Getting On With It

I've had to endure two days of ultra-smelly dog following his ecstatic reaction to fresh fox poo on our walks. The second time I had just put him on the lead, thinking we must be near where it lay, only to look back and see him rolling his head and ears in it again. Despite my attentions with water and soap I am still getting a whiff of the horrible stuff. Apart from that he has been a model dog, adapting readily to my decreased exertions due to a so-far mild dose of flu. Today we settled ourselves on the small sofa in the kitchen, him stretched out between my legs, head on my chest and covered with a warm coat, me curled around him, and we slept for nearly two hours. He barely moved except to edge closer. Before I became temporarily frail we enjoyed vigorous walks around the school playing field where the river has been in full spate after very heavy rain. Normally there is little water in it, and you can see the debris of fallen trees and branches which I always long to clear. Give me a bulldozer and I'll happily dredge it for you. But with water swirling almost to the top in places it looked clean and wild. Lovely.

Framlingham Castle backdrop

Some dog or other

You only have to spend a short time at a large general hospital to see how wonderful the NHS actually is, at many if not all things. I was in the eye department escorting Penny, and a tremendous number of people moved through it being seen for presumably a wide variety of ailments. It's not perfect, but my goodness it keeps a hell of a lot of people going when in America, for example, they would founder. The other thing you can't fail to notice as you sit watching the world go by is the care people take of each other, the affection and kindness of those escorting their loved ones for treatment. Patients become a bit vulnerable in a hospital situation, fearful of what will be found wrong with them, or of the treatment they must endure maybe. Having a loved one by your side would appear to be a great comfort, especially among the elderly. I always find it moving.

Muddles

In the doctor's waiting room again this morning (yes, m'lud, it must be my age) and there was another little child about the same age as my "chebya" toddler. He was bright and eager too, but stuck in his mouth was a dummy, so his speech was all distorted and slobbery. He tried to name all the toys but couldn'y properly annunciate. If I'd been just another year older, and wearing purple, I might have gone up to the parents and advised them to remove the horrible thing NOW! The mind boggles. Later while browsing the eyeliners in Boots I overheard three young children talking while their mother tried on lipsticks. Looking at one of the little mirrors that helpfully show up all your wrinkles and creases under the bright shop lights, the oldest one said she could see her reflection. "Flechon", repeated the smallest one, aged about 3. "No, that's not wite, it's WEflechon," said the middle child, maybe 5 years old, importantly. "Say after me, We, We." You never get bored with little kids around.

Back home again I set about completing the four insurances that need renewing about this time of year: house, contents, car and breakdown. The house and contents staggered to a halt yesterday because the computer didn't seem to like my not having a burglar alarm, so I had to call them and speak to a person. I don't want an alarm as past experience tells me it is quite likely to go off when a spider crosses its lens, and there is nothing more terrifying than being woken by that deafening noise and dashing downstairs in a state of shock. No thanks. But the man on the phone who was harder to understand than someone from the Indian subcontinent but in fact came from Doncaster told me I already satisfied security requirements. Cheered by finding a good price and setting the insurance up, I then hunted for a copy of last year's no claims bonus to show my new car insurers. And that's when I discovered I had renewed it a whole month early. This is very typical of me when buying online, especially air travel, but in this case was caused by unexpectedly changing cars early last year. I contacted the company to arrange a new date but they had to cancel the new policy and reissue another. And guess what: the premium had gone up by £100. I'll wait until nearer the time then, and try again. I my be an idiot, but I won't have them making a monkey of me.

Another Year

I was all set for a quiet New Year's Eve catching up with housework but instead accepted an invitation to watch a concert in my friends' community cinema. It was Joyce di Donato singing some of Richard Strauss's most sublime songs, and how glad I was that I went. The woman has it all: gorgeous voice, extreme beauty, and a kind heart which causes her to work with refugees in camps and long-term prisoners all over the world. That she brings them joy, and hope, I don't doubt because she brings them to me in spades. One song, Wiegenlied, gave us all goose bumps, but the remembered cello solo didn't happen. As soon as I got home I fished out my CD to see if my memory was playing tricks on me, but the box was empty! I found it online without the cello. Here it is.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8G27O69ZWY

When I got home I planned to read my delicious book and go to bed at the normal time, sober as a judge, but I spotted a bottle of rose cava in the fridge and couldn't resist opening it. One glass was enough, but I did rather wallow in it. I made myself a cheese plate from all the leftover donations brought for Christmas, a selection of eight, and it felt like the best treat sitting by my cosy fire with the dog at my feet. The book is The Sheep Stell by Janet White, an account of a young woman becoming a shepherd and at one stage running her own farm of over a thousand ewes, rams and lambs on an offshore island in New Zealand, alone, intrepid and in heaven. She survived a vicious attack by a possessive boyfriend that left her nearly dead, and continued to farm in England with a large family in a freezing old farmhouse. I love her writing, and her descriptions of the countryside wherever she finds herself. She is intrepid, tough and brave, and I'm content to read about her life knowing I could never have had the courage to live it, yearn to as I might. Just my kind of book.

I drove home from lunch and an afternoon spent in Yoxford, with a massive harvest moon lighting up the sky. There are three in succession apparently, and they are incredibly striking. There was something about the combination of the moon and it being the first day of the new year that put me in a very philosophical frame of mind, and I felt very optimistic about the year to come, and the ones after that. Just being alive sometimes, with the added value of being in a beautiful place, is such a pleasure that problems or worries or slight misgivings can take a back seat for a while. The world feels so clean and pure up here. I didn't feel quite the same way a few hours earlier. As we drove back from a walk on Westleton Common, Hugo was crying in the back. It was odd, but the drive was short so I ignored him. Imagine my dismay, no horror, when I found that the metal extension lead which I'd foolishly left attached to him had wrapped itself round and round his leg as he turned in circles, pulling tighter and tighter as he struggled. You only make these mistakes once, and he was none the worse though I feared the leg might have gone temporarily numb. Chastened and relieved, I freed him and hugged him to apologise. And of course he forgave me.

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

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.