Time

Who knows where the time goes? Sandy Denny wrote the song and sang it with her band Fairport Convention way back when, but if she hadn't I would have. Where does it go? How can it be Wednesday one minute, and Wednesday again the next? Why are there nine weekends in a month? It's all just a matter of perception, of course, but if I knew how to slow it down I would. Here we are again with a meeting of the Italian conversation group and yet again my plan to spend at least an hour a day revising has been scuppered. And yet it seems that the less work I do the better I speak it. And so I managed to tell the others what my week has been like in a mostly fluent way, throwing in words and phrases that I must have seen somewhere and which lodged in my mind without me actually learning them. I love speaking this language, it is so beautiful and expressive. If I can only make the next week stretch to seven days I might see a marked improvement next time.

I've had plumbers in looking at the possibility of putting a power shower into the downstairs loo. It's a fairly easy proposition apparently, a quadrant shower and small wash basin with extractor fan. They are practical and down to earth, the plumbers, lovely men, but within five minutes of each of the three arriving I knew every detail of their families, their homes, their dogs, their own bathrooms sanitary choices and, variously, their happy marriages. Wha? How do they do that? So rather than choosing the best quote I'll select the man who I think will be the most bearable to have around. Unbloodybelievable!

Hugo hurt a back leg while chasing another dog on the hard stones of Sizewell beach at the weekend, so we've been taking it steadily. Again and again I'm reminded of what a lovely boy he is. At the vets today he stood patiently and kindly while his body was probed and examined and a nasty jab administed into his fleshy neck. I say fleshy because my skinny whippet, who weighed just over 17kilos when I rescued him, tips the scales at 20.4 kilos today. That's six and a half pounds extra Hugo! You're a porker! Actually the vet thinks he's fine at that weight, bonny and sleek, and so do I. She commented on his coat which is soft and shiny, and his temperament which is placid and gentle. Oh Hugo. Wasn't it my lucky day when you popped into my life.