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.