Good Cheer

Sod has been at it again, evil bugger. Just can't resist making life difficult, can he. I came home from last minute shopping in Fram just before the first Christmas guest arrived, and put the car in the garage out of the way of the other three cars to follow. I put my shopping bags on the drive, and went back into the garage to get a few double adaptors to accommodate all the chargers that would be moving in and needing sockets. Then I came out of the garage, pushed home the padlock on the door as usual, and went about my last-minute preparations indoors. Cue forwards a day, and out I went to the garage to get one of the six four-packs of bottled sparkling water. But where were my keys? Oh, the house was hunted through high and low, the bins were emptied, the garden was scoured, to no avail. There was no way into the garage. The men went out, together and severally, and they sucked their teeth and tried to undo screws, and then they came back in and sighed sadly and said it was no go, no go at all. Well, that was a red rag to a bull. When they were all otherwise occupied I went out with my hammer and chisel and screwdriver, determined to prove them wrong. I had to. We needed water!!! Immediately I broke a chisel. But then I spotted the bolt's weak spot and I went at it with the hammer, backwards and forwards until, bingo! - I smashed the loop on the bolt, and it came undone. And there inside were my keys. Oh they were all proud of me, and I milked my big moment for all it was worth. And we had water. Such a change from all that champagne.

Nothing went wrong after that. Hugo was the cynosure of all eyes, and lapped up the attention. He is so loved! He slept in the garden room with me and stole no food, though he was fed plenty I noticed. He had great walks, along the beach, up on the cliffs, through the woods, around the fields. He sat under tables in pubs, and squashed onto laps in cars. And he loved it all.We had such a good time over the seven days they were here. The pile of presents under the tree was frankly embarrassing, and it took over two hours for them all to opened one by one to enthusiastic comments from everyone. We finally had lunch at 7pm. And I now have to wean myself off alcohol, sugar, chocolate and company. But I've still got Hugo.

A delicious excess

Tiger boy

What am I Mummy?

Some of our best walks were in the college sports field when Hugo went berserk with delight and careened about everywhere. And this morning that was where we headed for our final walk with the last two visitors. All that heavy rain has swollen the stream that borders the field on three sides, and it tumbled along recklessly, tumultously. I love that sort of water, it excites me. And it had the same effect on the dog as he rocketed around chasing other pooches and haring back to us, bouncing in the air from time to time as he ran. Nothing is more guaranteed to make us all smile.

Now it's all over for another year, but it was a really fun time. I have sheets and duvet covers and pillow cases to wash and iron, towels to launder and tumble dry soft, hoovering to be done, and dusting, and bathrooms to clean. I can honestly say I revel in the thought, a huge distraction and a pleasure in itself as I put my house back to rights. It has stretched its friendly walls to embrace us all, my family, the best of people. I love them all.

Unsuccess

So, the chicken sheds are staying put. Or at least they may be replaced by state of the art hen concentration camps, once the old ones have been pulled down and the asbestos removed. Well, it's an agricultural business isn't it, in an agricultural spot, providing jobs for local people. A poultry farm has been there since the 50s, so it's got form, previous. Yes, there are feathers flying around, dust, stink, flies, particles of dried poo, the stench of death, chicken shed maintenance traffic and noise. In the summer it can be intolerable for the neighbours opposite when the sheds are cleaned out. But they chose to live there, didn't they. Who can they blame but themselves? I thank the lord that I am at the opposite end of the village, and only experience any of these problems when I walk the dog that way. I simply could not live there, for many reasons.

After a jolly day at work when most clients stayed away, I walked Hugo on the college sports field. He knows the score by now, and he raced down the steps and then zigzagged from right to left wildly as I always trick him into doing, unleashing lots of energy. But the grass was wet and he was running too low to the ground. He slipped, skidded along the ground on his side for several yards, and then was up and off again with barely a falter. Gosh, but he covered a lot of ground. And when I thought he would have no energy left, he spotted two little dogs at the opposite end of the field and hared towards them. "Wow!" called their lady owner when she saw his speed. "Golly!". Still he had oomph to spare, and a pale labrador didn't stand a chance as Hugo pelted up to him and charged away, repeating the exercise a couple of times. His joy is so obvious, the pleasure he takes in letting his body have full rein, and I just watch in admiration, laughing at his antics. Soon he'll have a house full of pals and he won't know himself. What raptures.

Solstice

I don't know who Sod is but his law is a right bugger. It dictates that if something can go wrong it will, but why did he have to cause everything to malfunction today? It began with the Christmas tree whose erection is generally very simple thanks to the purposely-designed pot I acquired a few years ago. Stick the tree in, turn the three equidistant screw mechanisms to their full extent, and then decorate it. But the trunk was too skinny, and I couldn't get all the screws to fit into their slots. After a couple of hours I decided to have a change of scenery, and set about another necessary task, that of cleaning the masses of mud that has accumulated on the patio by the back door. I duly put on my waterproof trousers, a cagoul and the enormous wellies left by a recent visitor, and went outside. I love this job. I attached the power house and the water supply and switched on. Nothing. There was no water coming out of the patio tap. Undaunted, I hauled up the hose from the end terrace and attached that instead. Still nothing. Clearly the charming plumber who fitted my kitchen worktops has turned the outdoor supply off, but hunt as I would I could not find the problem. So I ended up bringing buckets of water out of the kitchen and brushing the muck away. By the time I finished I felt as if I'd spent a day in a coal mine, exhausted and mud spattered.

It's the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Living in a rural place, this feels very real. If I hadn't been involved in such frenzied activity today I would have spent some time sitting in contemplation by a window with a long view. One of my favourite pleasures is thinking about who might have lived in my house, and in this village, what their lives might have been like. And what they might have been doing in the depths of winter, on this very day. A document I found lists the occupations of villagers at various times from 1500 to 1912:

1 husbandman

1 yeoman, 1 glover

9 yeomen, 2 linen weavers, 1 weaver

5 yeomen, 1 cooper, 1 clerk,

2 spinsters

62 in agriculture, 11 in retail trade, 9 in domestic service

Shoemaker, 2 blacksmiths, 2 wheelwrights, schoolmaster, joiner/shopkeeper, corn miller, 9 farmers

Sub-postmaster, school teacher, carpenter/wheelwright,blacksmith, 5 farmers, 2 farm bailiffs, shopkeeper, carrier, poultry dealer, thatcher, bootmaker

The mind goes into overdrive. How did the 62 agricultural workers and the farmers deal with the mud on their boots and clothes when they came home from work every evening? How did they dry their wet work things? Did they let their dogs run in and out of the house when weather conditions were bad, or like me did they curse as they washed muddy feet and undercarriages after every outing? Were they warm? Or were they always cold? I hope not. And during this, the longest evening, all those years ago I hope they had candles and firewood and could take advantage of the extra few minutes away from work to rest and replenish their spirits.

Common Intent

Say what you will about Christmas, it makes people much nicer. Framlingham was all a-bustle this morning, everyone moving around with purpose, striding from shop to shop, from shop to car, laden with bags and parcels and pagan greenery. And presumably because we all had a common purpose, we caught each other's eye, we smiled, we grinned, we shared an unspoken intent. Despite the controlled frenzy, the sense of urgency, folk seem more relaxed, more open and friendly. I love it, I really do. I wish it could always be thus.

Later I spent half an hour in the middle of a very muddy, slippery wood behind a farm, picking out a Christmas tree. I had tried to get one as usual at Fram Market on Tuesday, but they had all gone by the time I got there. I didn't dare wait until he returned on Saturday with reinforcements, so I put out a request on the community website: "Help! Can anyone tell me where to buy a Christmas tree?". And my friend Caroline rang me almost at once to tell me about friends down in Bruisyard who used to farm pigs but specialise in sheep, goats, and seasonal trees. Rupert was playing tennis with Patrick when I got there, but Sally gamely lead me up through the wood to the small plantation where they've been planting and selling for 8 years. "Sawn or dug up" she'd asked me on the phone, and I went for the former. But the tree I chose was a bit close to the ground so she decided to dig it up. "I expect you're an old hand at this," I remarked, but no, it was her first time. And after 10 minutes of thrusting the spade into the ground and trying to get the tree to move, she gave up. We agreed that Rupert would drop it off at my house later, and there it was when I returned from lunch. It's a marvellous thing, the Nextdoor website, with people down the road or in the next village recommending local tradesmen who don't charge a fortune. Thanks guys.

Woops!

Why is Facebook showing on my home page an ad for pee-proof pants that obviate the need for chemically doctored panti-liners? I know these ads are tailored to the individual, but why do they think I leak when I "cough, jump or hoola-hoop"? As the Queen so memorably said in a conversation with Prince Harry re the Invictus Games and the Obamas, Oh really!

I was trying to fit strong magnets onto the larder door to stop Hugo getting in and stealing food when the phone rang and it was my neighbour Sarah. "Where are you?" she asked, and I remembered with a sudden lurch that I was meant to be at a drinks party at her house. It was 7pm, and I was already half an hour late. "Shall I just come as I am?" I asked, and I dropped everything and dashed across the lane. What a lovely evening it turned out to be, such a jolly time. David and I stayed on after most people left, at Sarah's request, and it was late before I got home. The two of us stood outside looking at the sky, the stars so bright and clear you felt you could touch them. "God I love living here," I said passionately, only partly because of the drink. "Don't you?" "Well," he said, but he didn't finish. Hah! I'll get to the bottom of that next time we meet. I love a juicy story.

Hugo must have been discombobulated by my sudden disappearance, and he was overjoyed to see me return. Like the good boy he is he popped out straight away and did what he had to do. He didn't find it so easy last night. Before I went to bed I performed the final oiling of the new oak worktops, and because the smell is so awful I took the dog up to bed with me. I put in earplugs, because he was having a long sloppy licking session when I was ready for sleep, but even with this diminished hearing I was still aware of a disturbance. Putting on the light I saw him trying to make a bed out of two pillows on the floor. They are waiting to go on a Xmas guest bed, and he must have liked the look of them. "Go back to bed," I told him, and he did. A few hours later I woke again, and he was standing by the door. I took him downstairs, and he shot out into the garden. Poor little fellow must have been bursting for ages. The day had been horribly wet and he hadn't had proper walks, so he had obviously got a bit behind with his programme. After that there wasn't a peep out of him until I got up at 7am when he tried to get up and greet me but had got all tangled up in his makeshift red woolly pyjamas. Dearest creature.

Getting the Message

I've made a vat of bread sauce and frozen it. I had to rent a big enough one from Adnams Brewery. For some reason my family can't get enough of it, and so I doubled the usual quantity while listening to Christine McVie on Desert Island Discs. Her choice of music was great, a real blast from the past. But her own composition, Songbird, doesn't do anything for me. Not so Walking In The Air which I listened to this afternoon when the film of The Snowman was shown while a large orchestra played at Snape Maltings. A boy treble  called Oliver brought a lot of magic into the auditorium, and the film itself did the rest. Even the tiniest children in a packed house sat still for half an hour. The film was made in 1982 and it remains very special. The usher sitting next to me pointed out that most of the parents in the audience weren't even born then. I choked back tears when the little boy runs back to hug the Snowman goodbye. Aaah.

New mocha and old mocha

My old sheepskin boots have come back from Celtic with new soles, new heels and new toes. They are a new size too, and I struggled to get my feet into them. I checked on the receipt that came with them and it says they are size 4. That's interesting because they were a size 5 when I sent them back. I've never bought footwear smaller than that. The sheepskin inside is very thick, and it always takes ages for it to settle down when it's new. I know this because I've been buying their slippers for years and am on my third pair now. The other two have been relegated to the role of guest slippers. When first they arrive you feel as if your feet will suffocate, so tight and hot do they feel. The colour of the boots is mocha, though they must have faded so much that you'd never know it. I don't mind that the new bits are a completely different shade; presumably they too will fade. But some miscommunication has caused this error, and so I must have a conversation with them tomorrow and try to sort it out. Drat. I've really missed them and was thrilled when they arrived in the post yesterday

The Fat Goose

I'm feeling very Christmassy, and there are still 10 days to go. The Royal Mail and all of the national delivery carriers are forming an orderly queue at my gate, bringing the presents I have chosen online right to the door. All I have to do is check everything is exactly as I ordered, and then make sure I hang onto receipts and wrappings in case anything has to go back. It's not that I've taken the lazy way out, far from it. Very much research has gone into everything I have bought, hours and hours of internet shopping, humming and hawing, wondering and considering and deciding. I'm very pleased with my purchases, and I hope the recipients are too. But if not, they can choose for themselves, replace what they don't like or don't want. Thank god for the internet, three cheers for Google. How we managed before they came along I know not.

I made a decision several months ago to let the boy off his lead in the fields behind the house, provided that when I scan in all directions I can't see any hares. It's not a foolproof plan of course, but I think the risk of him running off occasionally is worth taking. The pair of us plodding along together is too depressing, and he needs to run. It worked until yesterday when he suddenly got interested in a dry ditch, sniffing energetically where he was getting a scent. Amazingly a large hare jumped out of the ditch and ran off across the field, but he didn't see it! He was just yards from me and I called him to come, but as he always does before he obeys, he looked behind him to see what fun he might be missing. And so he spotted the hare and that was that. Like the Pinball Wizard, he was deaf, dumb and blind to me and my exhortations. The animal had quite a head start on him, and Hugo was wearing his coat, but he quickly began to make up the distance. I watched as the hare began zigzagging to try to put him off, and then they both disappeared from sight. I wasn't too worried. At 10 in the morning the lanes were quiet, and he knows his way home. Eventually he turned up covered, no plastered in mud, and I had to bring a bucket of hot water into the garden to wash him. He had no injuries apart from a very tiny cut near his dew pad which has know healed. And he was triumphant, though I'm sure he didn't catch his prey. "Good boy" I told him. "Clever boy finding your own way home". But he didn't hear me. He had fallen into a deep, deep sleep.

Hither and Thither

I woke just after 1am and thought about the Christmas cake. I had just marzipaned it, and it was safely tucked away in a cupboard awaiting icing in a few days. But was it really safe from Hugo? I'd left him trussed up in his red sweater/pyjamas a few hours earlier, but still wasn't sure I could trust him. So down to the kitchen I went, only there was no dog. His day bed was empty, and so was the sofa. All doors were closed. "Hugo", I called in a panic. And from under the slanket there came movement, and eventually a head poked out and blinked. "It's alright," I quickly said. "Stay where you are." I put a chair against the cupboard - the third such protection (note to self: must get really strong magnets) and went back to bed.

We got soaked this morning on our walk, leaving the house with not a drop in sight and then a deluge followed us around the field. The boy raced across the young wheat to greet a friend, and when he returned his coat was plastered in mud. But by the time we got home the rain had washed it clean. My jacket and trousers were wet through, and even my hat had taken a hit and my hair was damp. Never has the kitchen felt so welcoming. No sooner had I changed than I heard the hedge-cutting tractor, and ran outside again waving £10 notes. But the driver said he couldn't get into the field until frost hardens it again, and he would come back. Hmmm. I'll believe it when it happens.

I couldn't order the turkey online so had to go into Waitrose, twice in two days. But I bought the Christmas pud too, and some Heston chicken stock. I got more icing sugar as well. And gallons of sparkling water. Gallons. We drink it like wine here. Loo rolls, kitchen roll, nice jams and marmalades, croissants. I'm getting there. It'll be a right merrie Christmas and no mistake.

Last of my birthday roses

Birthday 'mums still going strong

Hot and Cold

I lit the fire and the lamps and turned the sitting room into a warm and desirable nest yesterday evening, then settled down to watch Strictly. But I got sidetracked by a film called Valley Uprising, about rock climbing in Yosemite National Park. I had been looking for Into The Void, a movie about a man stranded high up in a mountain and dangling from a rope after a fall, when his partner decides to cut it to save his own life. What happens next is so beyond extraordinary that I've never forgotten it, and thought it was high time to watch again. But Netflix didn't have it, and instead I was directed to this film which begins in the 1960s when the first ascents were made of the massive, sheer rockfaces there. Later a group of hippies converged on the park with their psychedelic drugs and booze and marijuana, making ever more daring climbs until the present day when the latest dare devils arrived. One particular forbidding climb took two years on and off to achieve, then another group took a week to do the same ascent, which was later reduced to a day, and finally just a few hours. The new men use no aids at all, no ropes or crampons or safety measures of any kind. They dance up sheer rock with just tiny fissures to fit their fingers into, then do the same up and over vast overhanging crags, always in peril of falling. They are like mountain goats. Watching the progression from the early, more timid methods to nowadays was awe-inspiring, and given my terror of heights, both gut-wrenching and thrilling. By comparison Strictly was a walk in the park.

Afterwards I thought I'd marzipan the Christmas cake, and searched in the larder for the packet. Instead I managed to knock over and smash an unopened bottle of rape oil, and spent the next half hour and whole roll of kitchen paper cleaning it up. That's an awful lot of oil. When I finally made it to bed there was a wasp in my room which I wasted more time hunting down. The two of us were never going to share that space overnight.

Eat your heart out, Canada

Hugo was reluctant to go walkies this morning, given the driving ran and bitter cold, but he had no choice. Soaked, we returned to the house to watch the rain become snow and the garden quickly disappear under a thick cover. I was ushering at Snape at lunchtime, and both the road out of the village and the main Fram to Sax one were treacherous. Heart in my mouth, I crawled onwards, dreading the return journey. Half the audience never made it, and I was sent home at the interval. But suddenly it was a different world, wet again and a few degrees warmer. It's still white out there and we have another walk to do. But there's no wind now, and we won't go far. Hugo does dislike getting his feet wet.

OTT

At work today I saw a very nice couple with two children and an income of just over £2k a month. He works but she doesn't due to health issues. They are in a lot of debt, not really their own fault, and they end up in the red every month. They are not at all profligate, and neither drink nor smoke. But their phone bills are £120 a month. That's for the two of them and each child including one under 10. All of them have smart phones, and they have broadband with their landline. Later, doing my weekly shop in Waitrose, I parked next to a gigantic vehicle with three layers of seats, two in the front, three behind with consoles in front of them, and another two in the back. I peered in through the darkened windows to see. Regarding both of these things, the luxury car and the children's smart phones, it struck me what a very long way we have come since my childhood, and not that far from that of my childrens'. Three of us were squashed in the back of various cars, some bigger than others, and we squabbled and fidgetted and whined on all long journeys. Holiday entertainment was often a pack of cards and Patience. The house phone was available for use but we got into trouble for making lengthy calls to friends. There were long, long hours and days of boredom and emptiness and silence, but we all read a lot and were thankful for the local library. By comparison, children are treated like royalty these days, even when parents patently can't afford to pay for it. It seems not even to occur to penurious adults that a smart phone is an extreme luxury that the kids could do without. Such relative material riches, so much foolishness.

I left my car at the car wash in Saxmundham while I shopped, but it wasn't ready when I returned despite them not being very busy. The chap working on mine was a very gregarious type, and he talked to anyone and everyone, at length and while pausing over my car. As I waited in the freezing cold I wanted to shout at him, "Shut up! Wash the bloody car!" It's £13 a go, not nothing. Usually I am concerned that some of them might be trafficked, and I look at their body language for signs of submission. But this lot were too damned perky to be there against their will. Nevertheless I did note their hopelessly inadequate clothing in the biting wind, and one in particular whose tracksuit trousers were soaked right up to the top of his thigh. Only one man wore waterproof trousers. All I could think was, where they came from was probably worse.

Hugo was ready for me when I arrived to collect him, and on the way home we stopped at the college sports field for a run. I played my familiar trick, waiting until he had gone on ahead to turn to the other side of the field, and back again several times, causing the boy to gallop long distances to be on the same track as me. The last time he ran back to me he circumscribed a huge circle which caused me to laugh out loud. The more I laughed the more he circled until finally he came to me, executed a turn of 180 degrees, and came to a halt by my knee. Somone has trained him to do this, and I wish I knew exactly what it is. He was so pleased with himself I could only praise him to the hilt. Full of surprises he is. And endless source of entertainment.

Memories

As I waited to see the doctor this morning a young family came in, including a small boy with fluffy golden hair. He looked about 20 months old, and his father lead him to the play area complete with toys. As the child - baby really - fiddled with the cars and games his father opened a book and proceeded to test him on the objects therein. "What is this striped animal", he asked. "A chebya" piped up the infant with a laugh. "Zebra," said his father. "Chebya," repeated the cherub joyfully. And instantly I was plunged back to around 40 years ago to another couple of tots who knew all the names but couldn't yet get their tongues around them. "What colour is butter?" I'd ask the littlest one. "Lellos" would come the triumphant reply. "And what is this bird standing on one leg?" "A Flambo" the other one would tell me. "What colour is it?" to the smallest one. "Punk". Oh, it was wonderful, watching a baby's brain expand to absorb so much knowledge. Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever was our bible until it fell apart. What I'd give to have a look at it again. They knew hundreds of birds, and could identify them all. When the youngest who couldn't pronounce the sound "eee" finally stopped calling me Mamma and managed Mummy my heart nearly broke.

It's been like a Chinese laundry here these past few days as the conveyor belt takes dirty bedding and turns out clean and ironed linen ready for the airing cupboard. Nothing more satisfying in my opinion. We missed an electric blanket at the weekend though I searched the house from top to bottom. It turned up in the end where it had been one of two on the bed in the small bedroom. Explanation? I don't have one.

Hugo continues to delight in his slanket. The word is an amalgamation of 'blanket' and, um, something beginning with 'sl'. It's a huge fleecy thing with sleeves which incorporates the body completely and allows one to snuggle cosily and warmly in any situations. They are made for
hugh-mans really, but understandably Hugo thinks he's one of these, and he accepted the present with absolute pleasure. It's made life easier for me too, transporting him from room to room as necessary and ensuring that his loose black hairs don't come into contact with my light-coloured sofa. I simply brink his slanket. It will catch on in the canine world. How could it not?

Sessanta Nove

Birthdays - you either love them or you hate them, or is that just me? Personally, I dread them before the event, right up to midnight eve, and then have the time of my life. And so it has been this year, the last one of my sixties. I couldn't care less about ageing, apart from the strains it imposes on your body. Otherwise it's just numbers, and you are as old as you feel, as the adage goes. I can't fault my family, even if I wanted to, and I don't. They know how to make a fuss of one, create a bit of theatre. Presents in bed surrounded by the lot of them, then the nicest, longest, lingering-est, delicious-est, most relaxed lunch at the Anchor in Walberswick, which has hosted many family celebration meals over the nine years I've lived in Suffolk. It will always be my go-to place for a special or ordinary meal. After our lovely long lunch we walked on the beach with Hugo, who lay quietly in his bed under the table as we ate and drank and caroused. We spotted a very large seal swimming a few hundred yards from the water's edge, and watched it swim southwards, sometimes above the waves and sometimes beneath. I felt very blessed in this place, with all my peeps around me. And I must have done something right because they're all back again in less than three weeks, for Christmas.

Today has been the usual anti-climax as the last guest left, but a very dear friend popped by with a sausage roll for my lunch and distracted me. She is learning Mozart's Missa Solemnis for her choir's next concert, and we went through the libretto together, trying out the Latin pronunciations to give her a head start. When she left Hugo and I went for a good walk before the sun died down and dusk made it difficult to see. Just before that a neighbour popped by to ask about my water pressure. Was it any good, he wanted to know? Excellent, I reported, but his is abysmal, and has been for years despite Essex Water's best interventions. I would swear I've never seen him before, living about half a mile away as he does, and off the main lane. But he told me we had met, when I first moved to Cransford. That's Alzheimer's for you. We introduced ourselves anyway, and shook hands. He's called Harry. I WILL remember.

And then I did something I don't think I've ever done before, or certainly not for a very long time. I found a bottle of Cava in the fridge, and at 4.40pm I opened it and had a glass, followed by another. I think I'll stop there, and light the fire while I still can. I never have a drink before 6pm. I never feel the need. But I did today, and temptation stared me in the face, willing me to succumb. So I did. Simples.

Blending in to the countryside