Banalities

Over the past two days I've given the kitchen floor a right royal scrub. I know, you wouldn't think such a banality would be worth mentioning, but it was a high spot for me. It showed I have plenty of oomph, and has helped to restore my self-respect as a housewife. Yesterday I took the boy to the vets to have them do a more professional job of cleaning his clawed nose than I could. I know they have to be tough, those vets, but rubbing an open wound on a little boy who didn't even flinch was almost too much for me. It's looking better now, but I think he'll still be wearing the hated collar when the house fills up with his fans over the weekend. I can't take it off even for a second as he immediately tries to rub his face on my arm or leg, but I've been managing to hold his face in my hands and stroke his neck and head. As he trotted ahead of me down the lane this afternoon, big plastic head bouncing from side to side with his stride, I felt a wave of love for his courage and sweetness.

My oil tank is showing nearly empty just two months after I half filled it. I didn't go for the full load this time as the price of oil was very high and I thought it might go down. Huh! Not only has it not reduced but it's impossible to order any at the moment as the oil companies struggle to fulfill existing orders. I'm trying to ration it, and it's amazing how warm you can be indoors with a fleece and a scarf wrapped many times around your neck. When I do put the Rayburn on it's for the kitchen only while the rest of the house remains cold. But come evening the woodburner gets lit and its comforting blaze makes everything OK. But these light evenings - what a transformation. I'll be going into the sitting room later and later, much preferring to sit in the kitchen with the huge west-facing window and wallow in the evening brightness. What a tonic!

Hors de Combat

On Friday I mowed the lawn, Saturday and Sunday I weeded and tidied up a couple of beds and finished tying the climbing roses on a lateral trellis for maximum flowering, and today I've potted out the first batch of dahlias, the Bishop of Llandaffs. I'm feeling great and have had to almost physically restrain myself from doing more. Tiny steps. I hate the phrase but it's appropriate. In the meantime Hugo got into an altercation with one of Sarah's cats behind the summerhouse and ended up with a torn and bleeding nose. He's back in the Elizabethan collar again and feeling very sorry for himself. I'm feeling very sorry for him too, poor little fellow. And I fear he will now have another scar to add to the many. I didn't actually see what attacked him, but given that he shot up the garden to the back gate at top speed I guess the cat was on the other side, bidding a hasty retreat home. So I've ruled out rat, shrew, water vole and sea eagle. And me? I just have a black arm from cuff to elbow.

Before, perfect

After, blighted

Picture does not do justice

We're home alone again after protracted visits away, and blind alleys in hospital. I still don't know why I have high blood pressure and heart failure, but I'm confident the experts are on to it. In the meantime this sudden burst of excellent health is a wonderful bonus and I'm making the most of it, if gently. This morning we walked the whole way around the field for the first time in ages, in very warm sunshine, and the skylarks lit up the air with their sweet, soaring songs. I couldn't see them, but boy were they loud. In the garden I have almost no bulbs, the squirrel having eaten the masses that I planted, but leaves are coming out, blossom is beginning. David came around on Friday with a present for me, a sarcococca confusa, which has a powerful scent when it flowers in winter and evergreen leaves. I'd admired one in his garden, and this was his delightful response. He stayed for tea, and that was when I discovered that as well as running the Cambridge bookshop Heffers for many years he had also been a gardener. Well. In return for the gift I'm going to allow him to help me with tricky prunings and other ongoing gardening issues. It's the least I can do.

Snippets

So, a whippet won Best in Show at Crufts. Hmmm, need I say more? Best of dogs, most beautiful, most gentle and loving, most adorable. Most sleepy. Well, nobody is perfect, though a dog who likes to snooze a lot is a distinct advantage for an owner with a busy life. My little boy, scarred in various places from unprovoked attacks and misadventures running off after hares, will never win a beauty prize, though he'd surely walk off with any other gong going - nicest nature, most fair and even spreader of love, quickest to succumb to a stroking hand. Last week he weathered several storms, not knowing if he was coming or going, or at least if I was. This weekend he was rewarded with a visit from two of his very favourite people, and had more treats in a couple of days than he normally gets in a month. His wet food has also been changed from an evil-looking sausage of some brawn-like substance that was recommended by the rehoming people and for which I regularly braved Tesco to buy, to a delicacy called Cressida's Kitchen or something equally posh, tasty morsels hand-made by eunuchs in a Bavarian castle. He likes it very much. Thanks visitors. I notice it costs more too.

I'm reading four books currently. That's what happens when rest has been ordered and is being dutifully followed. Firstly, and most entertainingly, is a biography of Molly Keane by her daughter Sally. Molly's works provided the rich background to my PhD thesis. It was an exploration of the subjugation of a nation by its colonisers, brutally for the first few hundred years and then more benignly and subtly, patronising and infantalising instead. Her books, set in the Anglo-Irish "big houses", showed how the violence of the past turned inwards from matriarchs towards children, spinster aunts and governesses, their hapless victims, while the weak men lived their useless lives. My theories fascinated me and I was passionate about them. But eventually I ran out of steam, working largely in a vacuum as PhD students do. I ended up loving all of Molly's books, and Sally's biography is of special interest to me. I'm even quoted in it and acknowledged at the end, but alas she's got my name wrong, Denise Long instead of Laing. My small claim to fame, thwarted. Two of the other books are set in Rawanda after the war and Ethiopia respectively, women struggling to survive in a violent patriarchial world. I didn't choose them, but I can see a pattern here. Both offer fascinating insights into an unknown world. One starts off by saying that her sister has three children by the aid worker who forced her into marriage. Some things don't change then.

My kitchen floor is still desperately in need of a wash. I half did it the other week but ran out of energy. I try not to look too closely. I'm particularly anxious that Hugo might be affronted by it, but he assures me not. To prove his point he'll even walk around the tiles nearest the doormat with muddy feet to show how chilled he is about it. See what I mean about whippets? Lovely people.

Grumps

Waiting at the traffic lights on the way to Waitrose yesterday I watched a family walk past, parents and three kids, one in a pushchair. As the father stared at his phone screen and the mother talked on her phone, the two older children walked ahead, aimless, bored, disconnected. I know I sound like an old crusty - I AM an old crusty - but it is just beyond my comprehension what is going through the minds of these so-called parents. You overhear phone conversations all the time, and they are just rubbish, nothing, idle chitter-chatter. "What ya doin' babe?" "Nothing much, saw Mum this morning, only she was going to the shops ...". Talking to children is never like this if you engage their interest and show yours. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to bury my hand in my hands and weep. All those ignored children who'll soon isolate themselves with their own phones. Personally I never know what to do with the Internet, after I've checked my emails and bank balance, and read the paper. Penny told me to watch a Youtube clip of Peter Sellars on the Michael Parkinson show, so I did. Really, it was hilarious, and what a beautiful voice the guy had. I enjoyed it, but what a waste of time during the day. I went back to sorting out World Peace. Someone has to.

Then the dustmen turned up unexpectedly, delayed from Thursday, and of course I hadn't put my bin out. I would have let it go, but I missed two weeks ago when I was away and it's quite smelly, so I rushed to the front gate and yelled as they emptied my neighbour's. "Well, 'urry up then" a fat grumpy man shouted, and I raced through the house, kicked off my slippers, threw myself into my shoes and ran to the bin. There he was, the refuse collector, standing at the end of the drive waiting. I don't really do racing at the moment, especially with a heavy bin, and couldn't resist venting my irritation. "Where are your nice colleagues today then?" I asked him, emphasis on the word "nice". He looked surprised for a moment, smiled sheepishly and told me they'd gone, they were on other jobs. "Please ask them to come back," I told him sweetly, and he smiled again and nodded. I wouldn't normally have expected any behaviour other than this, but my usual dustmen are the height of kindness and consideration. If I leave big piles of detritus for the garden bin, or cardboard boxes I can't fit in the recycling, they do it for me. One even gives Hugo a treat if he's out. And I tip them generously every Christmas. I hope the Fat Controller is temporary.

The snow has mostly gone, and I'd say we got off lightly. Only a few days of inconvenience after all, though not for everyone I know. I've had an odd sort of day, not at all pleasant. Hassling for things for myself is not my cup of tea, but I knew I had to, and now I have another date for Papworth. All the waiting, the disappointments, and then suddenly the dawning of what it all means and how serious it is, came together in a horrible emotional crescendo. I knew how to deal with it - better out than in. So I played Bellini's I Capulette e i Montecchi and it did the trick. Now I'm feeling as deflated as a pricked balloon, but I'll get the pump out later. There's just no point in avoiding feelings: feel them and they'll pass quicker. I'm the expert.

Biding Time

Still very little traffic on the lane outside, and the surface is lethal, but yesterday evening and this morning we went for lovely walks, trudging in the deep snow at the edge of the tarmac. I cut a large slice of cake for David to make sure I walked a decent distance, all of maybe 300 meters, and his face was a picture when he opened the door, so surprised to see us there. In return he presented me with a packet of chocolate biscuits, this being the one thing I told him on the phone earlier in the week that I craved. I wouldn't go in as it was snowing again and windy, and I was afraid I'd never get home. Hugo was off his lead again, running freely around in the absence of both temptation and danger. This morning we ventured as far as the hill, and it was exhilarating to be out as normal, and to see the dog enjoying the exercise. I thought he'd hate being out in the snow, but he loves it.

It's been another long day, perhaps the longest so far. Tomorrow I'm going out for lunch, and to stock up the larder again. I've run out of odd things like pasta, peanut butter, and my Sunday treat of pain au chocolate. I'll have to pretend tomorrow is Sunday, so keenly do I look forward to this weekly luxury.

I'm reading Alan Bennett's A Life Like Other People's which comes from his Untold Stories, and though I've read it and them before, probably more than once, I'm enjoying them. His parents are an endless source of material for his writing, and his fondness for this odd couple is very touching. He reproduces a photograph of two Aussie soldiers that his Auntie Myra met in India during the war, and his description of one of them is a hoot: "Ossie is weighed down, practically over-balanced, by what, even in the less than skimpy bathing trunks of the time, is a **** of enormous proportions, the bathing costume in effect just a hammock in which is lolling this collossal member." His awe is as funny as the picture.

Small Triumphs

Only a really old friend knows you so well that she'll ring to tell you Joan Baez is going to be on Woman's Hour in a few minutes. And so it was that, completely engrossed in her magnificent voice, and even tolerating the grovelling, rehearsed tones of the oh-so-passe Jenni Murray, I forgot Hugo had popped outside for his duties. He must have been standing at the back door for a good 10 minutes as I relived my musical past, and didn't attempt to attract my attention. He was chilly but fine when I rescued him and covered him in hugs. Then Sarah rang to tell me she was going to try and reach Fram, and did I want anything. At last! Now I shall make the Victoria sponge I've ached for all week, and it shall be fat and high and filled with butter icing and jam. I'm salivating at the thought. I'll even ignore for a moment the fact that I've never managed to achieve a decent cake in my miserable Rayburn oven.

With my premium bonds at full capacity I really expected a goodly win this month, but all I got was a measly £125. It reminds me of a T shirt my little girls had once. It said "My folks went to New York and all I got was this lousy T shirt!" The other one asked "Have you hugged your kid today?" which, back in the early 80s, was quite avant garde.

Jack finally came with the logs. He is a young man fair of face and full of grace, so nice that I didn't mind standing out in the freezing cold chatting to him. For an extra fiver he wheeled the contents of his truck around the garden to the woodshed and stored them for me. Was he related to the famous Fentons who are known throughout this part of Suffolk? Yes. Ray the chimney sweep is his uncle, and John Lockwood who now works with Ray is his son-in-law, Jack's cousin by marriage. I asked about Sam Fenton, a charming chap who delivered logs to us as we sojourned in Westleton who cheerfully explained the three missing fingers on his right hand. The 'forester' he was using to split the wood got stuck, and so he reached in to clear it. Jack's dad, Sam's brother, was with him at the time and took him to hospital. He kept nearly fainting, encouraged on by the victim. It hasn't stopped Sam. They are a huge family, 13 boys in Jack's father's generation, all working on the land or in self-employed trades. Lots of them have done jobs for me and I've liked them all. Jack will be back to cut my hedge. Another good find.

Snoooow

I had a sudden terrible thought last night: if Charles hadn't had any children, the crown would have eventually passed to Andrew, and then to one of his daffy daughters. Imagine Beatrice, her of the massive puppy eyes, gawping toothy mouth and thick head, taking on the mantle of our Queen, with Fergie as the Queen Mother, the Cinderella story gone haywire! I don't know where this came from, but this scenario struck me as being so awful that the monarchy and the country with it would have collapsed within weeks, amid guffaws from the rest of the world. Thank heavens for solid, decent, reliable, dutiful, responsible William and his sensible wife. This is not a subject that normally preoccupies me, but having now watched both series of the brilliant, eminently watchable The Crown on Netflix, and already longing for the third, I can't help being relieved that we struck gold with Elizabeth when we could have had her stupid, selfish uncle. Love them, loathe them or be completely indifferent, they're a part of British life.


David rang earlier to check that I was OK and to discuss our respective reading matter. He's got my copy of the absorbing Crossways in his bedroom and is rediscovering the five Melrose books by Edward St Aubin downstairs, which made me want to read them again. Mine are Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking upstairs, and a certain novel called Crudo for the daytime. It was quite appropriate that he should chek on me rather than the other way around. Although we are both 69, he is 4 months older than me. He wanted to know if I have enough food and sufficient logs, but hadn't realised that I have very efficient central heating. Well, I do have all my needs met apart from something along yummy lines, like cake, or the Co-op's chocolate biscuits. But it won't kill me to do without. Penny also rang to see what conditions are like up here, and reported that Framlingham is snowbound and they can't get down their road at all. It seems too that the road from here to Fram is blocked by huge snow drifts. I've barely seen a vehicle all day, but that's fine by me. Though I wouldn't want to be completely cut off and like to see a bit of life around me, the absence of noise and people is lovely for now. Hugo is mildly bemused by the change to our routine, but if it means more sleeping time he's good with that.

White Out

I was startled by the unlikely sound of children laughing and shouting merrily when I opened the window in the back bedroom this morning to admire the snow and feel the temperature. They were way down the lane, a small group with sledges which they were hauling up the hill to fly down again. It looked and sounded very jolly, the laughter travelling across the fields easily though I needed my binos to see them. The schools must be closed, and there has been very little traffic past the house. Everywhere looks pristine, a good few inches of snow covering the ground and the roofs. Apart from the children's voices there is no sound, the world muffled and asleep. Sitting in my cosy house with a pile of unread books, food in the fridge and freezer, and a contented dog lying by my side, it's easy to feel lucky. I try to ignore other troubles and focus on these positives. Hugo hasn't lingered when I've sent him out to perform his duties, but eventually the enforced inactivity got too much, and I wrapped us both up and ventured outside. The snow is soft and powdery, and so thick that it was easy to walk without slipping. I left Hugo off the lead and he scampered ahead, running on the tyre tracks where the snow has compacted and skidding on his long legs. We didn't stay out for long but it was worth it.

I've been topping up the bird feeders as fast as they are emptied, and currently a large female blackbird is sitting on the window tray both sheltering from the snow that is now whirling around again, and eating the seeds. It's amazing that the birds survive these cold temperatures, along with the poor old hares squatting low in the fields. My log man rang to say he couldn't deliver as expected today but will try again tomorrow. I think I've got enough to last until the weekend, but with central heating the woodburner is a luxury really.Then my hairdresser called to say she was trapped in her village and I wouldn't be getting my hair cut tomorrow. Ah well, better wash it myself then.

As I sat on the kitchen sofa with my computer on my lap and the lights on around me I suddenly caught sight of my reflection. But as I looked more closely I could see that I was wearing a man's shirt and tie, with a smart jacket over the top. I froze, trying to make sense of what I saw, and when I tilted the laptop slightly, James Joyce's face came into view. I had been seeing the reflection of the painting behind me, not myself. Oh, the relief. Me and Hugo were still alone.