Pushing Boundaries

We got caught in the rain as we walked this morning, but instead of turning back and putting on a cagoul we continued on our way. It was light showers, not cold or unpleasantly wet, and rather nice to be out in. I was heading for the bath and a hair wash anyway, prior to meeting a friend for lunch at the Leaping Hare, so what the heck if I was a little damp? How Hugo would have loved to encounter a hare, leaping or otherwise. He knew they were out there somewhere, he could smell them and where he caught a scent I ould see the flattened grass showing their tracks. But nothing appeared. It's a relief in a way that he hasn't found any quarry to pursue for well over a month now, but I'm quite keen for him to try out his gaiters and see if they stay in place. He wears them on every walk where he'll be off the lead, his little red and black gaiters, and many comments and questions they elicit. When I'm sure they work I'll add a few more primary colours to his wardrobe - emereld green, perhaps, and daffodil yellow. Very chic.

I looked at the "Pictures of the Day" on the Times online this morning and felt my legs turn to jelly. Luckily I was sitting down. Here it is, the most sickening, terrifying, baffling shot imaginable. Why? I ask. Why would anyone choose to put themselves in that position? Even thinking about where they are sitting makes me tremble. Standing at the full-length plate glass windows in the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Centre decades ago with my then husband, me behind him with my hands on his waist, I gently pushed him forwards. He turned around to laugh, but it was me who half fainted, ashen-faced and needing to be put on a chair with my head between my knees, well away from the window. Not an irrational fear at all, in fact very sensible, but with my feet firmly on the ground something still compels me to look.

Please tell me they're strapped in

My family are all many miles away at the moment, one in Montreal and the other in Tuscany. Both are work related, but they sound like ultra-jollies to me. One rang me from her bed compartment on a BA flight just before take-off at 6pm. The flight is seven hours long. "What on earth do you need a bed for?" I asked. "You'll be there before you'll want to sleep." As she accepted a glass of chilled pink champagne from the steward she told me she would settle back and watch a couple of films, supine and comfortable with a few nice pillows propping up her head and blankets to keep her cosy. Call that work? The other one is staying at a luxury hotel/spa complex that is housed in most of a converted but still authentically unspoiled Tuscan village. She will be the writer in residence for two weeks, and all she has to do is give three 10-minute readings from her books. Her fiance is there too, all expenses paid. Call me an old reactionary, but is that work? Seriously, I look forward to hearing all the details of both sojourns when they get back. It's called living vicariously, but I really don't begrudge them a single second of their fascinating lives. The pleasure is all mine.