Nonchalance

What lovely bright days we've had most of this week. I spent some time in the garden each day, cutting dead things back, hauling out the violets that try to take over the front garden and end up choking less aggressive plants, and generally clearing up. I've removed all the earth from my dahlias and they are standing upside down in the garage in their boxes to completely dry out before being tucked into little beds of compost. There's still loads to be done before I retire for the winter, but they are nice jobs. Finally I can look out and not feel a hint of despair that I'll never get on top of the basic jobs, ie getting the structure right. I bless the day my neighbour Mike came to tea and sketched out a plan for me on a pad. Once I had a design in my mind I was able to zoom ahead.

Coming back from the hairdressers this afternoon with those twin familiar sensations of soaking collar and prickly underwear, I spotted a large herd of deer in a field not far from Wilby. I glimpsed the shapes through a thinning hedge, and when I slowed down to look there they were, a group of around 20 nonchalantly ambling around and munching the grass, impervious to my curiosity. If I hadn't been starving I'd have lingered longer. It's always such a cheering sight, knowing they are out there living their lives as they always have, finding a way to negotiate the ever-expanding human presence.

The other high spot of the day was hearing that George Osborne has abandoned his plans to cut tax credits. Meeting people every week who depend on these benefits to boost miserable wages and scrape a living, it's a relief to know those proposed cuts won't add to their constant worry about making ends meet. One lady this week, asked if her income exceeded £50,000, had a prolonged coughing/laughing fit as she managed finally to say "You're having a laugh aren't you? £5,000 more like." People talk in amazement of friends or neighbours who earn £10 an hour as if this is riches beyond their wildest dreams. The older ones are so good-humoured, so accepting of their lot. It makes you see red.

Crisp and Even

The garden was white when I opened the curtains at 7.30 this morning, and I was outside 15 minutes later glorying in the beauty of the day. So the frost finally came, 3 days after I lifted the dahlias. Never mind, I have every confidence in their ability to not only survive the winter but produce even more beautiful flowers next year. I marvelled at the space created by the removal of that hazel stump. If only I'd done it when first I began planning the garden, but since that has evolved slowly over the 22 months I've been here I couldn't have known then what a good thing it would be. I'm virtually there now with the design, and can look forward to more planting next spring, and watching it all mature. The thought sends shivers of delight down my spine and up my arms.

White-out this morning

Now it's gone

Before

After breakfast I wrapped up warmly and set off for my first real walk in five weeks; the stroll along the beach with Kitty last Sunday didn't really count. As I neared the church Caroline and Patrick were just emerging from their car, him resplendant in huge brown corduroys, check shirt, saffron tie, tweed jacket, cap. He took the latter off and performed a sweeping bow before me. I headed off along the lane and then down through Janet and John's garden to the fields beyond. Oh, the exhilaration of being out on a crisp morning when the sky is bright and you actually have energy! I didn't go too far as the air was cold, and once I tripped over a bramble runner and fell to the ground. But I was fine, too full of joy to care about muddy knees. Back on the lane I met Janet on her way to church, and we walked together. Such a happy woman, well into her 80s but you'd never know. She and John had already been down to Rendham to check on the sheep. I left her at the lychgate as Patrick tolled the bell inside. "Stay well," she called after me. "See you again soon." I'll do my darndest Janet. I will.

What a Grind

The darkly handsome Lee arrived with his chainsaw and stump grinder this morning, glowering Heathcliffe looks and a lovely vulpine smile which lit up his face. The wind was blowing a gale, and the rain lashed right across the garden from the north, but he wasn't bothered. Within an hour the huge stump and all its horrible sucklings were sawdust, and there were a few logs to add to my pile. He had to manoeuvre his machine between my precious shrubs but he did it brilliantly, and then tidied up afterwards. All for £100. At last I'm shot of the horrible thing, which I had left in situ for so long because the delightful Julian Barclay who has massively overquoted me for every job I've asked him to consider, reckoned it would be several hour's work, two men, £500. You really make me laugh Julian, not. Lee even asked me if I wanted the elder that Did levelled yesterday ground out, and he did that for nothing. Lovely Suffolk man, one of so many I've employed.

Given the appropriate Wuthering Heights weather outside I had a blast indoors with my own hurricane - a musical one of double Wagner, Tannhauser followed by Tristan. I did my ironing while I listened, but given that this was nearly seven hours of music I did other things too: the crossword, some CAB learning, and some Italian preparation for my class on Monday and the little group of Ruth, Lesley and I who meet once a week to talk Italian. We talk English too, or not much would get said. And then we have tea, with cake.

It's so cold today, a taste of what's to come. There is simply no possibility of taking a walk. I shall continue to burrow in the cosy kitchen until it's time to light the woodburner. I'm doing it for Lennie and George.

Gardenwise

Kitty's flowers from last weekend, still perfect

I've had such a productive few days, gardenwise. Nick really did turn out to be just as he described himself, a lazy sod, but I found another gardener who came and worked for seven hours over the past two days and has transformed the place. I also gave up on waiting for frost to get the dahlias and turn them into wilted spinach, but apparently this process is to stimulate dormancy and not really essential. So I dug them all up and they are sitting upside down in the garage waiting for the soil to dry off and be removed before I store them safely for the winter. Peter cleared the beds and raked them smooth, planted a hundred daffodil bulbs and a few shrubs, and mowed the lawn. He also removed the worst excesses of echinops from the front, not an easy job given the depth, intricacy and determination of the roots to multiply below ground. I was very pleased with him, and shall use him again. He drove all the way over from Orford and didn't mind at all.

Did came while he was still here, and cut down the elder stumps to make the bases for my bench. He then completely removed another elder to ground level, and cut back all the offending growth that stops the very last rays of sun from hitting the summerhouse at the height of summer. Everything was turned into another large pile of logs for the woodburner. It's all so satisfying. Now all I'm waiting for is the massive hazel stump to be ground right out, and I'm done.

Did brought his little dog that was a puppy when last I saw it. It's the kind of dog that people fawn over, and it has had that effect on me both times. He is the perfect little dog, a Jack Russell but not typical of the breed. Honestly, I would have him like a shot. Did said he is going to breed from him, but I think me and dogs have had our day. If only I had had a little chap like him in the first place I'd still have him now.

Did and Bobby

Did and I chewed the cud in the warm kitchen for half an hour or so, and then I had the place to myself again. As I looked out over the sunny garden I thought about Of Mice and Men which I saw last night live from the National Theatre. The plot concerns the desperate search of all Americans, according to Steinbeck, for their own bit of land, somewhere they can be independent. The dream went sour for so many people during the Depression when their farms were repossessed, and it resonated strongly with me. I realised I was George and Lennie as they itemised what they would have: a little house with their own bedrooms, a kitchen with a stove, chickens, a cow that would produce "cream so thick you'd need a knife to cut it with", maybe a pig, an orchard, a vegetable garden, and rabbits, eating home-grown alfalfa. A pup too, and two striped cats. I can live without the animals, but essentially my house, my land, my comforts and my independence mean as much to me as the dream meant to them. Perhaps it is what we all seek. Fortunate indeed are they who find it.

Cloud Cuckooland

Tannhauser is the typical romantic Wagnerian hero (after Tristan) who sings of love and woos Venus, so before I went to see the Metropolitan Opera Company's live broadcast on Monday of what has long been my favourite opera I was thinking: why oh why did they choose Johan Botha to play him? I watched him for five hours in Die Meistersinger last year, and couldn't ignore his appearance. This is him in a still from Tannhauser. The romantic hero.

But something strange happened after the first few minutes. He WAS Tannhauser. I was able to transcend his warthog look (sorry, but it's my blog) and really believe in him. In fact he was wonderful. But there was a problem. For the whole of the first act the music blasted at us at high volume, and it really spoiled the effect. In the first interval I asked everone I knew - Frances and Christine, fellow ushers who were sitting next to me, Nik, my boss at CAB, Paul, another usher and his wife Margaret, and of course Richard. Even Caroline and Patrick were there. All agreed it was far too loud, and nobody was going to do anything about it. These people built empires, or their forebears did. What the? In the end I went to the desk and saw the projectionist. "Everyone is saying it's much too loud," I told him. "Is there any chance of turning it down?" "Sure", he said casually. "I'll do it when I go back up." And he did. And everyone said that was much better, phew, what a relief. Why does nobody speak out any more?

Christine and Frances left after the second interval, and Richard came to join me. I had told him I couldn't sit beside him earlier because I can't bear to be distracted during Wagner, and I laughed at how neurotic that sounded. But I could see that he was feeling what I was feeling. Several times he put both hands on his head, once he covered his eyes, and a few time he used his hands to conduct a little before realising and stopping. At the end he didn't stir for several minutes. It was so wonderful to share an experience like that with someone as moved as me. And then to talk about it afterwards. I left the cinema on Cloud 9, and I'm still there, the music running through my head even in my dreams. I've decided now that I'm going to go to Bayreuth. Anna Netrebko in Lohengrin in 2018, the year I'll be 70. Surely both of those things are enough reason to splash out and treat myself to the ultimate luxury. Or is this really Cloud Cuckooland?

Wet and Woolly

We spotted the deer today, a small herd in the distance but brought into focus thanks to powerful binoculars. It looked like a big family with lots of babies, and maybe a stag. They stood in a patch of sunlight against a row of trees, nibbling the ground and looking up to twitch ears and check on things. Such a happy sight. The weather has run the gamut this weekend from mild, warm and sunny to howling gale and lashing rain, a bit on the chilly side, and on to windy, warm and sunny. We grabbed the opportunity and drove to Sizewell to walk in the sand dunes and skitter along the shingle in the teeth of the retreating but still frisky tide. The sky was slightly overcast when we set out, my first proper walk in over a month, and the sea was the colour of mud. But once the clouds passed by the water turned a bright blue, and with the white foam crashing onto the beach and the dunes and Dunwich Cliffs coastguards cottages in the background it was a beautiful scene. Nothing could top this except a NT cream tea and so we indulged ourselves, lapping up every last crumb and currant.

Yesterday we went to a cat homing fair, not for any particular reason apart from just looking, and were surprised to see that most of the displayed animals were black, the hardest feline to home. Kitty, here for the weekend, was understandably nervous since it was she who came with me to see the puppy that I impulsively bought last year and took home, disastrously. I think she was as relieved as me when I said we should get going. The trouble is I would like a pet, but not enough to commit to getting one. Moving swiftly on.....

We made the Christmas cake when we got home, a joint effort especially when it came to licking spoons and bowls. Why is it that the mixture tastes so much better than you ever imagine the cake will? As usual the Rayburn made me jittery, what with its unreliable thermometer and door that suddenly wouldn't close unless I kicked it. After 5 hours it still wasn't cooked, so I left it in the warm oven overnight, and by morning it seemed to be just fine. I drizzled brandy over the top and wrapped it up tightly to preserve its moisture. Gosh, but it smelled good. Only six weeks to go and we'll find out how good it really is. I can wait for that.

TV Feast

I came home from CAB and promptly fell asleep. It was a tough morning, no clients for the first few hours so the time dragged and I was on the brink of going home when it suddenly got busy. A cup of tea when you're tired can act like a strong sniff of sal volatile, and I had mine with toast and blackberry jam. These dark evenings are so strange still; closing curtains and blinds over early and then contemplating the long hours ahead isn't always a terrific prospect, but once I lit the woodburner the sitting room was deliciously cosy. I was feeling cross because an article in the Times reported that thin people with a bit of fat around their waist were much more likely to die young than fat people. It came hard on the heels of the piece yesterday warning that the WHO and other bodies were about to dramatically lower the safe drinking levels. In fact a glass of wine a night, even a small one, was also going to take years off your life. What the f***! Should I order my coffin now, get in early before the Christmas rush?

I did what I almost never do and watched wall-to-wall TV. Call it escapism, but sometimes you need to switch off and just vegetate. Still, I wasn't unselective. I'd recorded a film some time ago that I thought I must have seen but couldn't remember, and so I flicked onto Babette's Feast, Danish with subitles. I wasn't expecting much, but what an enchanting story it turned out to be. Two beautiful sisters living in a remote hamlet in Jutland with their pastor father and the rest of the plain-living community eschew love in the pursuit of godliness. As they reach middle age, into their lives comes Babette, a French refugee who stays to cook and housekeep for them. The years pass happily until the sisters decide to hold a modest dinner to commemorate the centenary of the long-dead father's birth. At the same time the penniless Babette wins the French lottery and begs to be allowed to cook a special meal for them. Who knew that she had been Paris's most legendary chef at the best restaurant? She spends her entire winnings on the meal which includes real turtle soup, quails in coffins and the finest French wines. Cue boggle-eyed straight-laced villagers experiencing these wonders, and Babette in the small kitchen, masterful, brilliant, generous, ecstatic. It really was enchanting.

Still smiling, I flicked around a bit and found the last 15 minutes of Billy Elliot where the father takes him to London for an audition and then tries to make enough money to allow him to go to the Royal Ballet School. The ending, the ultra-magnificent fully grown Billy leaping onto the stage as the star of Swan Lake in front of his incredulous father and brother in the audience is an instant show stopper. Words just can't express how powerful, how moving it is.

I finally went upstairs to bed, and once undressed I decided to measure my waist and hips with my hairdryer flex. The waist must not be more than 90% of the hips, and what a surprise I got. My waist is tiny, my hips not large but much wider. I'm not going to die! Open a bottle of wine!

Food For Thought

Often on a Sunday evening when one family member or another rings up for a catch-up chat the conversation turns to what we are having to eat. "Roast chicken," they might say, "roast potatoes, gravy". What??? I reply, aghast. What???? Why didn't I think of that? And so I'm left to conjure their traditional plate in my mind's eye as I settle down to pasta, or salmon, the usual. But yesterday I joined in the feast-making. My Waitrose delivery on Friday evening included a fat, free range corn-fed chicken, and I made delectably scrunchy roast potatoes, a yummy chicken gravy and broccoli, eaten in front of the recorded Strictly relegation. I was in heaven, it was that good. I now have a chicken to pick at all week, which is ironic because my fridge is full of bought chicken soup, the better to boost my immune system. Luckily some of the dates are well ahead so they will keep.

The Waitrose delivery was due between 8-10pm, but in the event it came at 8.15pm. How the man found the house in the pitch darkness and rain I don't know but he did. "I spent half an hour earlier trying to find Hall Farm in (named a village), up and down the lanes, couldn't see anyone to ask then eventually stumbled on it by accident," he told me wryly. When the woman opened the door she said, "You're late!" and I told her I couldn't find her house. But everyone knows where I live, she retorted.

My delivery had to be this late because I spent the afternoon playing in a charity bridge match with Judy and David and Judy's daughter Sophie. The hall in Eye was filled with jolly ladies and the occasional man, and we played with gusto and much laughter. At 4pm on the dot we stopped for tea, and how astonished I was to find plates and plates full of tiny sandwiches, virtually all made with sliced white bread and filled with things like marmite, honey, cucumber or tomatoes. What is this, the 50s? Sighs of satisfaction and happiness filled the air as I tried to prize the glutinous white mess off my teeth. Of course there were cakes, one sugary sticky horror entitled The Queen Mother's Favourite which nobody touched, but I had two slices of coffee cake and two cups of tea. Sophie and David were all for playing on beyond 5, but Judy's face was ashen and I thought we should stop. She'd never give in herself but she looked relieved. "Are you feeling pale Mummy?" Sophie wanted to know. "Can't we have another few hands?" But she gave in gracefully and we all got up to leave. We checked the scores. David: minus 230; Judy: 347; Soph: 932; Denise 3,010. Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

Pomes and Things

I set the alarm for 7am as I had to be at the Poetry Festival at Snape by 8.30, then I couldn't get to sleep as often happens when I know I have to be up early. I had a dream that it was 8.15 and I'd overslept, and I woke up and it was exactly 8.15 and the alarm had not gone off. Why didn't my anxiety wake me up sooner? So it was a rush to get there and I was cursing the early start until I met the Irish poet Michael McCarthy. A delightful man in his 70s, and a Catholic priest, he was doing a close reading of fellow Irishman Bernard O'Donoghue's poem Ter Conatus. It could have been a William Trevor story, so achingly painful was it to hear. A not untypical Irish story of the aging brother and sister who had never married but lived and worked together on the family farm. She has a very late, too late diagnosis of cancer, and when he hears he tries to help her in her agony, reaches out to touch her, maybe even hug her, but years of custom have made it impossible and they are denied this mutual comfort. But love transcends everything, and so it does here. Oh my God.


We chatted afterwards, and when I identified him as a Corkman he wanted to know how. My brother lives in Schull, I told him, he's built a house outside the town. My mother came from there, he said. Is your brother an artist then? and when I answered yes and told him his name he said he recognised it from the summer's art festival. He'd look out for his work when next he was there. I confess to never having heard of him, and me after spending four years at Trinity College studying Anglo-Irish literature. But it was Heaney and Kavannah and Yeats and Synge and Swift we read; the little living fellows didn't get much of a look in then. I looked him up when I got home and discovered his own poetry, so perceptive, insightful, tender and respectful. A true Christian then, and a real poet. Hardly surprising that I got back into my car and braved the wet and blustery day outside to go and hear him again, this time reading his own work.

It was worth the effort, of course it was, but the real treat came in the form of the poet who went on after him, one Christine Webb (never heard of her either, sorry). She's an academic, a classicist, who wears her learning lightly but uses language so effectively that her careful annunciation as she read allowed you to practically taste every individual, gorgeous, perfect word. Halfway in she talked about being and looking like a feminist - and she described herself as tall and thin with straight hair, a straight figure. And then she said something I didn't completely catch about how unfortunate it is to look like a lesbian and not be one, or to be a lesbian and not look like one. And she began to read a poem about her female lover who died nine years ago, 40 years into their relationship, and as she voiced the tender phrases a middle-aged blond got up from her seat mid row, brushed past people to the aisle and stomped, STOMPED up the wooden stairs to the door. I felt my stomach turn over with dismay and horror, and faces around me registered the same sick feeling. Oh, but the poet didn't turn a hair, reciting on to the heart-rending end where dreams of togetherness are dashed each morning as reality hits home with sudden wakefulness. I bought her books. Her poem called Martha (Mary's sister) and one named The Midwife's Tale really made me laugh, but Metamorphosis, penned on hearing the sad news of Ted Hughes' death, was vehement, each regretful word projected like a pebble, a tiny missile of sorrow. Beautiful, so beautiful.

Picking Up

Well, it's official: I'm a slut. I haven't touched an iron in more than a month, and my pyjamas and shirts have been worn as the good lord intended - creased. But yesterday I hit an all-time low, and used fresh but unironed bedding. It hurt to put it on, so scrunchy was the brilliant white cotton, so scored with lines. It's got to be a first and a last. I usually get a high from seeing the newly made-up bed, all smooth and crisp and virginal, such a beautiful sight. But you know what? It didn't stop me sleeping like a baby. As soon as I can do more than stagger under the weight of a dahlia leaf I'll get down to the mountain and clear the backlog.

I heard the farmer out cutting the hedges this morning, and got ready to ambush him. Normally he cuts the field side of my long hedge, but this year I wanted him to trim the top too, back to where it was chopped down last year. He's a very obliging chap, and I had a tenner in my pocket anyway as a thank you. But no, he said, wouldn't be going into the fields now the weather has changed and the ground is so wet. Just sticking to the lanes now. Maybe if we get a frost, but otherwise it'll have to wait until next year. I gawped at him stupidly. We've had the driest autumn on record (my record) and he waits until the rain comes? I collected myself. Well, I replied, if are able to do it come and give me a knock and I'll see you right (two forefingers rubbing against thumb barra-boy style). Will do, he said with a grin. Pillock.

Sammy just rang to tell me she was in the process of booking tickets for Suffragette, and did I qualify for the senior rate? Oh how I laughed. She's just turned 70 and looks 55, but me? After 3 weeks of flu and a hard, hard life I would easily pass for 80. But she was serious! And last Sunday Richard, a fellow usher, made a beeline for me again, kissed me ignoring all of his other colleagues, and asked if he could sit next to me. It's all very flattering, but quite ridiculous. Are they all blind?

Little Things

I think I may have called a post this before but it can't be avoided because my life is made up of little things that make me very happy. The latest thrill is that I'm going to have the horrible, annoying, ever-sprouting stumps of my hazel tree ground out completely, and all for £100 (cheque's fine, cash always welcome, know what I mean). The job of a hazel tree is to be continually coppiced and encouraged to grow new shoots to be used for all sorts of marvellous things, like making yurts, or hurdles, or fences. But if you don't want it to do any of these things you might as well wish the rain would only fall at night. Once it's gone the lower garden will be completely clear and can be properly planned out at last. Lee and his brother Shaun are very busy just now, what with the short days and all, but they'll fit me in just as soon as they can. Patience. And next week Did is coming to remove the other woody protuberances, and then I'll have my new living bench.

Last night I forgot to take something out of the freezer for my supper, and so I had to concoct a meal from the store cupboard. Thus I created a dish of orza, fresh spinach, tinned tuna, chopped tomatoes and chopped brazil nuts with lots of olive oil. It was quite nice, but I woke hungry in the night. I'm taking no chances tonight with a nice fat salmon cutlet thawing on a plate. This morning I looked up "How to improve your immune system" on the internet, and I have now added a few things to my regular diet: probiotic yoghurt, chicken soup, sweet potatoes, green or black tea. And meditation. I think I'm sufficiently fed up with getting ill to accept even the tea which I'm sure will be disgusting. Whatever it takes.

Have I Got News For You?

I was telling Ruth about an email I had sent the other day where I referred to Have I Got News For You by its initials, HIGNFY. And I told her that in writing those letters I finally understood the word that appears on the screen before and after the show. How often I have sat there trying to make sense of it and failing, obviously. How baffling it has been. What a twit, eh? And as I spoke I saw her eyes widen and nearly pop out of her head, and then she started to laugh and couldn't stop. Why? Because she too has failed to work out what the letters stood for. "Hi, gnfy" she has tried, "Hinfy", the G silent. Over and over, for years. We could scarcely believe our stupidity. It all seems so bleedingly obvious now.

I had another little walk today in the sun, and pottered a bit in the garden when she had gone. All well and good, but back indoors I'm hacking away like a miner with emphysema, still feeling the effects of the bug. It's 5.30pm now and pitch dark outside. Time to light the fire and snuggle down for the evening. I'm ready to hibernate, but the garden continues to grow and flourish as if it were spring. What a shock all those plants will get when winter really kicks in.

The Stuff of Dreams

What a difference a day makes. I paid for yesterday's exuberance, scarlet of cheek and glassy of eye before the evening was out, and drenched not once but twice during the night. I dragged myself out of bed into a foggy morning, visibility only a hundred yards or so, but by lunchtime the sun had broken through and I had to get out. Funny how my energy returned, though I expended it again quickly by clipping away at the rampant hazel stumps. It was so warm in the sun, and I could have sat quietly soaking it up except that I couldn't help looking around me at all the jobs that need doing and that I can't start in my current state. So frustrating. I talk firmly to myself, tell myself that everything will get done eventually. The trouble is that it's mostly me who has to do everything, and so far other people's mistakes or slowness or plain incompetence has involved me in much harder work than I wanted or needed, leading to the exhaustion which allowed this current bug to sneak past my defences. It makes me cross, it really does. But I have to shrug it off and wait. I still dream of the garden being finished as I want and my routine to be more maintenance than major jobs. Dream on, you may say. But I will. It's what I'm best at.

The eponymous medlar tree, covered in fruit

Higher and Higher

I haven't had much to say for a week or so. It's been a bit depressing apart from a visit from Ruth on Friday. Oh and Nick was here on Saturday. But today was such a beautiful, such a perfect day that my spirits soared. The sky was a peerless blue, the sun warm, the air as still as it could be, not a flicker of movement to disturb it. Someone ran by with a dog on a lead, not a skinny person but judging by the sweat glistening on her face and bare arms she'd been going for a while. Then six cyclists passed the house as I stood on the lane sniffing the glorious scent of my winter-flowering viburnum, currently in full blossom. One by one they called Good Morning, and I replied to each of them, saving a "Lovely morning isn't it?" for the last of them. Two horses were next as I took photos of the autumn leaves. And then it was quiet, no, silent, as peaceful as it can get when insects and birds are full of the joys of life but no human moves. I went for a gentle walk in the sunshine, along the lane and down the hill as far as the big oak tree. It was the first time I'd been out for over two weeks, and it felt so good to be walking. I was easing myself back into the world because I was ushering at 3pm.

Over the field beside my house

Same old same old, buty I never get tired of taking this shot

Behind me

Sunset on Saturday, but it was much redder

But what happened when I drove towards the coast? Fog. Horrible dense fog blotting out the sun and chilling the air. My plans to eat my lunch on a seat in the sun at Snape came to nothing. It didn't really matter. The concert was Imogen Cooper playing a programme of Chopin, and it couldn't have come at a better time for me. I manned the main upstairs door so that I could make a discreet exit if the coughing started, but the sweets I sucked throughout did the trick. It felt like a dream world up there, gazing down at this brilliant pianist who played pieces I've been familiar with since my teens. Sitting next to me was a real Suffolk old "buoy", an ex-gardener he told me, who I knew was a regular at Snape though I'd never encountered him before. He told me he thought he'd like to be an usherette (sic) but didn't fancy driving all the way from Ipswich every time he was on duty. I wondered why this would be a problem since he clearly did the drive often enough anyway, and as an usher his concerts would be free. But he was concerned about me living in the middle of nowhere (at my age implied) and wouldn't I be better moving into Ipswich as he had done to be near the hospital and on the bus service. I told him I don't like people, and I hate noise and traffic and towns, and he laughed. But I was curious about him. How long had he loved music (classical implied)? And he told me he used to have terrible asthma which nearly killed him, but in his late 30s he accidently came across some lovely music and discovered Radio 3, and after a while his asthma disappeared for good. Two years ago he was diagnosed with cancer, so he bought a ticket for every concert going at Snape, and within a year the cancer had gone. We both marvelled at the power of music, which is capable of curing terrible diseases as well as lifting you to a plain so high just being there can make you dizzy.

Marvel-lous

I snipped the deadheads off a few dahlias this morning and had to go in and lie down. God, these bugs take it out of you. Earlier I ordered 200 Nespresso capsules so I must be expecting to live for several months. That's 200 morning coffees, fewer if I have guests, but more if you count my new routine of going into Waitrose before CAB every Tuesday morning and having a free latte. I'm not sure if you have to buy something first or if your MyWaitrose cards gets you one automatically without shopping. I daren't ask in case I sound too cheapskate, and that's in spite of getting my John Lewis Mastercard annual statement the other day which shows I spent £10,000 plus on it in the last 12 months. But that includes all my spending, everywhere. Still ...

Even earlier I put six pairs of pyjamas in the washing machine - yes, six! - that I have worn in the past week, some of them more than once when they had dried on the end of the bedstead and could be reworn when I stumbled from my soaking bed in the middle of the night and grabbed at anything dry. Oh, the bliss of taking off cold wet clothes and getting all warm, wrapping yourself in a towel, turning the duvet over so the damp side is upwards on your non-existent partner's side of the bed and going back to sleep. In Angela's Ashes they were wet all the time, wet because it never stops raining in Limerick and even Terry Wogan who came from there complained that he couldn't remember a dry day from his childhood or schooldays. And wet because everything was damp and they'd get ill and there was no fire, no comfort to be found, very often no food, or never enough anyway. I don't dwell on these misery stories. I don't like them. But when I do encounter them I marvel that people survived these lives when I know I couldn't.

I fried up last night's potatoes and cabbage with a couple of eggs for my lunch - delicious. I finished it off with the chocolate surrounding some chocolate and ginger biscuits that I bought with my online order for when Nick is here. I rang Ruth at work after receiving a text message from her saying "Ring me at work", and when she answered the phone she couldn't remember the name of the antique shop she works at, and in her confusion I told her very grandly that I was looking for an antique and then told her she'd do. Silly, I know, but we got a fit of the giggles and couldn't speak for five minutes when she had to go as a customer came in. I still don't know what she wanted.

Projection

I've had this microwave oven for, what, 15 years and today was the first time I discovered that it has a grill. I think of all those long lamented cheese on toasts, grilled bacon, whatever tasted better for a little browning that I have had to sacrifice since living here and all the time the technology was right there in front of me. I've diced with death toasting cheese bread with the toaster on its side only to have the end product shot out when the popper upper popped up and land face down on the floor. I'm ashamed to admit that I ate it anyway. It's my floor. I have no pride. I had a lovely grilled cheesy lunch today after I'd built a tall enough pyramid out of casserole dishes. I'm sure I can get one of those metal tower structures as a spare part. I never knew what it was and threw it away.

I'm feeling better today, a lot better. I had a bath, put on clothes for the first time in a week, and went and got the paper. Ruth popped by with some provisions including a fat slice of fresh pineapple which tasted like a juicy shaft of happiness. I wouldn't let her in as I was still pyjama'd and groggy from another horribly restless coughy night, but she was off on a walk anyway. I spent most of the morning in the summerhouse where the sun was powering down. I killed dozens of horrible flies with my rolled up Sunday Times magazine until I realised all the lovely cream paintwork was dark with magazine print where I'd bashed and I could no longer read all about AA Gill's long battles with drugs and alcohol because of the torn strips. This article revealed more feckless parenting, if not in the same class as Frank McCourt's. When he asked his 22-year-old son if he'd had any thoughts about a career, and his son said, Dad, does that sound like me? and he experienced a sharp pang of pride, I thought, you f***ing waste of space AA, that's not even half clever. I'm having some very intense and angry throughts at the moment which are confusing me rather. I didn't have feckless parents. Where is the rage coming from?

No Sense of Humour

My head feels like a boiled haggis and I'm clearly no nearer being better. I'm fed up with sitting, lying or slouching in bed all day, forcing myself to go downstairs to get food and drink, putting the electric blanket on when I get back under the covers and then having to turn it off again quickly when I get too hot, coughing fit to burst, sweating and having change everything and sleep on a towel, dreading the nights, dreading the mornings, bored and irritated and cross. Why do viruses have to last so long?

Going into my study to get print-outs of the Times crossword and killer sudokus each day, I lean on the windowsill and gaze out over the garden. Thank goodness there's something to like, even if these last several days have been ideal for doing all those autumn jobs I so enjoy but can't undertake. I keep telling myself it could be worse, and of course it's true. But it could be better too, and that'sthe one I want. Old miseryguts.

Cogitating

The best friend you can have when you are ill and live alone is the dishwasher. Not having to watch the dirty dishes mount up until you are forced to stand and tackle them is a real treat. Other best friends are friends, obviously, who ring you up and send you text messages and offer to come round and bring you anything you need. Worth their weight in gold, they are. Last night I coughed and hacked until I thought my innards would tear. I woke feeling a bit out of it, but I had to get moving because both Nick the gardener and the Waitrose delivery man were coming and they arrived together on the dot of 9. I left them both to it once I'd unlocked the back door, one to empty my shopping onto the kitchen table and the other with a list of jobs to get on with. Nick was very sprightly this morning, full of energy, and he got to the lawn cutting by midday. But what possessed him to lower the cutting head on the mower? It'll soon grow back, he said reassuringly as I bit back the question I longed to ask: Why? But he's done good work otherwise, and it's great having him, especially now that I'm incapacitated.

I've started re-reading Angela's Ashes, my third time I think. I'm not sure why I've picked it off the shelves because it's a bloody depressing read, what with the feckless drunken Irish father, the starving, freezing, filthy children and the dozy mother. The first time I read it I thought it was a masterpiece, a true original, and I still do. But stories of irresponsible parents who don't behave properly and make sure their children are well cared for really upset me. And yet they survived, well two out of the five did anyway, even if only the author ended up as a respectable parent himself. The other, a drunken Irish fool like his father with the gift of the gab aka a load of blathering hot air that he spouted in a constant stream of poetic bullshit, died from too much of the hard stuff. How I loathe such people, charmers and flatterers whose words are empty and whose lives are so meaningless and worthless. In my opinion. I can see that touched a nerve. Discuss.

Ticking Over

When I'm better I'm going to have a cream tea at the NT cafe on Dunwich Cliffs. That's a whole bowl of clotted cream and I'm not sharing. It's not that I'm really craving food as my appetite isn't exactly healthy and I've got plenty of things to choose from to keep me going. Tomorrow the cupboards will be bursting at the seams. It was funny doing a Waitrose online order because, as an aide memoire, they showed what we used to pick a few years ago and it was a real shock, a blast from the past. Funny how an illustrated shopping list can do that. I 'as no voice (old Charles Aznavour joke). It 'as vanished, and it makes me sound much worse than I am. But I'm not there yet, which is sad because Sammy and I were having a free meal at Snape on Saturday followed by a performance of The Turn of the Screw and I've had to cancel. I'm also due to work there on Sunday evening and attend a concert as a punter in the afternoon, Beethoven piano concertos, and these have had to go too. Bad bloody timing.

Several of the members of my Italian class are off to Italy for half term, lucky things. Bologna, Venezia and Siena have been mentioned, and Cagliari in Sardinia. I've been to Italy five times and until I started lessons I didn't know a single word apart from the very basics. How is that possible? All that scope wasted. I spent a month touring around Spain two years ago and at the end of that time could still only manage cerveza, the word for beer. But I had no interest in learning Spanish, and until I started Italian classes had no idea how much I would love the language, how greatly I would enjoy speaking it and understanding it. A slow learner then. But I'm making up for it. Any day now I'm going to carry all my books upstairs and really revise, really get stuck in. I am. No, I am.

Surrendering

Last night I coughed continuously from 9pm until 3am when I finally swallowed a combination of ibuprofen, sleeping tablet and half a valium, and then I slept. I was so exhausted by then I thought I would never be able to rest, and my ribs and abdomen ached. Today I'm not too bad though my voice has virtually gone, but I'm not feeling too bad if you discount the occasional bout of boredom. Someone reminded me about vitamin C, 1000g in water, and I heard my brain go clunk, duh. Of course, the friend of the immune system, the enemy of flu. I quickly made some up, and I'll take it daily from now on. I also did a Waitrose online shop, so I'll be good for at least another week if necessary. The funny thing is that I've really slowed down now and am not agitating to be up and doing things. I'm just going with the flow, though when I woke after a sleep this afternoon and thought it must be evening only to find it was 3.40 I was shocked at just how slow slow can be. It's still light outside now. When will it be night?

I fancy macaroni cheese with a touch of horseradish. I've been wanting some for weeks since I saw an advert for this variation, but it's such a fag to cook. I often put in mustard, but this version sounds yummy. Grilled tomato and cheese, sticky pasta, runny sauce - is there ever a time when this is not compelling? But such fancies are transitory, and my mind has been on a higher plane. I've been engaged in an email conversation with a friendly physicist for some weeks, trying to discover what scientists believe is beyond the universe, beyond the known world. What came before the Big Bang, what lies beyond the beyond? His explanations of what is generally accepted have been clear and straightforward, a delight to read and ponder on. But I think the answer to this conundrum lies beyond science in Hinduism, which teaches that there is no beginning and no end to matter but a continual circle of movement from growth to equilibrium to decline to dissolution and back to growth. It involves reincarnation, which I've never had a problem with, reincarnation until the soul is purged of all previous sins and become enlightened. When I'm better I'm going to have a bash at that.

Poems

It's been a long, long day, but not an unpleasant one. It's tailing off now, nearly 5.30 which in summer would see it just coming into its prime but at this time of year is the folding up and gently shutting down until the new dawn starts another one. The sun has shone all day and, lucky me, my bedroom faces south. I've dozed and slept, felt terrible and not too bad, done the crossword apart from one word which I had to look up - who could have known that a merganser was a kind of duck? - completed two killer sudokus, listened listlessly to the radio, and made the great trek down to the kitchen for refreshments. I haven't been able to concentrate on my novels, but a review of a book on TS Eliot in the paper made me dig out my old book of his poetry, and what do you know? It has really struck home today. My copy was annotated by me at university, and I've read with interest and astonishment my notes alongside The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock and The Waste Land. Did I really know all that stuff? I remember marvelling at the concept of Modernism, and the amazing coincidence of Ulysses and The Waste Land both being published in 1922, the two seminal works being created simultaneously, though arguably Virginia Woolf had beaten them both to it. I've loved both Eliot poems today more than ever before, and feel that I too have measured out - if not my life then certainly my recent days - in coffee spoons. His imagery is startling and beautiful. I would now like to find the recording of Fiona Shaw reading The Waste Land. And then I'm going to read Heart of Darkness again, which I had already planned to do before I encountered the quote "Mistah Kurtz - he dead" in front of The Hollow Men. Life is full of these coincidences.

Drifting

I hadn't realised quite how busy I usually am, in mind or body or both. Lying in bed with all my accroutements around me - radio, light, electric blanket, water, throat sweets, pain killers, aspirin, sleeping tablets (only over-the-counter, almost never used), two books (Asunder by Chloe Aridjis and Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge, my third reading in 50 years), computer, tray with remains of lunch on it, empty coffee cup, crossword, eyedrops, Ibuleve, dressing gown - I fidget from one distraction to another, too dozy to concentrate on anything for long but not peaceful enough to just do nothing. I try, I really do. I stretch out, comfy under my soft duvet, supported by two fluffy pillows. I close my eyes, I try to relax and drift but I'm not tired enough to sleep, and so I sit up again, slightly agitated, and try to find solace somewhere. But nothing works for longer than 10 minutes. And so I try again. I had thought that my days were filled with half-witted pleasures when not engaged in physical work, study or socialising, that staring out over the fields in contemplation of Nature and Beauty, gazing with happiness over the garden and planning my next moves filled more time than I would have cared to admit. But my mind won't hold on to any of these cogitative occupations. I'm dismayed. Am I after all just a butterfly whose brain skips from experience to experience, thought to thought, with no constructive purpose? I lie back again, amused at my foolishness, and accept that I'm ill, I need to just switch off and stop trying too hard. It works. I doze for a long time as gentle images drift in front of my brain, and then I fall asleep. It's nature's cure. I'll be better soon.

This, Not That

Imagine having ebola. I've got a heavy cold, thick head, gungy chest and I feel ill, really dreadful. All my joints ache, especially the ones already strained from heavy gardening. And my stomach feels sick. But it's nothing, nothing compared to how terrible ebola must be. Imagine being a Syrian refugee in a freezing field somewhere that you're not wanted, and you have flu, or worse. Or your baby is sick. I feel bad but, god, how much worse could it be.
 
I went into Jewsons the other day and asked for four cheap and nasty paving slabs measuring 450x450. Utility rather than cosmetic would be their function, so I didn't need anything fancy. We've got a special offer on at the moment, I was told, £1.49 per slab including VAT. Well, job done then. I paid, and we went outside so he could load up the car. But what manner of evil articles were these? Dark grey, forbidding and horrible, not the bland beige I'd imagined. I shuddered. Oh no, I said, these won't do at all. I feel depressed just looking at them. With an air of having heard it all before he lifted the offending first slab out of the boot and showed me what else they had. The next cheapest started at £4.99 , but it was much more bearable. OK, I told my friend, I'll take four of those and then come in and pay the extra. He loaded up the car then gave me a wink. I'll do a like for like swap, he said. If you come into the shop and we go through a refund and recharge you'll be there for 20 minutes, all that paperwork. I'll balance the books somehow. Thanks Jewsons. Now I know what to do when I install a wet room next to the cloakroom.

I hear voices outside and jump up to see who's invading my space, but it's only two passing cyclists, gone by in a flash of colour. In the sky hovering over the field beside me is the sparrowhawk who often works that same patch. He hangs in the air for nearly a minute before flying off. I've never actually seen him dive and emerge with a mouse or vole. I wonder if he's just putting on a display of power for me. I wish the Irish had shown its power earlier. But they're out of the Rugby World Cup now. Commiserations.

The Big Smoke

Why is it that every time I have a great trip to London I return home with a bug? At the moment it's just a cold, but history has shown that this can easily turn into a serious case of bronchitis rendering me housebound and useless for weeks. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, and trying to be a Murphy (ie, not bitter). It was a good visit though. The highlight was seeing Keiran Hodgson's show Lance at the Soho Theatre, a skit on the disgraced cyclist which nearly won him best of the Edinburgh Festival. Clever, funny and gorgeous in one bundle, he's very compelling to watch, and really hits the spot with his humour. I checked on Youtube the interview with Oprah where Keiran has her ask, face a tight mask of concentration: "Yes or no, did you take drugs?" Shocking answer, eyes squint, jaw tight and lips pursed "Yes I did." Cue Oprah's sad, disapproving face. It didn't happen quite like that! He made it up! But it was soooo funny. Next day it was from the ridiculous to the sublime in the form of the Giacometti exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery and lunch with an old uni friend. But we had laughs too, especially remembering the old days as naughty students when we turned up at seminars slightly the worse for wear after a boozy lunch, or got firsts for essays we'd virtually made up. If only the visit could have ended on a high, but it couldn't of course. I sat in the tube at Holborn for 20 minutes while they cleared the line ahead of whoever had decided to jump onto it and restored the power. I missed my train, and though the next one was only 30 minutes later, I had to wait at Ipswich for an hours and a half for the connection. I travelled back on a packed train with Humphrey Burton and his wife Christine, and was regaled with stories from the music world, names dropped into the conversation like confetti. Despite the overcrowding, the heat, the dirt, my exhaustion it was all quite delicious.

An Everyday Story

Sid arrived early to set his traps, and it was such a beautiful morning, still and sunny, that I thought I'd take a walk straight away before heading off to London for a few days. First I had to hear Sid's woes, as always. "I bin bad," he started as usual. "Real bad. I'm on them anti-depressants, and I'm seeing a counsellor, but I have real bad days when I can't even get out of bed. I'm isolated in my mobie on the farm, and in this job you're on your own most of the time. I spose I'm not the only one." Well Sid, I thought, where shall I begin? Instead I sympathised while he told me the object of his love is clearly not interested, though she hasn't said as much, and he hasn't seen her for four months. Did I think she was just playing games, biding her time?  His pills must have suddenly kicked in, because he flashed me a great big smile, the sun bouncing off his enormous tombstone teeth, and so startling was the effect that I took a few steps backwards. "I'm too sensitive, that's my trouble," he said sadly. "Most men would tell her to get stuffed, begging your prdon."

I set off when he'd gone, marching down and up and down the lane, admiring the bronzes shades of the oak trees, and the many berrries and bright red hips in the hedgerows. Does this all suggest a cold winter to come? Here in this village in its very rural setting all the seasons are equally welcome to me whatever their extremity. I haven't experienced a bitter winter yet, though I'm told the village was cut off a few years ago, huge drifts of snow making the lanes impassable for days. But I don't mind the prospect at all, as long as I have enough firewood and food stores. It was a bit chilly when I left the house but I soon warmed up and started peeling off the layers. I still had my bright blue fleece on when a horse-drawn vehicle approached from the top of the hill. At first I thought I was seeing things as it was motionless, and could easily have been a low overhanging branch. Then I realised the young mare had spotted me and was afraid, and Jenny her driver from Fiddler's Hall was gently urging her on. We chatted a bit, and I'd love to have hopped up beside her and toured the lanes behind the horse. But I had a train to catch, and had to get back. "Walk on!".

Last night was the Snape ushers' annual party, and what a merry crew we were. It was thrilling to hear Harry tell us of future plans re the continuing development of the Snape site with its massive, empty and probably now crumbling buildings associated with its previous life as a maltings. There is so much scope, so many ideas for future use. It really is an exciting place to be involved with (I know that should be "with which to be involved" - never end a sentence with a preposition - but it just don't read right). I ended the evening with Richard who told me about his life as a minimalist artist living in New York for 10 years. And he knew Agnes Martin before she went to New Mexico. Now that took me by surprise.