. (I make an exception of Waitrose. Waitrose is god.) But every time I do this I forget that I don't even know how to shop in real time any more. I shuffled into the shoe shop and had a quick look, I glanced into the new Co-op, I bought some Q-tips in Boots, and some takeaway lunch in Honey and Harvey. And then I didn't know what to do next and so returned to the car with 11 minutes to spare on the ticket. Hugo was pleased to see me, or at least to smell my lunch, but I felt a complete pillock. My friend Helen is always asking me to go shopping with her, to massive malls like Blue something, but I tell her Helen, I promise you you don't want to go with me. She loves to shop till she drops, a whole day of it. So do I, but I drop before I reach the first fancy boutique. It wouldn't work. I love Woodbridge, but I must remember not to hit the shops with any sense of keen anticipation again.

I've been continuing the play classes with Hugo, getting him to chase the ball and catch it in his mouth, or marmalise teddy with me pulling on one end. He'll join in with relish, and then he's done, and when I throw the soft squeaky ball for him again he'll ignore it bouncing off his nose, and just give me an old-fashioned look. I took some photos of him in action and was shocked to see how big he is. I thought I'd got an Italian greyhound, a tiny skinny little thing I could carry in my pocket. I think I'll ask for my money back. He gets more like a racehorse every day.

A beautiful bouquet of flowers was couriered to me last week. I thought I'd photograph it from outside, through a rain-spattered window.

Born and Bred

Before Christmas I was browsing through old snaps looking for one of me with big hair. Huge hair. I used to have a great mass of the stuff, what the apprentices who always made a dive for me in the next batch of paupers waiting for a cheap haircut at the Vidal Sassoon hairdressing school in Ken High Street kindly called "strong". Always flattered by this supreme display of popularity, I once made the mistake of asking why they all charged towards me. "It's so easy to cut thick hair like yours," I was told. How I longed for smooth, sleek tresses that shone in the light. No straighteners or products then; conditioner had only just entered my orbit. My newspaper even did a 'before and after' piece when a new, much-lauded hairdresser came to town, and I was his chosen guinea pig. But that was then. Be careful what you ask for. Now I watch in dismay as hair lines the bath when I wash it, and then sheds itself again all over my white duvet when I dry it. My head is cold when I go out in less-than-warm temperatures, and wearing a hat as I must just flattens it to my head even more. Whatever happened?

Hunting through the photo albums I quickly became distracted by others that I love. Here on most of the pages are my babies, bright and eager and innocent. Once I might have thought that each child was a tabula rasa, a blank canvas waiting to be written on. Nurture before nature. Of course it is not so. Maybe 50-50, I'd guess now. They come as themselves into the world, and woe betide you if you try to change who they are, mould them into any shape other than their own. You are the facilitator who opens doors in their minds, and creates a safe space where they can develop their talents and personalities. That's the theory anyway, or my version of it. It's what I aimed for, and didn't always manage to achieve. I guess it's called parenting.

But look what has happened! The child on the left is the agent of award-winning clients, head of comedy, new owner of a glamorous and classy paeony-coloured velvet sofa. It's pretty safe to say that she has become herself, and will continue to flourish as nature intended. And on the right we have an acclaimed journalist and writer, creator of a magnificent garden. Nature is self-evident there too. I must have wondered often what they would become, what they would do with their lives. In my craziest dreams I could never have imagined that it would be this.

Snow

We stepped out into sharp-edged, driving snow and sleet that sliced through the exposed parts of my face and froze my fingers to agonising clumps of pain. Would I have gone out in such weather if the dog hadn't needed his daily run? Of course not, but somehow, no matter how uninviting it looks from indoors, it's usually a pleasure to be out. And today was no exception, what with my proper winter clothes for the most part keeping out the wind's harsh chill. Hugo is only getting one proper walk a day at the moment. He gets taken out another three times but only on the lead. Needs must, for both of us, as the gloom settles so early. So he really gallops when he is set free, and today he charged across our field, leapt the wide ditch into the bottom field, and flew after a large flock of fieldfares that were trying to get some nourishment from the inches-high winter wheat. He didn't get anywhere near them, but boy was he exhilarated by the effort. When he came back to me I praised him for being such a good little man, and he danced around me with glee.

As my hands began to freeze I remembered with awe and horror the winter of 1962/63, the coldest on record for centuries, when my daily journey to school took on epic proportions. As the crow flies, Potton is not that far from Letchworth, and even by car it's a straightforward run. But rely on buses and trains to get between the two, and it's a different story. Our uniform was hopelessly inadequate to keep us warm: a thin gaberdine coat, knee-length socks and a velour hat were all that protected us from the cold. We left school early that winter to catch the bus that met the train, but then came a long wait in another station for our connecting train to Potton. I'll never forget that station, or its waiting room, always empty apart from us. Every night we shivered and moaned, huddled over a paltry stove that gave out almost no heat. We were chilled to the bone, miserable, tired. When finally we reached Potton we had a mile-long trudge through snowdrifts and driving snow to reach home. Our shoes would be soaked, every part of us aching with the cold. It's no wonder that I have never been able to take my privileged life for granted, or that I think of people forced to live in conditions like these while I hunker down in the warmth. There but for the .....

This hasn't been my first trip down memory lane as winter properly descends on us. The days can seem long when gardening is off the agenda, and there's time to think and remember. But my little black boy brings me back to the here and now. He wants a cuddle, and it won't wait. Now that's better.

Nature's Best

I had sardines on toast for lunch yesterday, a real trip down memory lane. I can't remember when I last had them out if a tin. Sardines are excellent for osteoporosis apparently, and with a little balsamic vinegar sprinkled over them are really quite nice. No prizes for guessing where the cardboard carton ended up. Or the insole from one of my shoes. We had a fabulous walk this morning, the air cold and biting but the wind light so it was great to be out. We took the long track around the very end field, the one where Hugo nabbed his hare in the autumn while I innocently picked blackberries just around the corner. I dropped the hare into the very deep ditch that runs alongside the track to hide the horror of it, and today clear water was running through. I looked for its skeleton, hoping it had been stripped clean and not left rotting and putrid, but I couldn't see it. Where I thought it might be was a thick clump of still auburn leaves, and I like to think its friends covered it over respectfully. I've read the Brambley Hedge books, I know how the little furry animals operate in their secret hidden world.

With the expectation of even colder weather and maybe snow I decided to fill the wheelbarrow with logs to build up a good store indoors. Sarah came over while I worked, and I realised my lips were so numb from the cold so I could barely speak. This is the fourth winter in Cransford for both of us, and we're willing the snow to come and trap us in our winter wonderland for the first time. As long as the fridge, freezer and store cupboards are full, the oil tank is topped up, there are logs and kindling, and a few bottles of booze, all should be well. Electricity would be nice too: a winter without an electric blanket would be hard indeed to bear.

Sarah is plagued with moles, like the rest of the countryside around us, but so far none has ventured into my garden. I've never seen so many molehills. This morning we passed a patch of green with huge mounds of earth every few feet, a powerful declaration of the little black demon's presence. Farmers seem not to bother trying to trap them anymore, now that the only poison that works has been banned under EU law. And they have no predators. A mole's body will lie on the ground until it rots as nothing will eat it.

Talking of predators, my new Christmas bird feeder that attaches directly onto the window has been a success with the little birds. The fat balls have been especially delicious to them. Alas, then, that the wood pigeons have discovered this source of winter food too, and the two balls, not even half nibbled by the tits and wrens and robins, have been carried away by brute force. I don't know how to keep the big birds away, but I'll have to come up with something. Moles, wood pigeons, wolves and coyotes, it's tough living in ther wild.

Work and Play

My kleptomaniac magpie has been at it again. This morning I found a satsuma, the remains of another one chewed, a bunch of fresh coriander and a plastic detergent measuring cup in his bed. It's not even where he sleeps, as I make a cosy nest for him on the kitchen sofa with an old fleece of mine and that's where he spends the night. I just can't imagine what gets into his head that he needs to collect these objects. Before I go to bed I settle him down and sit next to him, stroking him and telling him how much I love him. But every time I get up to go, leaving him with a firm, confident pat and a "Night night, see you in the morning" he turns those tragic whippet eyes on me pleading to be taken too. It never works, but it doesn't stop him trying. Every day now we play with the squeaky ball, and he can catch it in his mouth when I throw it to him. Who would believe you had to teach a dog to play.

Mary came today for the first time since the middle of December, and I was a bit nervous in case I was significantly less fit than last time. But I needn't have worried as I easily managed the exercises she set me. I haven't quite learned yet that it's a mistake to show anything but massive effort and ideally pain too. She pounces if you're not struggling, and ups the ante. A few moans and groans make for a lighter ride. I love this hour with her, and wish I could afford to have her every day.  Today the wind howled through the trees and the clouds skudded across an otherwise clear and sunny sky. Too rough for table tennis again, but we'll get there. I'm itching to play again. We talked about being competitive, and I admitted that I want to win at everything I do. But she's the same, a triathlete who thrives on the toughness of her sport and the challenge of beating everyone else. We're cut from the same cloth, her and me, but there the similarities end. Nothing would persuade me to do what she does, fighting sickness and exhaustion every time she competes. Scrabble anyone?

Seeing Straight

I sat in the car eating fish and chips on Aldeburgh High Street yesterday evening, licking the salt off so that I could feed the boy in the back as well. He was in for another long haul as I watched Nabucco, and I thought some junk food might fill his tummy and help him to settle. It always works for me. When I was ready to go I put his travel bed on the seat and urged him into it, stiff leg by stiff leg. I have no idea why he was so reluctant, and when I got back at 9pm to release him he had pushed the bed away and squeezed into the tiny space beside it, still attached to the seat belt holder. There's stubborn. It was a lovely night, clear and warm, and so I took him for a walk along the prom prom prom. Nothing was stirring, the opera crowd having dispersed, some slower than others: "I'd hate to be behind this lot if there was a fire," muttered Ruth as we tried to get to the foyer in the interval, impeded by the halt and the lame. So I let Hugo off the lead, and he ran up the steps at breakneck speed onto the shingle. He seemed to stumble near the top but carried on, so when he rejoined me on the path I set off running for him to give chase. But when I looked back he was standing there holding a paw up. "What's the matter?" I asked, going to him immediately. He took a few steps and then held the paw up again. This was a problem. By now we were a good distance from the car, and I couldn't see what damage he had done. I made a quick decision to tie him to a bench and sprint off for the car, praying nobody would find him in the meantime. He was still standing there when I got back, and leapt onto the back seat easily, so I think he must have knocked the paw and got a shock.

He's fine today, and so was the morning, and so we took a plastic bag and a disposable glove on our walk with us to collect rubbish. I couldn't believe how full the bag was when we returned, and it was so addictive I wanted to carry on past our little stretch of lane and do the whole of Suffolk. Anyone who has driven along the A14 to Cambridge knows what a disgrace the verges are literally littered with litter. Every now and again you see a small team of bored men picking things up in a desultory way, and it occured to me that a giant mechanical hoover that swept everything up and crushed it would be fast and efficient. Why has our litter tsar not thought of this? James Dyson could knock several up in no time. It's an idea asking to be developed.

I came indoors reluctantly as it was so nice outside. The tasks I had set myself for the day suddenly seemed less appealing, so I rang Ruth to see what she was up to and we ended up on Kessingland beach. As we walked along the wide stretch of grass and sand the sun suddenly came out over Lowestoft, spotlighting it against the darker skies around. Out to sea a boat was hovering in midair several feet above the horizon, the mist obliterating the actual point where sea met sky. It was all quite magical, and Hugo seemed to feel it too with his mad capers and scampers. I love living near the sea. It always reminds you of the huge space out there, and the tiny pinprick that is your life and issues. It brings perspective, that's what it does, and that's never a bad thing.

Working at It

Yesterday Hugo played with his new squeaky ball for over 15 minutes, a massive record. Normally he's had enough after retrieving three or four throws of it or teddy, but not yesterday. He couldn't get enough of the squeak, which must remind him of the awful noise his prey makes when he is killing it. It was a joy to see him playing, especially by himself. And all the time his tail was wagging. I long for the day he'll bring something to me to throw for him. The only game he never tires of is chasing me around the kitchen table, or from bedroom to bedroom, each time he catches up with me a cause of rapture for him. Alas I don't have his youth and I stop long before he wants to. But I'm going to keep this new behaviour going. It will make a good interruption of the 23 hours sleeping he's currently getting.

I've been watching The Crown on Netflicks, and I have to admit I'm hooked. When I first heard about this multi-million pound production I couldn't see the point of it: we know that story, don't we? But it's really awfully good, very moving and fascinating. Matt Smith is nothing like the handsome Prince Phillip, and yet he conveys something of the man that is quite special, a laughing, devil-may-care attitude that is attached to a very strong sense of loyalty and duty, just like his wife. I'm surprised at how much I'm enjoying it. 

My new trampoline came yesterday and I've been bouncing on it every time I pass it. It's a rebounder really, a piece of sports equipment, but it isn't half fun. In the long absence since Mary, my trainer, has been here I've been doing my best to keep up the work but it's easy to put it off for another day. We resume on Wednesday, so I have to be able to show her that I can keep going for an hour without flagging. Exercising is so boring, as Ruth pointed out when she mastered the weighted hoola hoop the other day. "Now I can do it I don't want to," she said. I know what she means. So maybe I'll revert to letting Hugo chase me around the room for the next few days. It might be exhausting but it's not boring, and it'll be a cardio-vascular work-out if nothing else. Here boy, Hugo! Catch me if you can!

In the Memory

Hugo went crazy over Sammy when she came this morning, as if he was starved of company that wasn't me after a houseful over Christmas. Luckily she loves him too, and gave as good as she got. She had come on a special mission, and she didn't fail. My father's brief RAF wartime career has long fascinated me, but I had only sparse information until a week ago when I was given his flying log book. This was really thrilling as I had no idea it even existed, but I couldn't make much sense of it. Sammy could. Within a few hours I had discovered that, far from spending long hours in a freezing rear gunner's capsule while flying over Germany and dropping bombs, he spent most of his service undergoing training and only managed two operations before the war ended. I felt emotional and giddy with relief, like one of those people on Who Do You Think You Are who discovers that her nine-times great grandmother was not in the workhouse but sitting on the English throne. I had dreaded the thought of him in that tiny space being terrified out of his wits, and it hadn't really happened. When he used to say things like "We dropped a load over Dresden" he didn't mean him personally but the RAF.

When she'd gone I knuckled down to those horrible jobs that all seem to come together. I bought Medlar Cottage three years ago in three weeks time, and so I have to renew the house and contents insurance, and the phone and broadband contracts, as well as car insurance and breakdown cover. I hate these tasks, but a trip to GoCompare quickly showed that you get a massive discount in the first year which is not subsequently repeated, so why would you stick with the same company? Already I've saved a few hundred pounds, but the stress is awful. I feel as if I've been force-fed caffeine in vast quantities.

Finally free from computer research I lit the wood burner and settled in front of a recording of the final of Christmas University Challenge with my supper on my lap. When the music round came I answered all four questions within seconds of hearing the music: Beethoven's Eroica, Tchaikovsky's Pathetique, Mahler's Resurrection and Mozart's Jupiter. I have an odd capacity to get the name immediately after just a few chords, provided I know the piece of course. If only my sister had been here to witness my brilliance!

Getting the Shivers

It's 5pm on new year's day, but it feels more like midnight at least. Long, it's been, but it hasn't dragged by, and nor did I mope for long after my last guest left this morning. Instead I've been galvanized into action, four beds stripped, and all but one duvet cover washed and dried, and ironed! Do it when they're damp from the tumble drier and they come up lovely, they do. The kitchen looks like a Chinese laundry. Turkey soup is simmering on the Rayburn, and  thick slices of the meat have been shared out into tupperware continers and stuck in the freezer. Going by last year's experience, I know that in a month or so I'll be thrilled to rediscover them. The Xmas decos have been taken down, cards dispatched to the recycling, tree waiting for a dry day to remove it. It's been foul, raining and chilly and dull. Hugo and I have invented a new MO for days like these when walking is too miserable to contemplate. We did get a longish stretch this morning before the light drizzle turned more persistent and heavy, but since then it's been too mean to wander far. He hates being cold and wet as much as I do, and so he uses the shingle drive for what is necessary, and I go out later to clear up. For a dog without MENSA possibilities he isn't half clever.

My constant companion today has been Radio 4, and what a great programme they devised for the beginning of a new year. Throughout the day I've been serenaded by Jeremy Irons reading the works of T.S. Eliot which has been delightful. Between the internet and the wireless it can feel as if the house is full of friends.

I made a rather dismal discovery over the past few days travelling in the back of a car with him. Not only does he pant and sometimes cry in transit but he shakes and shivers as soon as the car starts up, and even my arms around him didn't help. I hadn't realised things were this bad. His anxiety is off the scale, and not just for reasons of separation. Another thing to worry about, and modify my activities to accommodate. I know he has to fit in with my plans, but how can I inflict this on him? It's very perplexing because there could hardly be a happier dog otherwise. Trying on clothes in Collen & Clare in Southwold yesterday I was shamed when the manager asked the crowded shop who owned the very unhappy dog tied up and howling outside. I confessed, saying it would just be a few moments, but she told me I could bring him inside the shop, which she'd prefer (little girl look of pleading), and then proceeded to lead him to me. Oh Hugo, could you not manage 10 minutes while mummy squeezed into a tiny sweater heavily reduced in the sale? Chuffed to bits, he strutted around the shop being petted and praised by everyone. Awful boy. Truly awful.