In Our Stride

Hugo is very sad today. All his buddies have gone home and he's left with just me. He's mooching around a bit, in part because of the heat, and the lack of a good gallop, but also the absence of  myriad hands ever ready to obey his commanding beak and stroke him; different warm bodies to snuggle up to and rest a heavy head on. "Is this it?" his body language is asking. "Just you and me again?" Big sigh. I sigh too Hugo, but just think how nice it will be to find the serving spoons in the cutlery drawer and not the utensils one! The sharp knives in their correct positions in the knife block! And, best of all, the loo lids permanently closed! I'm joking. I like the house to ring with laughter and conversation, meals to be jolly, lingering affairs and not plates on a tray in the summerhouse, with a book or crossword. Over the past ten days I've cooked three of the new Jamie recipes involving only five well-chosen ingredients, all rated a success. Summer pudding made another appearance. And there were home-made meringues, plums from our own trees, and wonderful white Burgundies from the cellars of King's College. I know I sound like one of those Facebook boasts: "Just eaten at Gordon Ramsay's at Heathrow on our way to Bali for three weeks! Here's a photo of me with Leonardo di Caprio who we met over lunch and is now our best friend! Christmas in Los Angeles with his family! Wish you were here (not) (only joking!) (not!)!!"

I got a lot of washing done and dried including all the bedding, now joining the Ben Nevis of ironing piles. Barely a stitch has been ironed for nearly four weeks save for in an emergency when a grubby gardening shirt just would not suffice. You can't appear in public looking like a tramp. I've seen the look on the face of the girl who takes my Sunday Times voucher in the filling station shop every week when I turn up in wellies, long muddy shorts and a once-lovely striped shirt covered in woodstain. I always use my best voice and thank her profusely but her smile is a mildly pitying one. But I have friends who wear make-up and smart clothes to perform a similar errand, and the mucky pup is closer to the real me.

Hugo has his stitches out tomorrow, and I must admit to being nervous of taking him on a proper walk. He's longing to be let off the lead, and I'm longing to oblige him. But I dread encountering other dogs now, and think I will have to put him on the lead whenever we meet one. I especially dread meeting his attacker. I know he is nervous too. But I refuse to be cowed. We've had the best fun up at Pound Farm, often meeting no one at all on our hikes, and I won't be prevented from this favourite activity by one aggressive bitch (and I say the word with resounding venom) and her neglectful owners. Fingers crossed.