Laggng Behind the Joneses

The trouble with having the windows cleaned is that it shows up how dirty the insides are. It's insect poo mainly, but also the accumulation of moisture and dust in the air. Every time I've tackled the problem so far it has been very sunny, and they end up getting smeared. But I'm not asking for a dull day. Waking up to blue skies and sunshine, and enjoying the warmth and brightness, is far more valuable than clean windows. We've walked lots too, unable to stay indoors. Passing my lovely neighbour David on the lane the other afternoon as we headed off to the Woodland Trust, I stopped and asked him if he'd like to join us. He agreed instantly and hopped into the car. But walking with a stick as he does, I shouldn't have been surprised that he stopped every 20 meters or so to point something out and chat. He's a bookish man, and we always have lots to talk about. But by the time we got back to the car my feet were like blocks of ice. Lesson learned.

 Surfaces cleared, ready and waiting

Today my new work surfaces and sink are being fitted, and I was well prepared for the men when they arrived. All the surfaces cleared and wiped clean, the washing up done, dried and put away, the windowsills rubbed over with a damp cloth and the floor swept. It took less than half an hour, and begs the question yet again: why can I not do this on a routine basis? It's simple to accomplish, and satisfying. My forebears would have done it every day. I have to conclude that it's laziness, inertia, though this doesn't quite fit with my gigantic appetite for hard work in the garden, or the zeal with which I tackle the ironing minutes after it's come in from the line. Give me a garage or shed to clear out and I'll throw myself into the task without resting. Ask me to spring clean the summerhouse and I won't stop until it's completed, including all the windows inside and out, and underneath the furniture. The only time the house gets this sort of thorough attention is when I have people coming to stay, and thankfully that is happening this weekend. So the hoover has been hauled out of mothballs, and I've discovered a neatly folded pile of dusters from the last time I had a manic attack of domesticity and washed them all by hand. They had an emotional reunion with the polish. Very touching.

Penny and Roger couldn't have Hugo on Friday so I left him at home. For five hours he listened to Radio 4 and slept, and when I returned he was very pleased to see me but not at all stressed. It's a huge relief. We went straight down to Fram College grounds and he literally tore around the sports field at breakneck speed, not chasing anything but just for the fun of it. I made it more exciting for him by constantly changing my direction so he had to cover great distances to catch up with me but he was full of joie de vivre and it was a joy for me too to watch him. I'm sure the groundsmen will enjoy replacing any divots if necessary.

Hugging Harold, not posed by me

The Christmas cake. It's sides don't slope inwards - optical illusion

Under the Weather

I had a bit of a funny turn when I ushered at Snape last night, to put it mildly. Sitting by the door at the very front of the auditorium, I had to use all my will power to not make a fool of myself by being sick or fainting. It was a concert I'd looked forward to, so I left reluctantly, but in the nick of time. The drive home was not very nice. I put it down to a slightly old bit of mackerel for a very late lunch, not helped by having a piece of cake to try and calm things down. It didn't work. But yesterday otherwise was a very good day, what with the wall to wall sunshine again. In fact it was such a good drying day that I was able to cut the grass in the late afternoon, maybe for the last time this year. A coup de grace. The lawnmower picked up any stray leaves as well, and I gave it a good clean when I'd finished in case that's it until the spring.

Frosty morrning garden

This morning was so glorious again that I took Hugo up to the Woodland Trust for the first time in weeks. The last time they were clearing trees and much of it was out of bounds. When a bouncy red setter jumped up at the car window and scratched all down the door I decided to give it a miss for a while. Walking any distance was a struggle then too. Today, despite sore stomach muscles, I was feeling OK so we stepped it out and went further than we had for many months. It was so good to be out, to be not sick and to be alive on such a day. We were walking through a large open space when a very white dalmation suddenly dashed past me and hurled itself at Hugo. He was a bit taken aback, though he gamefully raced around for a bit with this dazzling creature anyway. But I could tell he was put out by the surprise attack and the speed and agility of the dog, and quite quickly he gave up and came back to me. That's my tactic, he was clearly saying.

Ready for sleep in his red pyjamas

7.15am Still snug as a bug

 On the way out to lunch today I bought the ingredients for the Christmas cake, and will make it tomorrow. Thinking about it makes me feel a bit queasy, and I probably was a bit more adventurous with my friend's cooking than I should have been, a.k.a I ate too much. I hope I haven't provoked the stomach issues again. Once is enough.

Mellow Fruitfulness

What gorgeous weather we've been having. Crisp and cold with clear skies and the sun, low as it is, flooding the countryside with light. We've had some great walks, Hugie and me, admiring the colours of the hedgerows and the fallen leaves, and breathing in the clean autumnal air. Yesterday we trotted along beside the mere under the castle walls where the reflection of bright colours in the shining water was breathtaking. For the first time I bemoaned the lack of a smart phone with a decent camera. But the cooler nights have brought consternation too. I had decided that Hugo should sleep in my room from now on, concerned about the vulnerability of the rubbish bin and the larder which I can't secure apart from with chairs. Soon there will be festive food everywhere too. And who wants to rearrange their kitchen before they go to bed every night? He came willingly, eagerly even as I carried his bed upstairs and he realised he was coming too. But in the morning I discovered that's he'd dragged the cushion out of his bed, and was perched atop this on one of the coldest mornings we've had so far, with no surrounding protection or warmth. He was shivering. The next night he was back in the warmer kitchen on his lovely soft sofa, but during the dark hours he'd pulled the throw into a clumsy attempt at a nest. He must have been cold again. There was nothing for it but the red polo neck sweater, so last night I pulled this over his head and folded the long arms up to give him room to move. This morning he was still wearing it, and had even pulled it down over his bottom. He was curled up like a little red viper, and there was no evidence he'd moved all night. He got up to greet me, wagging his tail as always, and this time he didn't look hangdog and embarrassed as he did the first time I put him in the sweater. He was pleased and proud, and happy to be cosy. Job done.

Floppy dog, soft as butter

This morning I took advantage of the lovely day to fill the wheelbarrow with logs which are now stored indoors in the various baskets. I moved the metal table and chairs into the shed, and the recliners to their designated hooks in the garage. Lastly I rolled my two large Greek urns into the summerhouse lest a ferocious frost should challenge their strength. Hugo still had his coat on, and as I played with him in the garden he kept dashing up to me, pressing himself against my side, and then performing a series of spins which threatened to topple me. Over and over again he whirled like a crazy dervish, another game I've discovered by accident and don't understand. He always ends up with his nose by my calf, so I know he must have been trained to perform. But what does it mean? He made me laugh so much I had to sit down, but there were no chairs left. Typical.

Peachy

What a perfect day. It's been sunny nearly all day, cold and quiet. I listened to the weather forecast in the rest of the UK and smiled. We'll get our share of gloom and rain, but not today. This morning I did some gardening, piling up the contents of the compost into a nice mulch around the shrubs. Nick had emptied the rich humous onto the beds and left it for me to distribute. The old energy was there, as it had been when we strode out earlier around the fields, and very grateful I am too. Hugo hovered around me as I worked, sitting gingerly on the grass with his bottom barely touching the ground and looking at me plaintively with sad whippet eyes. He couldn't find anywhere dry to rest, and could see no reason to stay outside. Eventually we both went in, and I spent much of the rest of the day cooking. I have friends coming for lunch tomorrow, vegetarians, and so I made a cashew, mushroom and parsnip roast with a tangy tahini sauce to go with it, plus a large quantity of tomato sauce for the freezer. The latter was mainly to use up a third of a bottle of red wine that I had forgotten to drink, and will make the basis for various Italian dishes. I enjoyed it so much, another of the pleasures of winter which I'm happy to revive. Summer cooking is more straightforward and simple, but winter stews with or without meat are a joy to make and eat, and they freeze well for future use.

In the evening Penny and I went to a concert at Snape, free usher tickets to hear Tenebrae sing the music of Parry and Taverner et al. I left my cosy kitchen, dog curled up on the sofa, and for two pins I'd have gone back in, lit the fire, and settled down in front of Strictly. I was glad I hadn't, though, as it was a good event, pure, clear voices singing in harmony for Remembrance Day. In the interval we had the most divine brownies that Snape always have in the cafe, but I've got to stop indulging my need for sugar. My wobbily midriff is a constant rebuke to me, as are too tight trouser waist bands, and the fat has to go. Not tomorrow though. I'll start on Monday. Or Tuesday.

Little People

I had a long conversation with Hugo this morning. No, seriously. It's taken a while to get to this stage, but it was as blissful and wonderful as I could ever have imagined. It started months ago, when he was being obviously loving and receptive, snuggling up to me, looking up into my face, and making a low moaning sound. I would replicate this, groaning gently and murmuring words like "Yesss", "I knowww", "Mmmmmm", using a long low strangulated sound in my throat to accompany them. Sometimes he would respond, and I would keep going, but it never lasted long. This morning, out of the blue, we kept it going for several minutes, alternating the sound of pure ecstasy so it became a smooth, unbroken murmur of intense feeling, a proper conversation. He was communicating "I love you!" and I was responding the same. In the end I had to stop because I felt a bit overwhelmed. The emotion was just too much for me. I made an excuse: "Just got to put the milk away, sorry" and moved off the sofa. He's an incredible little dog, with such a big heart.

Last night he didn't look little at all when he played with two miniature dachshunds, two naughtly little chaps it has to be said. Well, one naughty one. Stoic, sensible Otto, the rough-haired one who used to be tortured by his boistrous, ruthless brother Toby, heaved a sigh of relief when the thug keeled over one day and died. Now I can have some peace at last, he thought, and settled down to enjoy his new life. But Sophie and Alistair had other plans, and soon a tiny smooth-haired puppy called Digby joined the family. He's not a sadist, but he is endlessly active, curious and inventive. Otto rolled his eyes and turned his back on everyone, stopped eating, and the vet diagnosed depression. Oh Otto, how could this be happening? But with special love and attention he rallied, and now the two are good friends. Otto is still stoic and sensible, and he watches his brother get into constant trouble with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Who's been into my bedroom and torn the entire loo roll into shreds all over the carpet?" David demanded at one point. "Who's done a poo on the hall carpet?". "Who's chewed the lid of the kitchen bin?" Hugo watched it all from the safety and comfort of his bed after fending off the two barking bodies for several minutes when we arrived. He let them jump at him, he allowed them to lick his face and smell his bottom, and then, irritated by the noise they mde, he quietly moved away. Hugo, Hugo, Hugo, was there ever a more darling dog?

Surprises

By chance, by just the unlikeliest of lucky strokes, I went on the Celtic website to look at replacing my ruined sheepskin boots when I spotted a heading I nearly missed and had never noticed before: Repairs and Resoles. With my jaw on my chest I watched a video of old soles being ripped off ageing boots to be replaced by new ones, all for a mere 25% of the cost of new ones. The bin men come today! The boots were in the bin! The men were late! I retrieved the boots!! Now that feels like a good outcome to yesterday's foolish fiasco. I get to keep my favourite boots and they will be like new. That's happiness. Simples.

It wasn't my only triumph: I collected a load more firewood from Len's yard and trundled it down to the woodshed. It's looking seriously busy down there now in a good way, though I'm not entirely happy about the load of wood I got from Framlingham College. It's a bit too lightweight, and you need something more solid like oak or ash to keep the woodburner going all evening. I'm probably burning more than I'm used to, but I can always get more. If there's one thing in ready supply in Suffolk it's people selling firewood.

Neil came by yesterday evening to do the last minute measuring for the new kitchen worktops and sink. He's such a nice man, and he exudes competence which is a very attractive quality in a tradesman. He told me I should put my two Villeroy & Boch sinks on e.bay and make some money - apparently they retail at around £250 each, ridiculous. What's wrong with B&Q? We compared notes on our magnetic bracelets, and both reported a marked improvement though I haven't done any gardening for over a week so the weekend should be telling on my thumb joints. These past few days have been mostly lovely, the sun bringing out the auburns and golds and oranges of the leaves both fallen and still attached to the trees and hedges. It's a real pleasure to step out on our walks, and hard to imagine that in a few weeks the landscape will be bare, pared back and colourless. Carpe diam, that's all you can do. Make the most of what's there, and trust that it will be replaced by something beautiful, in some way or other.

The Other Half

Hugo stayed with Roger while Penny and I had what I suppose could be called a "girls' day out". Luckily she didn't name it as such when she asked me to join her or I'd probably have refused. Visions of shopping bags and aching feet would have forced me to demur. We had good fun over lunch, but first we went to the glaucoma clinic in Ipswich for her to have her peepers checked. It was a bit of a revelation. The centre is very nice, clean and new, quick service. But all the patients were very evidently middle class. None of my "friends" from Leiston were there, the ones I help claim benefits, and fight the system when papers are lost and the money dries up. This was very odd, because down the road Ipswich Hospital itself would be jam packed with people like them, grey-faced, old before their time, drawn and anxious. And then it occurred to me that they probably can't afford to have their eyes tested and get issues like glaucoma highlighted. If they need specs more than they need to fill their electricity meters, paying much more for their power than those who can afford to do direct debits monthly, they go to Boots and get something cheap and ready-made. No optician's fee needed. And that goes for the dentist too. I see the proof of this when someone sits opposite me as we gently and carefully go through their paperwork and make desperate phone calls to Government departments. God, but that depressed me, and I needed a very large glass of Sauvignon to cheer me up again. I'm not going to go on about this. But could Bevan have envisaged such a situation 69 years after the NHS was founded?

I lit the woodburner as usual and retired to the warm kitchen as it gradually heated up. When I went in to check on its progress and throw another log on the blaze I got a sniff of that terrible burning smell when flame and wool coincide. Yup, a fat red ember had leapt onto the carpet and left its mark. There was a time when that would have caused me great distress, but I just rubbed most of the burnt fibres away and returned to the kitchen. Who can take such things seriously when people are going blind because of poverty? Not me. But the next catastrophe did rock me. I put my sheepskin boots on a towel on the Rayburn to dry after a glorious walk in the rain with Hugo. I checked a few times and they seemed to be OK, but this was the same Rayburn that scorched half a dozen pairs of my knickers which I had draped across the top to air when I first moved here. The rubber soles of the boots seem to have inverted inwards in the heat. I'm not sure if they will be usable again, but I'll wait until they've cooled to check. I'll try to take this set-back in my stride too, ha ha.

Town and Country

We came back from the city in bright yellow sunshine, two country mice, and before a thing had been unpacked from the car we set off through the fields for a massive stomp. Hugo had been fairly settled most of the journey, with no elaborate panting, and I thought it only fair to reward him. It's not that we hadn't been out in the fresh air all weekend. First we explored Wandlebury country park set on a hill in the Gog and Magog range, kicking up the leaves and letting Hugo off the leash to chase squirrels. The next day we walked from Foxton to Newton along a delightful path that wove through fields and woods alongside a clear stream. The reward at the end of this outing was an old, old pub serving platters of rare roast beef and eye-watering horseradish relish with pints of Adnams. Finally we prospected Queens' College lawns, wedding venue par excellence, in expectation of summer nuptials. They say a change is as good as a rest, and it's true. I love this homely, arty, sophisticated, cosy, pretty, sharp, book-lined, welcoming Cambridge house that one of mine now calls home. And Hugo quickly negotiated the two flights of stairs, and worked out how to hover helpfully around others than me whenever food was being prepared. Oh yes, we're not stupid.

Oh yes, Hugo enjoyed the weekend too

I read India Knight's piece in the ST yesterday and smiled to myself. She moved from Hackney to the very rural spread nearby that she bought from friends of mine two years ago. Like Catholic converts she's much more zealous than those born to country life, and boy does she verbalise her delight. A bit like me. So it was no surprise that she was banging on about the joys of winter, and how we should allow ourselves to sink into its slower pace and the cocooning effects of extreme darkness. S'natural, isn't it? S'normal. As was pointed out to me at the weekend after my latest rant, this is a much more intuitive state to adopt in the country than in towns. Of course it is, there being no artificial distractions like street lights, traffic, bars and people. She feels blessed to have rediscovered this world which is even more accentuated in the colder months, and I couldn't agree with her more.

Takes The Biscuit

A moron called at my house this morning. Or didn't. Or did. Who knows? If he did he lied about the time, and made no effort apart from maybe tapping on the back door with a glove to let me know he had arrived. I should have realised when Hugo hurtled upstairs, tail wagging madly, and danced excitedly around me. I thought he was pleased to see me after an absence of two minutes. Most dogs would have barked. I know what this behaviour means now. But it's too late. After waiting seven weeks for someone to attend to my Rayburn, I now have to wait another six. Weeks. He won't come back today though he surely must have time. Or tomorrow. I find his actions unbelievable. He didn't hammer on the door, or ring my number, he just came, or so he said, and then left. If there was someone else I could book to come I would, but in the whole of Suffolk there are just three heating engineers who handle Rayburns, and one of those won't touch newer versions like mine. The other ones are not to be trusted. I found this out by bitter experience and a lot of money. Thank goodness the boiler is working, though not properly. I can't get the heating to stay on when the water has reached maximum temperature, and nor can I make all the radiators work at once. But I'll survive.

I'm into winter pyjamas now, lovely thick flannelette ones that keep out the chill. The only problem with them, all five pairs that I own (I know), is that the legs and arms ride up constantly, exposing elbows and knees, and I spend the whole night waking up to pull them back into place. I've tried poppers, patent fasteners, safety pins, but none of these methods work. I've considered elastic, but think how foolish that would look, like a clown, or a toddler. I've thought of taking them in so that the sleeves and legs are too narrow to move. But life's too short. Much too short.

Nice

I counted four pairs of skylarks singing in the sky above us as we walked out this morning. Several more could be heard a short distance away, but they climb so high they are difficult to see against the light sky. Their sound is so joyful, I hope they don't think spring is here. Already the green shoots of winter wheat are ankle high though just over a week ago the field was completely brown. I've been collected dead wood on our outings because they burn so quickly when added to my normal kindling. Yesterday Len, who owns the building company behind Sarah's house, came to quote for my new kitchen worktops - belts and braces - and he told me to help myself to the huge bags of wood offcuts that he has no use for. I couldn't get around there until after 5pm by which time it was getting quite dark. But I took the car and loaded up the boot, and today I transferred them to the woodshed. They are fantastic, really big chunks that will save my smaller pieces of timber. Good old Len. Hope he quotes mates' rates for the work too.

Between us Nick and I have cut down everything that needed it, moved anything that I'd found a better place for, raked up the leaves, weeded the beds, left everything looking tidy and neat. The satisfaction is immense. Next week we'll get started on the poor neglected front garden. We're going to completely remove the echinops whose thistle-like flowers may be pretty in an architectural way but which are otherwise a menace, spreading underground to appear where you don't want them. Most of the Japanese anenomies will follow though we'll keep a small clump. Anything else I don't like is coming out. I'm going to be firm. Then the whole area should be more manageable when I can see what I have got, and what I need to add. I asked Nick if he knew anyone who would want my old bike, the one nobody uses, and he said he'd have it himself. He set about adding WD40 to the chain and pumped up the tyres to try it out. I was going to put it in the lane with a sign saying "Help Yourself" but he said it was too good and insisted on paying me. I refused point blank. I'm already hugely indebted to him.