Budding

Hugo was sick again at bedtime, and he looked so sad and pathetic that I felt worried leaving him to go upstairs. I cuddled his little body and thought again how precious he is to me. So hopefully that will teach me to close the larder door firmly every night, not just nearly every night. Friends have suggested a strong magnet, and that's what I will get. So I was delighted to be greeted by a whitling, wagging, licking mass of muscle this morning, and I thought his woes were over. He had his breakfast as normal, and then we had our walk. But after lunch we went out into the garden for a romp, and he tore around madly, bursting with energy he couldn't contain. I didn't discourage him - why would I? - but a short while later his entire breakfast surfaced. I cancelled a farewell tea I was due to attend in Aldeburgh (not mine, I ain't going nowhere) and kept a close eye on him. He settled in the conservatory, and I began to pick up leaves in a desultory fashion. But suddenly I was hooked, and before two hours were up I had mown the lawn with the ride-on, and the perimeter with the Black and Decker, I'd clipped all the edges back to make a smart finish, and mostly pruned the roses. Oh the happiness of seeing everything coming to life, so quickly and so lushly. Shrubs are budding furiously, and I decided for once to ignore the weeds that are doing the same. The joy is really unexpressable (sic) in words, but the sensation is of an airy space in the body, the lungs expanding, and the head filled with light. Everything feels open and receptive. The face smiles uncontrollably. It's like reciprocated love.

Recidivist

Hugo didn't move to greet me when I came down this morning and I soon realised why: his bed was littered with detritus from the larder including an empty box of crackers, an empty marzipan wrapper left over from the Christmas cake, and a tin of sardines. On the floor beside it were another tin of sardines, a box of eggs, a packet of paracetamol, a spilled box of herbes de Provence that went into yesterday's casserole, and a torn raisin packet. Only the tins, the pills, the herbs and the box of eggs had been left intact. A large lump of marzipan, a good quantity of raisins and several dry crackers had been consumed. I gasped in shock and stared at him with my mouth open. How had this happened again? I made him climb down off his sofa and sit on the floor to look at me. When I could speak I said quietly, "You're a very bad boy." He kept looking up to meet my eyes and then casting his head down again. He looked so sweet, but I wasn't ready to forgive him yet. I got him to sit on the doormat while I ate my breakfast, and he shifted around uncomfortably until I relented. I fed him though I didn't know whether to or not, and it all disappeared. He drank a lot of water too. We walked as usual, and then again when Ruth was here for lunch. A full six hours after I came downstairs this morning he was finally sick, on the kitchen rug. Ruth popped him outside while I started to clean the mess, and before long he'd been sick again, twice and hugely. Oh Hugo, poor little boy. He had taken advantage of a slightly open larder door to get inside and eat what he could reach. My fault of course. I brought him indoors again and cuddled him. "He's doing that face again," said Ruth, and she modelled two thumbs up and a smug, satisfied look. "He's just saying, hah, see what I can get away with". I looked at the two piles on the grass, and one was an untouched heap of raisins, completely unprocessed. The rest was presumably the marzipan, the biscuits and his breakfast. But it never really matters wht he does, I find him completely adorable and irresistible. Despite his mischief he's the best dog in the world.

I've been bad, so I'll pretend to be asleep

Teething Problems

It was Nick who spotted it first, and he pointed to my naked ride-on tucked away in its cosy corner. "Where's the cover gone," he asked, and I stared at him dumbly, and then back to the lawnmower in disbelief. Its black waterproof coat had vanished, but where could it be? I looked around the garden, and up onto the roof. I scanned the field, but I'd already walked there this morning and saw nothing. The cover was huge, and once the gale had whipped it off it would have flown like a bird, filled with air as it must have been. It could have got as far as Framlingham. I got into the car with my binos and set off along the lanes around me, but could see nothing. After 10 minutes or so, heading back past the church, I saw it in the driveway of Church Farm, lodged against a low wall. I shook it out, and it was unharmed. How I'd love to have seen it flying! Nick helped me to get it back on again, the tight elastic circumferance firmly wedged under the wheels, and neither of us could understand how it had got away.

A dog guard arrived by courier and I fitted it straight away in the car. It's  ideal, and Hugo jumped straight into the boot as soon as I indicated it. He should be quite safe in there. I've put his favourite travel bed in, and he looks perfectly at home. I'm happy too, now that he can't escape into the car. Though I should keep an open mind here: this dog can morph into the smallest shapes, and I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to squeeze between the bars. Anyway, it looks as if this is the way he is used to travel - thanks, previous owners who rehomed him, for passing on all this relevant information. We'll get there Hugo.

Or will we. I set off for the chiropractor in Earl Soham, Hugo in the back of the car. Almost immediately he started crying and pacing in his small space. I hushed him, tried to calm him, but he wasn't happy. Rather than have him traumatised by this new situation I called in at Penny and Roger's, and they were happy to have him off for a while. The chiropractor  also works on dogs, and she was full of suggestions but I'd already tried all of them. For some reason she found my hankering after Valium for both of us worrying. I think she thought I was serious: she asked if I knew they were addictive. With my aching neck and his stress I wanted to say: "Bring it on lady". But she was too nice to tease, and she's a great chiropractor.

Huffing and Puffing

The obelisks are down, the bins on their sides, and the big windows in the kitchen have felt as if they might burst in at any second. Thanks Doris. Hugo and I retreated into the sitting room at one stage, so frightening were the gusts, but so far so good. When I took him out for a pee it literally squirted sideways. Luckily I was downwind of him at the time. I paid a flying visit to Framlingham this morning to get some essentials, leaving the boy at home, and had to hold my breath every time I went near an oak tree with their dead branches hanging perilously over the road. By the time I got back my willow was sweeping the ground in a circle from the force of the charge, literally bent double. At least it was never going to snap. After I cleared the pond out and drained the water last week I set up a system of hoses to refill it from the three butts. How annoying to discover that, with the morning's heavy rain, I'd made a mistake and one of them had drained into the ground. What a waste. 

It has been really unpleasant listening to the wind all day, and so I distracted myself with some basic housework. With guests coming to lunch and tea on Sunday, and an afternoon of bridge, it is always a good excuse to get cleaning and tidying. Thanks to my source of free just-published and proof copies of books I am now overwhelmed and will have to build more bookcases. But I can never have too many. To drown out the sound of the banshees outside I listened to the opera on 3, Donizetti's Rosmonda d'Inghiliterra, and it was the spit of Lucia di Lammamoor, wonderfully lyrical and tragic, just what I needed.

The wind is still blowing hard but it's much calmer now, and we were able to attend to our toilet without getting blown over. Hugo always makes me smile, or laugh out loud, on these occasions because, once he's finished, he darts to the back door and whirls around like a giddy thing until I open it. Then he charges to the treats cupboard where he gets his one goodie of the day. He's fast asleep now and I'm about to follow him. Nick tomorrow, a gardening day. And so it goes round.

Requiem for a Peugeot

The car has gone to the knackers yard. It seemed it wasn't worth repairing. It was hard to believe that was the end when the scrap dealer turned up with his hearse to take it to its last resting place. Though it seems that the crows will pick over its bones first, which is why he handed me a cheque (not grubby notes) for £140. "I was surprised when I saw how new it was," he told me, "but in all honesty most of the newer cars we scrap are Peugeots. And we can sell the parts on." I bought the car in a hurry, in an emergency, four years ago and I've enjoyed driving it. But quality it never was, which is why I've opted for a Mazda again. My friend Frances went way beyond any job description when she drove from Woodbridge to collect me and Hugo, then drove us to Ipswich (past Woodbridge) to the car dealers, patiently sat through a test drive, then negotiated on my behalf to get the best deal on the price. And drove us all home again. I'll be washing her car for years to come in gratitude. I hope I can be as good a friend some day.

Being without a car off the beaten track has been strange, but people have been anxious to help and I haven't felt stranded. Today Chris from work came to take me out for lunch, which was generous of him since he also did my duty yesterday. We had a fine meal at the Badingham White Horse, picking hearty favourites from the 'Pensioner's Menu'. "Do you qualify?" he asked me doubtfully. "Oh absolutely," I told him. "Do you?" No, he admitted. "Well they're hardly going to challenge you," I said. And they didn't. We blissed out on liver and bacon with mashed potatoes and divine dark, rich gravy (me) and sausages amd mash, same gravy (him). I think it suits my body better to have my main meal in the middle of the day, but I'd miss the ceremony of supper. Knocking the top off a boiled egg and cutting up my soldiers would hardly be the same.

I planned a day of housework, much overdue, but in the event spent it in the garden, hoeing and raking the beds to a friable smoothness. Hugo frolicked around making me laugh, then settled in the warm summerhouse for a snooze. When I went out again after lunch and invited him to join me he visibly shuddered and huddled deeper into his bed as a chill breeze blew in through the open kitchen door. Wimpy whippet. 

False Economy

It's been a hectic couple of days, and now I'm in a right fix. In between getting into difficulties and nearly getting out of them again we've laughed ourselves silly at all the absurdities. The first nice thing that happened was meeting my new neighbour, David, who bought the cottage next-door-but-two to me, all of 500 yards away. I've been meaning to call on him since September, and finally stopped by when I walked past and saw him through his open front door. What a delight he is! He invited me in and we chatted and it became clear we would be friends. Olivia and I were due to have a drink with Sarah the next night, and when I told her about David she invited him too. He turned up with large bunches of daffodils for us both, a gentle charmer. We went for an hour and stayed for two, stumbling home across the lane in the darkness after far too much wine. So that was nice thing number two. And the third one was our earlier encounter with the barn owl which flew straight at us, only mildly deviating at about four feet away just as we thought it would fly straight into us. Its dear little heart-shaped face was a picture of concentration and curiosity as it stared at us, and we were dazzled. For ten minutes we watched it quarter backwards and forwards beside us until it disappeared over the trees.

And then the dice flipped the other way. After a wonderful walk at Sizewell and lunch at Aldeburgh we broke down on the way home. Timer belt gone, probably very badly damaging the valves as it caused the two parts of the engine to grate against each other and crunch to a halt. We were outside Rendham, and I just had time to glide across the road into the driveway of a hidden house. We called the breakdown people, and they came quickly. While we waited we thought we'd have a look under the bonnet, and Olivia propped it up. As we both leaned in to have a closer diagnostic look, the bonnet fell onto our heads. It hurt, but we couldn't stop laughing, thinking of how silly we would have looked with our heads trapped and our feet sticking out. In the end the car was taken to the garage across the lane from me and we were deposited home. I rang the breakdown people again to arrange a courtesy car only to be told I don't have sufficient cover. I don't know what possessed me to go for the cheap option when I took out new insurance a few weeks ago. I've had full cover for decades. I'm not laughing now. I'm stranded, Olivia has to get a cab to the station tomorrow, and I can't to my CAB stint on Monday. I can't go for lunch as planned on Tuesday, or walk with Sammy and dog on Wednesday. Will I be able to get to Italian on Thursday? Or to Halesworth on Friday? Who knows. No, I'm definitely not laughing now.

But then there was this, and that makes me so proud: 


 Olivia Laing ‏@olivialanguage
 

My little sis @KittyLaing, exec producer already. Can't wait to see @Kathbum's IN TROUBLE.

Happi Doze

What a sweet day it's been. The temperature has lifted by several degrees, and there was nowhere for the sun to hide. We set off for Happi Days in plenty of time, but I was in Sweffling before I realised I'd made mistake number one (at that stage I didn't know there would be others so it didn't have a number). So I had to drive all the way to Sax, and then all the way (big sigh) through Stratford St Andrew and Little Glemham and Marlesford before I got to where I should have been in the first place. And then I went to Melford. Happi Days is in Rendlesham. I ended up in Woodbridge Air Base where I used to go for Italian classes, instead of Bentwater WW2 air base. They are a long way apart. And so we were 30 minutes late for the start of Hugo's trial period, and he only had an hour and a half to run riot with the pack. When I collected him after a dash into Woodbridge to deposit my wad of £50s and grab a coffee they told me he had hurled himself into the action, and was welcome to come again time if he brings £15 with him. As he rushed at me and danced around my legs wagging his tail with zeal he cried and cried. It reminded me of dropping little children off at nursery, though I think it was me who wept then.

It was too nice to stay indoors so I power hosed the car and then set to in the front garden clearing the dead growth away. There is so much budding it seems astonishing that the plants have shrugged off the intense cold and come to life again. The desire to survive is very strong. Hugo followed me around but didn't really settle, so I shouldn't have been surprised to find him in his bed in the kitchen. I thought he'd love being in the sun, but he wasn't impressed. I carried on until I remembered not to go mad the first time I had a rake and a trowel in my hands, so I forced myself inside.

There is much to look forward to now the days are perceptably lengthening and the weather has softened. It's not spring - that could still be months away - but it's a reminder of what's to come. On our walk around the fields in the sunshine this evening I couldn't resist letting Hugo off his lead for brief spells. I scanned the ground for any movement, and called him back every few hundred yards or so to be safe. He came willingly and happily every time, the dear little boy, and each time I unclipped the lead again he was like a greyhound out of the traps. We'll find a suitable compromise eventually I'm sure. There has to be a way.

Photo of Californian poppies in their native setting, my absolute favourites

All Change

The boy and I fancied a change of scenery so we hotfooted it down to Bucks for a very long weekend. Suffolk was freezing when we left, and it was no better when we arrived, but we didn't spend much time outdoors. Our venue was a pristine house with a lot of light colours, and normally a black dog would not be welcome inside. Or any dog. But thankfully good old Hugo has already worked his magic, and we were in. For four days I didn't prepare a meal for him or myself, or even make a cup of tea. Food was produced with no effort from me, and wine flowed (I supplied most of that: I realise there's a quid pro quo element when it comes to hospitality). While we were there I sold my gold in a posh jeweller's shop, and received a large bundle of £50s for the old wedding rings. There was really no reason to hang on to them. We walked Hugo every day, but there was no possibility of talking a country ramble. The fields would have been too wet, and anyway it was too darned cold. It was a bit different from the last time we stayed, when October 31st was a scorcher.

Mostly Hugo behaved in an exemplary fashion. But the recycling on the kitchen counter proved to much for him to bear. First he stole the empty carton of Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie ice cream, looking suitably and convincingly chastened when discovered. But not 5 minutes later he was back, this time for an empty tub of cream. He's a very bad dog.

We arrived back home again in time for the second half of the France v Scotland six nations match, and I was glad I'd left the heating on while I was away. Is there anything worse than trying to heat a frigid, neglected house in the middle of winter? I hadn't missed the other matches on Saturday either, Ireland finding their form just a little late but smashing Italy 63-10 with some fabulous play, and England just managing to hold Wales at bay. They may be the leaders at the moment, but there's a way to go yet. I may not be able to watch the very last match of the series, Ireland v England, but if the result is good I'll catch it later. Otherwise my language may be too foul and the neighbours might hear.

On the way home I stopped off to buy an M&S prawn risotto for my supper. So why then did I stick a potato into the oven for a couple of hours and tuck into that instead, lavishly slathered in butter and cheese, the skin crusty and crunchy? I finished my meal with two bananas baked with golden syrup and lemon juice, served with thick, creamy Greek yoghurt. Wine may have been involved too. Now that I'm trying out a box of red I don't feel that I have to drink a glass every night once the bottle is opened. The pressure is off. It doesn't mean I can't. I just don't have to. How's that for a bit of reasoning.

Taking the Lead

The weekend involved a riverside walk, lunch in a dog-friendly cafe, and a mixture of rugby and music. Daniil Trifanov was beamed life-size to Woodbridge, courtesy of friends with a cinema and a direct line to the Berlin Phil. You can't help being moved by his extraordinary playing and equally extraordinary presence. He is without artifice, a performer who allows his audience into his own private space and treats them to the most intimate experience. He is a beautiful person, true and sensitive, and watching and listening to him is such a joy, a privilege even. I feel very blessed to be allowed to share this music.

 Hugo is getting used to being on the lead again as he was when he first came to me and I was too scared to let him run loose. He walks along with his head so close to my knee that, for the umpteenth time, I praise the people who trained him. But I want him to do his own thing once we're in the fields, albeit on the end of a long extension lead, and so I urge him on, tell him to move, and sometimes nudge his rear quarters to get him going. With him out in front I can watch to see where he is looking, and spot at once if his attention is suddenly focussed. It requires an alertness from me that I'm not used to when walking. Oh, I'm aware of everything around me, and notice slight changes to the topography, the light, and any unusual sounds. But I have tended to ignore Hugo apart from registering most of the time where he is. I like to daydream, but I can't do that any more. I've been warned that I must not let him pull me over if he suddenly decides to gallop. And I've heeded the warning.

I suddenly remembered Happidays, the dog play centre, and Hugo is booked in for a trial session on Thursday. For two hours I can wander in and out of the shops, visit the library, and maybe have a coffee. It sounds like such a treat, and I don't even like shopping. There's desperate for you. But I think he'll love it, and wish I could be a fly on the wall. On our walks now, if we meet the one or two dogs who share these fields, he can't charge towards them and play. It's such a shame. I wish there was a solution.

Sleepy boy resisting bedtime. He stood up, and then flopped sideways

As we left the house this morning a huge bird whistled past my ear and flew low along the edge of the field just inside the hedge. I thought it was one of the ubiquitous wood pigeons, perhaps the one who keeps raiding my bird feeder. But it was a beautiful white barn owl, and as I watched it swooped down and caught something in its talons. I know two people who would like to have seen that. I wish I could have taken a photo for them.

Frustrations

It was great to don wellies when I got home from work and take my little boy into the field again. We didn't go far, and he was on the lead, but we both enjoyed getting out in the sunshine. His leg seems to be much better, but I'm not taking any chances with it. We'll work up gradually to a full run, but yesterday he galloped wildly around the garden, turning on a 5p piece and stopping dead when I put out an arm. He was mad with delight and, like an E-type Jag or Aston Martin, can go from zero to 60mph in a second which he showed me he can still do. Evenings and mornings are perceptively lighter later and earlier, so it won't be long before we can walk farther, uninhibited by the early dusk.

I watched a group of young Irish people sing a song in Gaelic accompanied only by a bodhran, and was infuriated afresh by my complete inability to speak my native tongue. I couldn't understand a bleedin' word they said, and can do no more than count to 100 and recite a few prayers. Also, and significantly, I can ask to be excused, and I can send a nun off on her business after a visit with warm wishes and grateful thanks. I think I can ask someone to close the door, or the window at a push. That'll get me far. I left school in Dublin when I was eight. Had we stayed I might have been an accomplished Irish dancer as well. Being part of a diaspora leaves you with a yearning that can never be fulfilled. You belong neither here nor there, not really. You become more of a passionate patriot than anyone brought up in the home country. At some point during my four years at university in Dublin, beguiled by the many poetry reading evenings I attended, I enrolled on a beginners course to learn Gaelic, but just trying to cope with the spelling defeated me. It's not an easy language to learn, which is why you need to start as a young child. Darn, drat and blast. I'll have an Irish EU passport soon though, organised by my girls balking at Brexit who also qualify for Irish citizenship. I don't think it will be green with a harp on the front anymore, alas, but I'll carry it proudly all the same. Slan leat (pronounced slawn lath)!