Kismet

They cancelled the surgery, but not before I had packed my little suitcase with "just in case" overnight clothes and been deposited in the centre of the sprawl that is Papworth Hospital. The shock! One minute you're about to dice with death or worse - and believe me, there is much, much worse than death - and the next you're set free, suddenly stranded and aimless. Everybody reeled in stunned disbelief, but then we gathered ourselves and got on with it. I feel so at home in this Cambridge house where I am welcomed and to which I returned to lick my wounds. The good news was that Ian could now accompany Olivia to the launch of her new novel at a London party, and I insisted that they both went. They set off looking like the glamorous members of the literati that they are. Later I luxuriated in their gossip about the evening, the buzz of excitement and pleasure they brought home with them. In the meantime I hungrily demolished - split what? - a huge quantity of beef, pickled walnut and prune stew that Ian had thoughtfully made the day before for all of us coming and going at odd times. I've been with lots of married or coupled friends over the years, and experienced this twice myself, but I have never before known two people who are so perfectly matched, who discovered each other through what could only be described as the hand of Fate. They might think that they are happy together, but they aren't half as happy as I am.

In other news I am now comfortably ensconced in Gerrards Cross not 200 yards from where I lived with my husband and children all those years ago. This shift was part of Plan A which perforce became Plan B. Hugo loves our hostess but is slightly wary every time I get up to leave a room. When Olivia and I took a few hours out to visit John Lewis yesterday while Ian was teaching, Hugo might have lain on the hall rug awaiting our return because when we opened the front door he threw himself joyously on us both, body wagging furiously around our knees, tail going bonkers. He must have been anxious, but bore it bravely. He's determined it won't be repeated, and stays close now. All my peeps, Kitty and Olivia, John and Ian, Tricia and Hugo, so dearly loved and treasured. At times like these you don't half reckon their value.

Interest

The lane outside the house was thickly layered with ice, and the field was full of hares. I decided to pop Hugo in the car and take him down to the college grounds for a run rather than risk a broken hip or a massacre. I hadn't put it away in the garage the night before so it had frozen over, but the strong sunlight was melting it. As I turned the key it was evident that the battery was flat and the car would not start. Apparently a door was open somewhere. Sure enough the boot had not closed properly, and then I remembered that the car wouldn't lock the evening before though I flicked the fob twice, and then I got distracted and forgot to find out why. How easy our lives are, many of us. I rang the breakdown people and they sent out a man, just like that. And while he was charging it up and we chatted I looked inside the garage and saw a very large and very dead rat stretched out across my bags of kindling. I screamed the f word, and leant up against the gate, my heart thumping. And the man said what's up? And I said how are you with rats? And he said he hated them, but he's a man and he's six foot six, so he did what he knew he'd have to do and threw the thing over the hedge into the field. The rat must have found the eight or so little boxes filled with poison that I had for the invasion of tiny field mice in the house, and it had gorged itself. The stuff of nightmares.

The day was so nice that, when I'd recovered my poise, I ate my lunch in the summerhouse, and later we were joined by David, and after that by Frances. What a joy friends are, and how Hugo appreciates being made a fuss of. The afternoon and evening were clear and calm, and I'm still getting used to it being light towards 6pm. Eventually we made our way indoors and turned on the lights. Every day brings something different, no two the same. A rat, a flat battery, visitors both expected and unexpected. You have to take them as they come, and if one isn't to your taste the chances are that the next one will be.

Blessings

The news is having an increasingly visceral effect on me. On Sunday, reports of some Oxfam workers' behaviour in Haiti made me reel, and for a moment I thought I was going to faint. Of course, of course, powerful paedophiles and other sex menaces will prey on vulnerable people wherever they can, and what better scenario for exploitation than an earthquake in a third world country. And once these revelations are known, others surface in different zones. Almost worse than this terrible news, though, is the misuse of over 4 billion pounds of aid that was raised in large part by individual donations to rebuild Haiti. My friend who has often reported from there, and sent missives though From Our Own Correspondent, told me years ago that there was surprisingly little evidence of improvements on any large scale. How low can people sink? I can barely stand to read the paper these days, and never watch the news.

So it was with sheer delight and amazement that I opened the back door not once but twice to people delivering flowers to me yesterday. I could scarcely take it in, this sudden floral influx, and couldn't wait to see who they were from. One had been sent by Hugo, telling me he loved me! Such taste! And the other was from an old and very dear friend who really wished me good luck for next Tuesday but made a smiling nod to the day and what might have been. Both lots are absolutely beautiful, and I've taken a photo of Hugo with his, though he is bashfully looking the other way.

I know he must be missing his usual runs, so I wrapped myself against the wind and set off into a very sunny field to let him off the lead. He hadn't gone 50 metres when I spotted two lots of hares sunning themselves, nine altogether. Luckily he hadn't seen them, and I hurried him back onto his lead and down the lane to the churchyard instead. The sun was warm, but that wind has a fierce edge to it still, so I kept my gloved hand to my mouth and stayed out no more than a few minutes. But as the morning wore on it got warmer and in the end I couldn't resist a quick look around the garden. Using refuse collection day as my excuse, I strolled around the beds admiring the very evident signs of growth - green shoots and buds sprouting everywhere. Is anything more designed to fill you with hope that change is on the way, and an end to the recent testing weather?

Philosophical Thoughts

I stood inside the door of the Aldeburgh theatre checking tickets yesterday afternoon prior to a concert, while freezing winds whipped around my legs and head. I knew so many people who then stopped to chat to me that I was distracted from quite how cold it was. So why am I surprised to find that both my upper and lower respiratory tracts are inflamed and mucousy? I had plans for the day: number one was to prune all my roses, a gentle job in the sunshine despite the still very cold air; and two, to support pancreatic cancer research by way of a quiz and supper in the evening. It's a bummer. I hate dropping out of things, letting people down, but givien my important date at Papworth next Tuesday I feel I must protect myself from worse. Another long, long day with more to come. Is it just me or is this Arctic winter beginning to drag a bit?

I watched a film last night, randomly picked on Netflix. Well not randomly: surfing through the choices on offer I saw one about the American writer and critic Joan Didion and I was intrigued. I'm embarrassed to say I've never read anything by her, or not that I can remember, and I suddenly wanted very badly to know about her. I was enchanted by the contrast now at age 84 between physical frailty and intellectual robustness. She's a fascinating woman whose work has taken her to many places, philosophically rather than geographically though she did go to war-torn San Salvador to find out what the US government was really up to there. "Was it frightening?" she was asked by the interviewer. "Was it frightening?" she repeated, eyebrows and hands flying skywards. "I've never been so terrified in my life." I shall start with The Year of Magical Thinking, and move onto Slouching Towards Bethleham which now I come to think of I did read years ago. But can I remember it? Not a word.

I love this time of day, early evening in winter when the sky is still light and any wind has dropped leaving everything still and calm. Through my massive kitchen windows to the right of me I can see the unmoving dark shapes of bare branches creating silhouettes against the pale background. The flightpath from Stansted must have changed because there is plane after plane in the distance, soaring upwards to disappear beyond my ceiling, leaving contrails in the sky. After the Russian crash I'm loth to stare too long in case I have the power to bring them down. It's all so safe and secure, but as I write those words I immediately think of those whose environments are anything but and I feel bad. How lucky we are who who live in this corner of Suffolk away from friction and fear. But then I remember that Putin's planes and nuclear weapons will come this way, straight across the North Sea, and feel almost relieved, the balance righted again.

Equipped

On these cold mornings I look out of the window in pyjamas and dressing gown and shudder. Sometimes I open the window a crack and sniff the air, then hastily withdraw my nose. Walking the dog on these winter mornings is not for the faint-hearted. But as soon as I've got all the gear on and we've gone outside the unpleasantness vanishes. They say there is no such thing as bad weather, only poor clothing, but I disagree. When the evenings are very wet, windy and freezing Hugo gets his exercise in the front garden, for as long as it takes to cock a leg and squat on the forgiving shingle. Then he scurries back inside and we both delight in the warm kitchen. He's not bothered about missing a walk, and makes up for it the next morning by lurching off the second I unclip the lead, and testing his speed with evident glee.

This morning he ran the length of the school playing fields a couple of times to chase other dogs, and by the time he returned to me he was panting hard. He trotted beside me for the rest of the walk, done in and ready for the sofa again. We stopped at the newsagents on the way home to buy a paper, and I took the opportunity once again to ask about having my Sunday paper delivered. I've been doing this on and off for four year without success, but the chap serving this morning looked on the computer and found at least another 12 people in the village who have theirs delivered! He promised I'd get mine next Sunday, so fingers crossed.

Hugo and I have a lot in common. We both love curling up on the sofa, we share a passion for sleeping, and neither of us can resist the sun. So I wasn't surprised to find him sitting in my bedroom with his face pressed up against the wall, eyes closed in ecstasy, when I came out of the bathroom. At first I couldn't see why he was positioned like that instead of lying stretched out against the radiator. And then I saw that it was the only sunny patch and he was making the most of it. I've been known to squash myself onto a narrow windowsill to catch the last rays before they disappear from a room. We're cut from the same cloth, him and me. A marriage made in heaven.

Convenient

The dog's lead duly turned up exactly where I was told it would be, hanging off the gate leading into the Woodland Trust walks. Oh ye of little faith. I'm very fond of this lead: it's soft and light and was very cheap, far superior to the leather and heavily woven fabric ones we also possess. We didn't walk there today though, but stuck to the large field behind the house. The lanes are icy and I don't fancy taking a tumble. The first part of the track is very wet and covered in ice again this morning after a night of heavy frost. It's also been pounded by the horses that take their exercise where we do, so the many little hoof-sized potholes around the boggy entrance are filled with icy water. Hugo immediately spotted a large black bird and started after it, but was not prepared for the ground to give way with a sharp crackle under his feet. Luckily he stopped before he got up any speed and turned back. I would hate one of those long slender legs to snap. Nikki told me how lucky I am to have a long-legged dog as her shaggy spaniel needs a bath after almost every walk. And last night Sophie bemoaned her two ground-hugging dachshunds who can't help slithering through the mud on even the most sedate of walks. Yes, long legs are good, as long as they don't get stuck in the ground mid-gallop.

We dined on Charlie Bigham last night thanks to Judy's temporary incapacity, and the conversation turned for a while to convenience foods. Sophie is partial to the designer  boxes ordered online and delivered to your door containing all the ingredients for a meal whose recipe is enclosed. Apparently they supply the lot, including, where appropriate, an onion and a clove of garlic, a trickle of vinegar in a small airtight bag. I had to chuckle. I'm sure it's very handy when you come home tired from work and don't have to think about what to cook. But this idea is surely having a laugh.

Sophie's sister Caroline is about to qualify as a personal shopper and is keen to try out her new skills on this mother of the bride. She would do it all apparently, dress or trousers, shoes, handbag, hat/fascinator, the lot. The idea is so tempting I'd love to surrender myself to her talents and knowledge of where to shop. I fear she'd find me a very reluctant client though, loathing clothes shopping as I do and exhausted usually after visiting just a couple of outlets. I think I may just continue hoping for a miracle and shove my head back in the sand.

Game

My dear friend Judy was unwell last Sunday so lunch and bridge at hers was postponed. Despite many serious health issues and an advanced age Judy is always bright, positive and cheerful, full of beans. She is enormous fun, and has a much sharper memory than me. To look at her and listen to her you would never know she has thrice-weekly dialysis for example. So for her to give in to illness was unheard of. I'm due there again on Friday evening, and wanted to check she was OK and still wanted me to come. "Absolutely fine," she said predictably on the phone. "Whatever I had last week has left me with fluid on the lungs so I'm very breathless, but they've taken an X-ray and they'll let me know." "Are you sure you want visitors?" from me. "Oh yes, I'm looking forward to it." Then she told me she fell flat on her face into a muddy puddle yesterday when she tripped on a step, and badly twisted her knee. "It's very swollen and I can't walk properly, but I'm completely fine." How did she get home from Halesworth, I wanted to know. "Well I drove of course!" Of course. As so often before, my jaw dropped open. I was going to say that when they made her they threw away the mould, but actually I know a lot of Suffolk octogenarians like her, and being with them is like being with schoolgirls. They are irreverant and funny, and can't abide a fuss. "Stuff and nonsense" is their motto. I strive to be like them, but I'm still a bit young.

Lunch in Orford was also a laugh, until the bill came. It showed £24 for two glasses of wine. I called the waitress back and pointed out the mistake. But there was no mistake. We spluttered, we expostulated, we rolled our eyes in mock disbelief, and we laughed, and they took £8 off, but the damage was done. When did a Suffolk hotel get so far up itself that they thought these prices were reasonable? Ruth Watson has left the Crown and Castle now, and a group of eight hotels has taken over. Well they can keep it: I won't be going back.

And lastly I went to see Three Billboards with Sammy in the evening, and neither of us knew what to make of it. The local lierati were there too - Julia Blackburn, Liz Calder and their gang - and even they, professional talkers, seemed at a loss for words. It was a powerful film, but the violence and cruelty, the gratuitous racism, made me uncomfortable and twitchy, and I'll need time to process it. I was glad when it was over and I could breathe again. Sammy agreed. For the umpteenth time I thanked god I don't live in the southern states of America. No sir.

A Turn Up

Synchronicity, or fate, but how do they work? I've been feeling a bit apathetic, overwhelmed by the joint weights of surgery in 10 long, dragging days time and an inability to make much headway through exhaustion. I go for a walk but can't travel very far and am soon breathing heavily. The breathlessness is rendering me pretty inactive at home too, and the waiting days have been slow and, admit it, boring. This is unusual for me as I am never bored. I've contemplated various distractions but done nothing to make them happen. I'm lacking motivation. Then out of the blue comes an invitation to lunch at Orford's Crown and Castle from my friend Nikki. She's booked the doggie table in the bar for Hugo and Alfie in the hopes that we are free today. Of course we are free, though I was on the verge of making a similar date with another friend. I love a spontaneous invitation. The day is glorious and it's hard to stay indoors. When the weather is like this, cold but sunny, I usually make a beeline for the summerhouse where it will be warm, the 360 degree glass trapping the sun's rays and making it a very comfortable snug. Suddenly energetic, I wash up and tidy the ktchen.

Earlier we drove to the Woodland Trust a mile away where we haven't been for months. In the winter the ground gets very wet and soggy, and soon the feet of hundreds of dogs and owners make it a mudbath. But today I couldn't resist it. The worst areas near the entrance had frozen over making them quite treacherous for walking, but soon we were out on the greensward where Hugo galloped off in sheer joy. But three quarters of the way around I realised I didn't have his lead any more and retraced my steps to find it. It wasn't there! Two Suffolk old boys (my age probably!) were still nattering by the gate when I returned, and they assured me the lead would be discovered and hung on the fence for me to find. I hae me doots. On our way out we passed one man going the other way, and only he could have found the lead. It's the second one I've dropped in two years, and the other one didn't turn up either. Watch this space.

Weathering

Hugo and I have taken to walking down the lane and into the churchyard where I can let him off his lead. The weather is not conducive to anything longer, what with the generous selection of driving rain, bitter air temperatures, snow and hailstones that we are being dealt at the moment. I have to keep an eye on him though as leaving his droppings behind would not be in good taste. Imagine someone going to tend a loved one's grave and coming across what shouldn't be there. I'm a little shocked that I allow him to do this, but it's winter and needs must. We walk the whole way round, but it's not large so we go around again. I read the gravestones and ponder the lives of people who lived in my village, maybe even my house, many years ago. The church dates back to the 15th century though there was one on the site before that. It blows my mind. The Victorians removed most of the original internal features when they did a crass restoration here as in many other places, but it's a pretty little church still with a wonderful atmosphere. I don't mind ending my days here, though not yet.

I watched an episode of McMafia last night, and when one of the super-rich ex-patriot Russians went shopping to smarten up her female bodyguard it was Roland Mouret's gaff in Carlos Place that they chose. Chic doesn't even get close to it. When Roland and James were our next-door neighbours we were invited to visit his place, and we dressed accordingly to suit the occasion. No cordoroys or Guernseys that day I seem to remember. You had to ring the doorbell for admittance, and the beautiful wood-panelled old house was the last word in taste, with a few but not many off the peg gowns hanging decorously against the wall. Upstairs was the atelier where Roland did his designs, and on the next floor a team of men and women stitched them into his elegant creations. On the top floor was a flat. It was an  eye-opening experience for me, but tea at the Connaught Hotel across the road where Roland treated us was pure fun. Those were the days.

Nick came this morning as usual to work in the garden, his breath fluttering around his head like smoke. I asked him how his ride had been in the bitter cold and he confessed that he had seen a lot of black ice and been too scared to cycle. Instead he had walked, setting off at 7.30am and reaching me just before 9. My jaw dropped open, but he said he enjoyed it. Already he's transformed the garden, turning over the beds and removing the beginnings of the weeds that will soon try to take over. He wouldn't come indoors to warm up but had a rolled-up fag with his coffee and was soon ready to go. Needless to say I didn't join him. Hugo and I watched him through the window like a pair of wimps, and shuddered every time the door opened. We're not stupid.

Phenomena

My new calendar arrived on Wednesday giving me the best part of a whole day to appreciate January before turning the page to February. It's from the London Review of Books so doesn't exactly offer the inspiring photographs of lovely gardens or beautiful scenery that I usually go for but it is stimulating in an abstract, bookish sort of way. I'm very pleased with it. Looking at other people's gardens is something I particularly enjoy, and in my travels I see that snowdrops, crocuses and aconites are already flowering though they not at my place. An evil squirrel has dug up all my bulbs and scoffed the lot especially the precious tulips in pots, so there is no early colour for me. Looking in the shed yesterday I could see that all the bulbs I've been storing in there have disappeared too. I can't blame that on a squirrel. The only things left are two packets of especially glorious anenomies in a dark burgundy colour, presumably not very tasty to ratus ratus, or mousus mousus, so they will go into the ground shortly and join my other anenomies. I love their flowers.

I watched All The President's Men last night as promised, and was struck by how dated it was. I don't just mean in the way that both Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman wore their trousers right up to the waist with belts to keep them neatly in place, nice though that was to see. But the politics, where an American president could be impeached for telling a relatively small lie, covering up the misuse of campaign funds, and the massive shock waves this created. Lies and wrong-doing are ever present in American politics these days, and although feeble attempts are made to bring the culprits to justice nobody seems to be very surprised that they exist. The thought of Trump being impeached for his criminality is just laughable.

We went out to see the super blue moon on Wednesday night, and it was indeed very bright. But nothing like the staggering images I saw of it rising over Glastonbury Tor. The trick is clearly to view it near the horizon when it appears to be much bigger than when it's high in the sky. The first of the three super moons on my birthday stopped us in our tracks as we drove back from the restaurant, and so did the one just after New Year. I watched to see if either Hugo or I were affected by the full moon but we remained our normal sanguine, calm selves. If he did anything crazy when I'd gone to bed there was no evidence the next day.