Action!

The best thing that's happened to me in yonks was buying an electric version of the pumice stone. Two minutes, less even, on each foot and all the hard skin had gone leaving me silky smooth. I'll never need to visit the chiropodist again. When I read the reviews of these contraptions I was doubtful, but they works like magic. I'm thrilled skinny.

Hugo is out of his buster collar, and I've rediscovered the pleasure of kissing his head and his face, denied me for over a week. He's licked and scratched all the bits he hasn't been able to reach, and thankfully they did not include his eyes which appear to be fully recovered. To celebrate his freedom, and to get rid of his sweaty smells, I stretched the hose pipe all along the lawn in the sun, and when the water inside was hot I gave him a shower. He went berserk afterwards, hurling himself aaround and rolling in the grass to dry off, and I just stood with the camera, snapping his antics. At one point he travelled nearly the entire length of the lawn on his tummy. He smells good again now, and his coat is soft and glossy. I thought of my delight in touching and holding him when I watched part one of a programme I'd recorded. It shows an experiment with small children matched with old people who have given up a bit on life and whose physical, mental and emotional faculties have gone downhill. After two weeks the joy and innocent happiness of the 4-year-olds had spread to the geriatrics whose mood and mobility showed a marked improvement. Holding a small child's hand is one of the greatest pleasures you can have, one octogenarian stated. The message was obvious: keep active, be sociable, and above all have a toddler in your life. I panicked a bit then, not having regular access to anyone younger than 38. Would Hugo do as a substitute, I wondered? He doesn't do cuttin' an' pastin', nor colourin' in, but when it comes to cuddles and fun he's nearly as good as a child.

I've just finished reading Precious Bane by Mary Webb, a book that has haunted my unconscious since I was 8 and watched a dramatisation on a very early TV, with a very young Patrick Troughton as Gideon Sarn. The harelip scared me half to death, but Prue Sarn is a heroine in the mould of Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennet and Dorothea Brooke, albeit a less refined one. Webb's style captivated me from the beginning, and her descriptions of the natural world and the hardships and tragedies of rural life in the early nineteen hundreds was worthy of Thomas Hardy. Virago brought out new editions of her books a few years ago and I intend to buy and read them all. What a find. I'm hooked.