DDIY (Don't Do It Yourself)

The new shower is all but finished and it's looking good. I can't wait to try it out but must hold off for 48 hours for everything to dry. I've been looking at new towels for the users, mulling over colours (John Lewis of course) and to make sure that there is never again any confusion over whose is whose, I've put hooks up with the four main visitors' initials on them. Thus there is O, I, J and K. Could that be any clearer? Can my towels in the bathroom be left for my sole use in future? The downstairs is filthy, and I mean filthy, and because I can't really clean I haven't bothered to tidy things away either.  The first day when the concrete floor was drilled to make space for the drains, the plumber didn't see the sockets in the utility room and used the one in the study instead. Thus all the doors were left ajar, so dust has got everywhere. After that I popped an extension from the shed through the window for him, but too late. The mess in the cloakroom has been trailed backwards and forwards to the back door, and I gave up cleaning several days ago. I'm taking it slowly, but this evening I washed the walls, floors and windows around the shower, and I'll do the rest as and when I have the energy. But I'm thrilled with it. I hope everyone else is too.

The laying of drains in the field finished this evening, and what a huge job that has been. Five massive machines each doing a special job have taken three days to cover a large field. I can't help thinking of how different it would have been a century ago, for example, when most of it would have been done by men with spades. The trenches they dug were nearly six feet deep, enough to bury a coffin in. When they'd left Hugo and I strolled around looking for treasure, coins, axe heads, but could see nothing. If only I had a metal detector. I'm sure there's a fortune out there.

I opened my big bedroom window this morning to throw out a dead cranefly, and the pigeon on her nest flew away. I looked down and to my amazement there were two sizeable fledglings sitting there. Not five days ago there were two small eggs. How could they have grown to such a size so quickly? They are not pretty things but they are their mother's own, and no doubt she loves them. I hope they continue to get big and fat so they can fly away. Then there will be no return. I've had enough of their squawking and calling, not to mention their scrabbling noisily through the leaves.

I gave an armful of blood this morning and by Tuesday should know what if anything is wrong. I persuaded the doctor against his better judgement to give me a few valium (am I likely to become addicted on 28 pills, most of which I probably won't need to take? I think not), and when my head gets to the unbearable stage I take one which removes the pressure. There's no rush of euphoria as I feel the weight of the world slipping off my shoulders, but rather something close to the old normal returns for a brief while. It's such a relief. If I have any left when I no longer need them I'll take them behind Wickham Market Co-op one evening and make some money. I'm told that that's where all the action takes place.

Under the Nurse

These salvias are a much prettier blue than my camera could show

Still colour in the perennial bed

 I dead-headed a few dahlias but the delphiniums proved too much for me and I had to sit down. And so it goes on, with no end in sight. A very high blood pressure reading in casual circumstances on Sunday has both shocked and galvanised me, and I'm seeing the nurse today for a bit of clarification. Was it just a mysterious spike, or has the self-medication with high doses of calcium and vitamin D to try to counteract severe osteoporosis caused my body to overreact? It's a possibility, but checking things on the internet is fatal, and pointless. I'm not one for dwelling on medical matters. Having a mother with hypochondria put paid to that. If you asked me when I last saw the doctor, or why, I'd be hard pressed to remember. Have I ever had a serious illness? Couldn't tell you. Did either of my children? Hang on a minute, let me think .... For me it's out of sight, out of mind. If I'm functioning OK, I never give my body a thought. I tend to believe I'm from the school of that character in French and Saunders: "Leg chopped off? Load of stuff and bloody nonsence. Don't need a doctor, just get on". But actually, when things go seriously wrong, as they seem to be doing now, and the leg is hanging by a thread, I'm completely thrown. It's me head, see. You can't get very far with a dickie head.

Trying to keep Hugo fit without long walks

  
The field behind my house looks like a building site. They are laying drainage pipes to try and make the boggy parts of it more productive. It's been fascinating, watching the trenches being dug out, then filled with stones and blue plastic tubing, miles of it. Several vehicles and not a few men are engaged in the task, and the noise they are making is ricocheting off the walls of the house and bouncing into the summerhouse where I am sitting. Poor Hugo doesn't know what to make of it. We would normally be in the house when there's a commotion outside, but there's a plumber and an electrician in there, building me a new shower room, and boy are they noisy too. Men and their gossip! I don't know why women get such a bad press. I've given up thinking about the dirty floor as well. Time enough to worry about cleaning up after they've gone.

Armageddon

Yesterday I was sent the ticket order forms from Bayreuth Opera House to pursue my dream of going to this Wagnerian shrine in Bavaria to hear one of his operas. I felt a surge of excitement and hope, but in fact I haven't been on the waiting list for very long so probably won't qualify for next year. The average wait is about nine years. I dreamed of seeing Renee Fleming sing in Lohengrin next summer, but so did thousands of other people around the globe, I'm sure. Decades ago, when I was a young thing, my friend James Bell who introduced me to Wagner promised to take me with him but it never happened and we lost touch when I got married. In those days you just bought a ticket. Not any more. What recession? James took me to Covent Garden for the first time, to see Il Barbiere di Seviglia and I disgraced myself by being so bursting to go to the loo, SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO bursting, that in the end I climbed over the back of the seat into the rear aisle and fled to the ladies. Luckly he was a Scot with a dry wit, and he saw the funny side. It was the first of many visits with James, and later of course, but I never behaved so outrageously again. Anyway, I'll complete the forms and send off a gigantic cheque, and wait. I've got nothing to lose.

As part of my fight against whatever is making me feel dreadful I've bought a jar of Manuka honey. It has properties, apparently, magical ones. I've seen the long list of things it's meant to cure, or at least help, and "unspecified head issues" aren't on it. I have a feeling about it though. Anything that costs that much must be good. And if not, I can honestly say that it's the very nicest honey I've ever tasted, and if the jar lasts a week that'll be a miracle in itself.

Home

I lay in the garden on my recliner, resting as I've been forced to agree to do instead of tackling the 1001 delicious jobs awaiting me: the hedge needs clipping back, the beds need weeding, bulbs have to be planted, and shrubs must be relocated. But not by me apparently, alas. So I lounged supine, staring upwards into the wide blue yonder, when suddenly an aeroplane hoved into view. It drifted across the sky, wings outstretched high in the air, but as I gazed I realised it wasn't a plane but a bird. A marsh harrier. It was huge, and it floated on thermals way up in the distnce. Then I spotted another one moving towards it, slowly, slowly, and as they met they caressed, moving over each others bodies with great tenderness, tendresse as the French have it, hovering wing to wing in a joyful act of love making. They billed and coo-ed, they lingered together, they touched beaks and heads, then they wafted away only to come back together again. It was as beautiful a thing as I have ever seen, and I watched entranced until they moved out of my vision. Were they a pair, or was this a spontaneous conjoining? I'll never know.

I tried a bit of weeding, sitting on my kneelers, very little effort involved, but the result was the same. Ruth came over for the afternoon prior to us going into Aldeburgh to see Victoria and Abdul, and before supper we went for a walk down the lane. It was a little farther than I can manage at the moment, and I realised I had overdone it and couldn't make it back. As I waited by the verge, watching a reluctant Hugo being led away, she went to get her car and drive me home. Ridiculous.

My entire family is going to be away soon, off to Virginia, to Paxos and to Crete. But I seem to have lost my thirst for adventure, Blakeney notwithstanding. I blame it on Hugo who I simply cannot ever again leave with strangers, but the truth is I love being here and feel no urge to travel. Not even the darned wood pigeons, who have laid another two eggs in the nest in the tangled wisteria just beneath my bedroom window and crash around from early morning until late can turn me against this place. I just missed the opportunity to dismantle the twigs they call home and stop them rebuilding it, but I can't intervene now, godlike, and touch the eggs. Two more massive babies will hang on to their hopelessly inadequate home until they are forced to fly, and for all I know they will mate straight away and begin the cycle again. Ah well, there's no place ....

Feeling the Chill

I found a pair of jeans in my wardrobe this morning. Unworn, Land's End, and I swear I have never seen them before in my life. OK, they are my size, but they have a proper high waist and widish legs, in a thich, rough denim. More like work trousers than designer jeans. I would never have bought anything like them. But where the heck have they come from? Has a friend left them behind, given that my wardrobe is in the guest room and so visitors have to do sharesies. It's a complete mystery, but I've worn them all day and have to admit that they are warm and cosy, and the high waist is very snug and comfortable. It's like the small blender I have had for aeons, which my girls learned to cook with and I used constantly. One day I took it out of the cupboard, stared at it, and had no idea what it was. I simply didn't recognise it. That was about 6 years ago and this is the first repeat amnesiac episode, so hopefully if it's Altzheimers it's the slow kind.

I went to a village meeting last night, another stage in our attempts to get rid of the poultry sheds, and before I went out I switched on the Rayburn heating for the first time since winter. When I returned the house was as cold as it has been all day. And I couldn't get it to work though the water was hot and the cooker functioning. Has the plumber done something? He thinks not, but when he returns tomorrow he'll see if it's an air lock or something similar. So, given the chilly morning, I lit the woodburner after lunch so that my Italian conversazione would be nice and warm. So it was typical that the sun was out and the summerhouse was toasty when they arrived. Nevertheless they opted for the sitting room, and we sweltered in there instead, removing cardigans and sweaters and opening doors. When they left I stuck in a few more logs to see me through the evening. Last night I had to go to bed at 10 when I couldn't stand being so cold any longer.

I'm making a mushroom risotto tonight. The one I cooked a couple of weeks ago was a sensation. As usual when I've finished for the day and think about supper I want a drink, but there were no beers in the fridge or cupboard. I didn't want to open a bottle of wine, so I resorted to the sloe gin I made last year. Gawd, it's good. One small glass, two slurps, was quickly followed by another, and the feel-good factor was all present and correct. I've put the porcini mushrooms in to hot water to soak, but may have to take a rain check on the rest of the ingredients. In the meantime, Hugo and I are missing Blakeney and the lovely walks along the creeks and inlets. We've added a few pics to cheer us up.

Me and Hugo at friend's holiday barn. Prince Harry came for tea once.

Taking A Break

My exhaustion is lifting, and my headache with it. This holiday is doing me good. I suggested we came here after being hooked by the TV documentary Normal For Norfolk. I wanted to find Wiveton Hall which I must have passed unknowingly dozens of times staying in Blakeney, and maybe spot Desmond and his ancient mother Chloe. We had planned to meet a couple of friends there for lunch tomorrow, but they cried off after both went down with heavy colds. So we decided to walk to the estate today, a lovely path that goes right from our hotel through greensward on the edge of Cley marshes. No dogs, the NT signpost said firmly as we came through the gate, but we ignored that; this injunction couldn't possibly mean Hugo. No sign of Desmond, but we ended up having a cream tea in his cafe, one of the nicest I've ever had. Warm, crumbly scones, home-made jam from the farm's own strawberries, and thick, thick clotted cream. Loose-leaf tea. A meal made in heaven.

Over the past week several people have stopped to pet Hugo, admire his beauty and chat to us about him. Most have thought he was a greyhound. And so it was again at lunch today in the Victoria Arms on the Holkham estate. Two ladies sat across from us in the conservatory and asked the usual question: Is he a rescue? It was only a while later that we realised they had made the usual mistake. As they left they stopped to chat again, and I told them he is a whippet. They were amazed, almost disbelieving, still full of praise for his good manners and his looks. He nuzzled gently stroking hands and gazed lovingly upwards. We've thought of a way round this common misconception. A recorded message stored somewhere in his collar, so that when people approach I activate it and he seems to say "I'm a whippet, not a greyhound!" That'll learn 'em.

Summer Hols

I made a mistake and booked the wrong hotel. "Where are you staying?" asked Judy when I told her we were heading to Blakeney to catch the Indian summer I was sure we were due just as soon as the schools went back. I told her the Blakeney Manor Hotel, when her eyebrows shot up and she said "Oh we never stay there. We prefer the Blakeney Hotel." I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth, which stayed open. "What?" I asked, perplexed. "Isn't the Manor the lovely one by the quay?" Well, it turned out I'd misremembered which one I'd stayed at a few times before, but when I tried to rectify the situation not only did the right hotel have no rooms but it didn't take dogs. That settled it then. We were stuck with the Manor.

Manor Hotel, Blakeney

You can tell a hotel by its reception staff first, and then by its food. The former were well meaning but shabby, the latter merely shabby. We weren't allowed in the restaurant because of Hugo, so we sat in the uninviting bar eating a lacklustre, poorly-cooked meal that showed no sign of any professional input. Some people might get upset under these circumstances - dry sea bass on soggy stir-fried veggies, and raw salmon steak in a creamy sauce - but we saw the funny side and laughed at everything. Even the little tubs of Golden Shred marmalade for breakfast had us in stitches. Who knew they even made these any more? The major plus was the bedroom, and Hugo quickly found a corner for his bed and settled in.

On the way up to the coast we hit the jackpot when lunchtime was fast approaching and we spotted a sign to a Heritage Village. As soon as we drove up beside the large green with its pretty estate houses and gardens I knew it had been the setting for The Go-Between. Here Julie Christie was discovered in old age by Leo as he tried to make sense of what had happened during that golden summer he spent with his schoolfriend before war changed everything. And I was right! One of my favourite films, and books of course. The village has not been added to for over a hundred years, and all the buildings have been beautifully preserved. We found lunch in an old tea shop, then visited the massive church where an organist was practising. This church served all of 100 people, so its size must have been more to do with prestige than necessity. Those were the days. And still are for some.

Heydon Village

Julie Christie with her dog

  
Today we walked in the grounds of Holkham Hall after a visit to the beach. On the sands Hugo encountered that rare thing, a dog who could outrun him, and the pair of them raced around for several minutes, the lurcher always a few feet ahead of the astonished Hugo. It was poetry in motion, and lots of people watched the speed of them, and the beauty of the boy. He gave up first, the lurcher obviously relieved at the reprieve, and came back to walk quietly and sedately by our sides. He wasn't especially exhausted, so I think he was humiliated to find himself at a disadvantage for the first time in the speed stakes. Since then he has virtually ignored every dog we have passed. Oh Hugo, king of the racetrack, you had your nose put out of joint today. The forecast had been for rain, but apart from  two short-lived showers we had sunshine all day. Lunch at the Hoste Arms in Burnham Market was a delightful treat.

I love this part of the world. I first came on my own in 1971 when I was 23, and stayed in this same hotel which I remember as comfortable and traditional. I was thrilled by the village, the creeks filled with small boats and families playing in the sushine, and the long walks along the Peddars Way. I returned many times but not for some years, and nothing has changed except the hotel. I'm sure there was proper marmalade in 1971.

Heartened

A funny day. I came down this morning to discover that Hugo had done his shopping again, browsing in my larder and laying his purchases out in his bed. I had not only closed the larder door when I went upstairs last night but had put his bed against it. The canny little monkey had pushed this away and assembled two tins of sardines and one of mackerel (this bought in error), and a new, now empty 150g packet of almonds. I was planning to use the nuts for one of Jamie's new 5-ingredient recipes, that of frangipane puff pastry tart, a delicious-looking thing made from freshly-ground almonds. Thanks Hugo. And good to see his digestive system is working well. No sign of him feeling poorly, and the almonds have begun to work their way through. I always check the state of play.

We started the morning with a run at the Woodland Trust place, the sun so hot I had to peel my layers off, scents of blackberries, apples, the earth and the cut grass floating dizzyingly past our noses. Leaves are beginning to turn from green to the autumn shades of gold and tan, and there are scarlet berries on the mountain ash and on the wild roses. I took my time, Hugo running on ahead enjoying the power of his little body, and then coming back to find me. At any crossroads or junction in the tracks he stands and waits for me to decide, alert as a gazelle for my signal to proceed. It would simply be impossible to have a dog like this and not let him have his freedom to race and explore. I pity any dogs who don't get these daily opportunities.

Next Hugo and I headed across the lane to man the church for the Suffolk Churches Annual Bike ride. I was relieving Sara and her daughter Grace, and as usual I stared in rapture at Sara's beauty. I know for a fact that had Paris set eyes on her the Trojan Wars would never have happened. Agamemnon would not have needed to slaughter his daughter Iphegenia, Clytemnestra wouldn't have had to murder him, nor Orestes slay her. Elektra could have taken up knitting, or become a nun. Greek mythology would have fizzled out. We chatted for a while, and then Sara told me how much better suited to me is Hugo than the pup I once briefly had. "You're so tall and slim and elegant, and Hugo is tall and slim and elegant too," she said, stroking him admiringly. "Whenever I see you together I always think you make a wonderful pair." Well, my jaw dropped open, and I told Grace that Hugo and I loved her mother, who is my new best friend. Beauty and kindness, what a combination. The next shock came later when Daniel relieved me, and we reminisced about the donkey paddock that is now my garden. I told him what a slog it had been creating it but that I feel I am there now. "Well you're looking good on it," he said. There must be something in the atmosphere of the church. Patrick had put a recording of Byrd's Mass for 5 Voices, sung by the Sixteen, on repeat play, and in that setting - as it would be anywhere - the music was simply sublime. Perhaps that's what skewed everyone's vision.

I spent the afternoon listening to Strauss lieder at Snape, ushering a concert given at the end of a week of masterclasses by the Austrian mezzo Angelika Kirchschlage. The music was gorgeous, and the young singers at the beginning of their careers are a talented lot. What a way to spend an afternoon. And finally the elegant boy and I had a walk down the lane as the sun moved towards the horizon. The evening light these past couple of days has been extraordinary, luminous and lucid one minute, a tangle of oranges and crimson with swirling grey cloud formations the next. There was no wind and I didn't need a jacket. In this early evening stillness I felt the old magic wrap itself around me, and I suddenly knew that winter, that dreaded period when you enter a sort of limbo and pray for escape, would be more than bearable. Because it is the countryside that buoys me up when times are difficult, the power of the natural world that stimulates and thrills no matter how harsh the conditions, how short the daylight hours. Living in rural England, in rural Suffolk, feels like the best gift I could be given. I feel privileged to wander this land that has been trodden on for countless generations, across the lane from a 15th-century church that is mentioned in the Domesday Book. To feast my eyes on the landscape, and relish the silence and the aloneness it offers most of the time. I could not be anywhere else now.

Pests

Our daily walk down the lane takes us past a very productive blackberry bush, and it is here that Hugo, nowadays always on the extension lead lest he hurtles after a hare, stops and waits. He loves fruit - apples, plums, anything really - and so I pick one for him and one for me, then another each, and then another. Sated, we trot on. It's been a very productive year for fruit, and already the freezer is stacked full of plums from the garden and blackberries from the bottom field. For picking the latter I left the boy at home. The last time we worked the bushes down there he disappeared around a bend and the next thing I heard was a scream that went on and on. When I dashed after him to investigate I found him shaking a very large hare to death. Horrible, but it's inbred in him. He won't get another chance. Anyway, crumbles and pies will grace the winter table when visitors come to stay, especially a caramelised plum flan created by Nigel Slater that resurfaces every year.

I don't normally buy biscuits, but at work we all find we need them after seeing a client or two, and I've started getting them in from time to time. My chosen variety is from the Co-op's Truly Irresistible range, the chocolate and ginger ones. They are all the brand claims for them, delicious cookies stuffed with fresh ginger and lumps of chocolate. I don't eat them in a normal way, but first try to nibble the pieces of chocolate that stick out a little, and then gnaw into the bits I can see but that don't protrude. Then, as my heart starts to race with anticipation and greed, I break them open and pick out the chocolate with my teeth. I end up with the lid of the biscuit tin scattered with small lumps which I then eat slowly, crumb by crumb. Two, I allow myself at any one time, but I don't always listen and have had as many as four in one sitting. But when that happens I only eat the chocolate and leave the crumbs for later. Such are the thrilling activities that make up my life. You get your pleasures where you can.

As Hugo and I lazed on the kitchen sofa yesterday, me reading and him dozing, we were both startled into alertness by the sudden sound of galloping inside the skirting board just behind us. I leapt up and called him to follow, but he was too comfortable. Shoving him off, I hauled the sofa out but could see nothing. When I swept the cobwebs and dust away I found a couple of tiny poos. In the garden room beyond were a few more. So it wasn't just one mouse then, but a whole tribe of meece. I enquired via the online community website about someone to remove them, and got some very interesting suggestions. Surprisingly, to me anyway, the majority were more concerned with the welfare and happiness of the mice than my sensibilities. They were just looking for a warm home for the winter, I was told, and what harm were they doing me? One man advised getting a humane trap and offloading them several miles away. But how would they fare then, alone and far from home, scared and lonely? The local response to other matters has been equally surprising. One man wanting someone to scythe a patch of nettles in his garden was lectured about the benefits of nettles to wildlife, with many pleas to leave them be. Who are these people? They mainly come from Dennington and Badingham, but are they true locals or twee incomers? Surely Suffolk-born country folk aren't going all precious about the evils of a rural life? Haven't they spent their lives annihilating everything that moved?

Dog He Would A Running Go

There's only one thing worse than not finishing the Saturday crossword, and that's finishing it. The delicious tussle, the brain-racking, the allowing of your focus to slur slightly from time to time, so that your imagination takes over a bit and words pop into your head, usually the right ones. It all comes to an end when your solve the last clue and you're suddenly shut out, like when you finish a wonderful book. Today's was a bugger, so much so that I went right through it and could not get one. I wasn't alarmed. This was a tricky setter, and once you get inside his or her mind you start to penetrate it. It was clever, not just opaque, too clever in parts, but working out the difficult ones is especially satisfying.

Hugo and I sat in the summer house watching torrents of rain crash onto the washing, and the umbrella, and the lounger I had been slouching in. I had planned to do some weeding in a desultory sort of way, my new MO, and had finished one bed when it began. Just a few drops, I said to myself, and joined Hugo where he lay slumbering on his padded furry bed. But the heavens opened, as they did yesterday, and they stayed open. Luckily I had the crossword with me because it was a while before it cleared. When I finish tasks before the rain starts, or get the washing in nice and dry, I feel as if I have cheated the elements. When it happens the other way around, I feel cheated. Grrrr, I seethed, grrrr! The forecast said some inland parts of Suffolk might get a soaking but it would be mainly dry. I think it was only over Cransford.

Earlier we had taken our first walk at Pound Farm since Hugo was attacked there two weeks ago. His wound is healing nicely, and I was desperate to let him have a run. But as we approached the car park I started to feel sick, and I realised I was terrified that my precious little boy would be hurt again. He seemed impervious to the memory and galloped off as usual. We went with a friend for security, and our two dogs are old mates. It took a while for me to relax though, and when we encountered other dogs towards the end of the walk I was hyper alert. He had so much fun, racing around, teasing the others, flying at top speed. It was a while before I noticed that one of his gaiters was missing, and when I went to look for it I could find no trace. I'll have another go when the grass is dry. But for now he's back to full health and happiness, and that's all a mother could ask for.

Invasions

Two lots of creatures entered my domain today, and the field mouse wasn't the worst of them. It was bad enough though, and caused complete chaos to the kitchen as I tried to work out how to catch it. I was sitting on the sofa reading the paper with my morning cup of coffee when I noticed something dart under the fridge, and it wasn't a big spider. I shone a torch into the space, and two tiny eyes gleamed back at me. Hugo, I called into the garden urgently, mouse in the house! He came in at once, not knowing what I wanted but alert and curious. But I didn't want him to savage the tiny thing, just give me some moral support. I pulled out the fridge, and spotted the little fellow hiding in a corner where the skirting board was missing. But as I moved towards it it vanished into the space. There was no way I was going to share the kitchen with a mouse, even a cute one like this. It would have easily fitted into an eggcup. I hunted outside for a piece of wood, and found a length of skirting board in the shed. This I sawed down to size and forced into the space where it should have been. This effectively cut off the mouse's escape back into the house, but I assume it came in through a small hole and not through the back door which involves a high step. Can mice jump? I think not. Anyway, it was an opportunity to clean behind the fridge which I took. Eagerly. Not.

The second creature, or creatures plural, were at the bottom of the dustbin when it was emptied this morning. I had noticed a really bad smell out there during the week, I mean a really bad smell. The last time I smelled something so horrible was when rat poison was put under the hen house to catch the egg thieves, and they all died in situ. It took a while for the stench to pass. I looked into the empty bin, and there were maggots, lots of them, wriggling around. And the smell was still there. Poor dustbin men! The last time I found maggots was in the kitchen bin when my children were small. We had a double bin, and they were at the bottom of the outer one, without a smell. I nearly died of shock. In the house! In the kitchen! With my two beautiful clean healthy children. What sort of a mother was I?  Boiling water first, then and now, the whole lot tipped into a wild part of the garden, then disinfectant and more boiling water. It was job done then, but this time the smell lingers so I've left the bin open to the fresh air. I think I know what the culprit must have been: the remains of a leg of lamb from 10 days ago. I can still smell the rosemary.

The final creature story of the day involves the legitimate one, Hugo. His scar has all but healed up, and I was planning to leave his buster collar off tonight. But somehow, when I wasn't looking, he has licked it and made a small raw patch. It's not bad and is already scabbing over again. But that's it for the time being. I cannot risk him opening it up and causing an infection, so the collar will remain in place for now. Dear, sweet, affectionate little boy. We lay on the lawn together today as I forced myself to rest between weeding, and he snuggled right in to my body and tipped his head back to look into my eyes. For several seconds he just looked at me, and I looked back. Has more love ever been shared between two souls? Well, yes of course it has, but it was such a tender moment. More than enough for me.

Timings

Hugo's stitches came out today and the wound is looking heaps better. As I waited in one treatment room while they were being extracted in another, his unbearable yelps of pain forced me outside where I couldn't hear them. But when he returned to me all bouncy and happy the vet said it wasn't him crying but another dog! We still have to keep him on the lead for a further week, but at least we can go through the fields again. After the most recent harvesting many of them are still a feast for the eyes in their golden covers, hard to resist. When the rain has finished later in the week I plan to take off for a hike on my own with no whippet bouncing along on the tips of his toes, straining for a glimpse of a hare. It's not the most relaxing way to take in the sights.

Before: bruised and torn and shorn

After: calm and healing

Today I cut the lawn, and almost exactly on cue when I'd put the ride-on back under its covers the heavens opened. There is little more satisfying than getting this timing right. Earlier I'd sat with a sketch pad mapping out the beds as they are now so that I can plan where I want to move things. I will have a big sort out in the autumn with Nick as my spademan, and then hopefully everything will be in its rightful place and I can just add to the beds. I had a laugh to myself as I moved around the garden: a month or so ago I could have issued a challenge to find a weed; now the challenge would be to find a spot without a weed. But there are enough flowers to distract the eye, what with the dahlias, the roses, and a resurgance of delphiniums and lupins after the first finished batches were cut down to the ground. The wisteria has defeated me though. I've left it too long without cutting the excesses down, and they have now become entangled with the guttering and are resisting my fiercest tugs. Someone will have to get up a ladder. Not me though. My legs start to wobble when I get to the third step.

In Our Stride

Hugo is very sad today. All his buddies have gone home and he's left with just me. He's mooching around a bit, in part because of the heat, and the lack of a good gallop, but also the absence of  myriad hands ever ready to obey his commanding beak and stroke him; different warm bodies to snuggle up to and rest a heavy head on. "Is this it?" his body language is asking. "Just you and me again?" Big sigh. I sigh too Hugo, but just think how nice it will be to find the serving spoons in the cutlery drawer and not the utensils one! The sharp knives in their correct positions in the knife block! And, best of all, the loo lids permanently closed! I'm joking. I like the house to ring with laughter and conversation, meals to be jolly, lingering affairs and not plates on a tray in the summerhouse, with a book or crossword. Over the past ten days I've cooked three of the new Jamie recipes involving only five well-chosen ingredients, all rated a success. Summer pudding made another appearance. And there were home-made meringues, plums from our own trees, and wonderful white Burgundies from the cellars of King's College. I know I sound like one of those Facebook boasts: "Just eaten at Gordon Ramsay's at Heathrow on our way to Bali for three weeks! Here's a photo of me with Leonardo di Caprio who we met over lunch and is now our best friend! Christmas in Los Angeles with his family! Wish you were here (not) (only joking!) (not!)!!"

I got a lot of washing done and dried including all the bedding, now joining the Ben Nevis of ironing piles. Barely a stitch has been ironed for nearly four weeks save for in an emergency when a grubby gardening shirt just would not suffice. You can't appear in public looking like a tramp. I've seen the look on the face of the girl who takes my Sunday Times voucher in the filling station shop every week when I turn up in wellies, long muddy shorts and a once-lovely striped shirt covered in woodstain. I always use my best voice and thank her profusely but her smile is a mildly pitying one. But I have friends who wear make-up and smart clothes to perform a similar errand, and the mucky pup is closer to the real me.

Hugo has his stitches out tomorrow, and I must admit to being nervous of taking him on a proper walk. He's longing to be let off the lead, and I'm longing to oblige him. But I dread encountering other dogs now, and think I will have to put him on the lead whenever we meet one. I especially dread meeting his attacker. I know he is nervous too. But I refuse to be cowed. We've had the best fun up at Pound Farm, often meeting no one at all on our hikes, and I won't be prevented from this favourite activity by one aggressive bitch (and I say the word with resounding venom) and her neglectful owners. Fingers crossed.

Expectations

The nightingale did not return though I had half promised my visitors that it might. Instead we had unusually nice August bank holiday weather, and we made the most of it. When friends and family come to stay they always want to head to the coast, and these two couldn't wait to get into the sea for a swim. "It's lovely and warm," a young dad paddling at the edge of the water with his small son called enouragingly, but the swimmers did not agree. Freezing, was the verdict, but they are old hands at swmming in England's icy seas, rivers and pools, and they came out dripping but beaming from the rush of endorphins. We had walked down to the beach through Dunwich Heath, a lovely hike through the woods and the heather with a very nervous Hugo in tow. It was his first walk off the lanes since he was attacked, and he peed every few seconds, panting all the time. He relaxed a bit at the National Trust cafe where we enjoyed a proper cream tea, and he drank milk from a paper cup like a big boy. He was slightly better on the way back, but then barked aggressively at a small dog that got a bit too close and we had to apologise and explain to its owners. Oh dear, let this horrible incident not have changed my gentle, friendly little boy.

Disembodied seal

The picture of patience

Hot stone treatment

Yesterday they headed off to Dunwich beach proper for another masochistic swim while I invigilated a Michael Flint exhibition at Snape. I hadn't been expecting visitors when I put my name in this slot, but it was fine. While they spent a small fortune at the Westleton second-hand bookshop on the way home, I had to listen to the John Wilson Orchestra rehearsing their evening concert of Gershwin. I like most of the songs, they are very familiar and singable, but I honestly can't think of much worse than having to listen to the full blast of this orcheatra playing a 2-hour programme of such music. Every visitor who came to see the Flint etchings was happy to overhear their practice, but not me. "We're all different animals" one lovely man said wryly when he saw my expression as he commented rapturously. Yes indeed. Oh yes.

The Right Note

I stepped into the garden to wait for the kitchen floor to dry just as dusk began to descend, and for the first time heard a nightingale singing in the field maple behind the pond. Just as my ears became attuned to the sound and I realised what it was, a pheasant arrived in the field next to me and started squawking at the top of its voice. They alternated for ten minutes or so as I willed the pheasant to go away, but then a fat wood pigeon landed in the tree and the nightingale flew away. I have to admit to being slightly underwhelmed by its song which I think is inferior to that of the skylark. I'm baffled as to why poets and song writers have held it in such high esteem. Nevertheless it was a special moment, and I hope the bird returns at the weekend when my visitors might educate me in its charms.

Perhaps my disappointment lay in the fact that it wasn't the brilliant, the wonderful, the luminous Renee Fleming who last night brought the wow factor with knobs on to Snale Maltings, real star appeal. She sang Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs, as sublime a piece of music as has ever been written. Many sopranos have sung and recorded these pieces, including, in my own collection, Kiri te Kanawa and Jessie Norman. Their voices are gorgeous too, but it's Renee's timing, her pacing, that brings out their extreme, almost unearthly beauty, their poignancy and pathos. She draws out every note, every phrase, lovingly stroking them with her vocal chords and her tongue, then releasing them gently into the auditorium. It's a seductive performance, her voice and diaphragm in immaculate control, her intelligence showing such sensitive insight that the listener can't fail to hear it too. I wish I had left when she did, but I was working and could not. She was followed by an Elgar's symphony that might have been powerfully played by the massive LPO but was for me a clash of two vastly different cultures. I wanted silence after her, to relive what was one of the most magical musical experiences I've ever had. My friend Tessa stopped to talk to me at the start of the interval. "I can't believe how emotional I got," she said. "I had to fight back my tears." Me too Tessa. If I hadn't been on duty I'd have put my head in my hands and sobbed.

All this was a far cry from the events of last week which began with Hugo being badly bitten by another dog and ended with a wedding. The latter was lovely, but poor Hugo found himself up in surgery having a general anaesthetic before being stitched up and confined to very short walks and the dreaded Elizabethan collar again. Brave, long-suffering little boy, he has licked and cleaned every part of his body when he has been freed, heavily supervised, from the collar for short periods, but he has studiously ignored the wound which he has been told he must not touch. It has nearly healed up now, a week later, and the stitches will come out on Tuesday. To coin a phrase, it has been a catalogue of disasters since I got him 18 months ago, but this time it was neither his nor my fault. Through it all he has behaved like an angel. If he sat in a tree and sang I couldn't venerate him more highly.

Whippet Eyes

I bought a new, quite zany necklace to wear with a new outfit, but it wasn't right so I planned to send it back. Internet shopping, the only way I can bear it. It was a long soft tube of bright red sparkly 'stuff', maybe plastic, maybe not, cleverly tied so there was a large, intricate knot that sat on the chest. I thought it look amusing. This morning I came down to find it on the sofa with Hugo, see-through wrapping torn to shreds, necklace chewed. He must have thought it was sweets. "Oh, you're a very bad boy," I said, and his tail stopped mid-wag as he slid to the floor and crept into his other bed. I ignored him for a bit while I made my tea, then spoke to him again as I sat on the sofa. "What a very bad boy to eat Mummy's necklace, and now I can't send it back. You might as well have eaten the contents of my wallet." He hung his head in shame, obviously horrified that the hideous, garish thing had monetary value. After a while I called him over in a quietly severe voice, and he came reluctantly and sat in front of me. "Why are you such a bad boy?" I asked him, and he looked at me with those gorgeous hangdog whippet eyes and my heart melted. As he gazed beseechingly at me his front paws slipped on the hard floor and he slowly sank to the ground, legs splayed out in front of him. Oh Hugo!

I now have some fine pink underwear, four knickers and two bras. They are not deliberately pink, but somehow got into the wash with a pair of red trousers, and that did for them. The machine was only on at 30 degrees too, practically cold, so that must have been a powerful red dye. I feel a bit uncomfortable wearing them, a tad frivolous. They are definitely not me. I'm hoping they'll return to pristine white after the next, hotter wash.

It's a gorgeous day and I'm looking longingly at all the delicious jobs that I want to do in the garden but cannot. Yesterday I did the Times crossword in well under an hour which would normally have been a matter of triumph but only left me feeling cheated of the wrestle and tussle I usually enjoy for longer on a Saturday, the hardest day of the week. Finishing it is great, but still having a few clues to wrack my brain over is even more fun. I've read books that would have kept me going for weeks, and revised Italian until my head aches even more. I've even dead-headed a few dahlias, but the job I really want to do - hoeing the big bed - must remain untouched until I'm better. Nothing for it then but to lie in the sun with the Sunday paper and nod off from time to time. "Wake up Denise it's time for your medicine." Thank you nurse.

Pace Yourself

I suddenly remembered the last occasion on which I felt like this - heavy, sore head, aching eyes, exhausted body - and looked it up here to discover the circumstances around it. Sure enough, there was the long paragraph listing all my physical accomplishments followed a day later by these now horribly familiar symptoms. With my depleted immune system I obviously can't go at it in the garden the way I do sometimes without paying a high price. I'm wondering now if a nice blood transfusion, red or white cells, can't remember which, would speedily restore me to normal health. I need to be a leech, and drain the blood from a healthy creature to feed my own body. The words 'incubus' and 'succubus' spring to mind, but I think they mean something different. The trouble is that when I'm working, hoeing, for example, as I was last week, I'm enjoying the work so much, and the transformation it brings, that I completely forget to take breaks. And this is the result. QED.

The other night at Snape I bumped into a woman who was in my Italian class a year or so ago. "Buonasera", we both exclaimed, and had a little chat about things, in Italian of course. You can do that when you speak the language. Won't I think about returning to the class, she asked. I miss you. I thought the teacher had given up, gone back to fulltime teaching, I told her. But no, they have a new teacher, a real stickler who pushes them through their paces. No more tea breaks, she said, it's all slog now. Well, this was music to my ears, and I immediately knew I was ready to return. Next morning I rang the people who organise evening classes and asked about enrolling. But only those still on the course got priority booking. I would have to wait until the open booking starts at the end of August. Fair enough, I said, my disappointment apparent. So I was thrilled when they rang the next day and said I could go on the priority list since I'd been in the class before. I'm so excited. You reach a sort of hiatus when you're not actively learning, and though our conversazione afternoons are fun and will continue, this is the boost I need. Hail Wendy well met!

Action!

The best thing that's happened to me in yonks was buying an electric version of the pumice stone. Two minutes, less even, on each foot and all the hard skin had gone leaving me silky smooth. I'll never need to visit the chiropodist again. When I read the reviews of these contraptions I was doubtful, but they works like magic. I'm thrilled skinny.

Hugo is out of his buster collar, and I've rediscovered the pleasure of kissing his head and his face, denied me for over a week. He's licked and scratched all the bits he hasn't been able to reach, and thankfully they did not include his eyes which appear to be fully recovered. To celebrate his freedom, and to get rid of his sweaty smells, I stretched the hose pipe all along the lawn in the sun, and when the water inside was hot I gave him a shower. He went berserk afterwards, hurling himself aaround and rolling in the grass to dry off, and I just stood with the camera, snapping his antics. At one point he travelled nearly the entire length of the lawn on his tummy. He smells good again now, and his coat is soft and glossy. I thought of my delight in touching and holding him when I watched part one of a programme I'd recorded. It shows an experiment with small children matched with old people who have given up a bit on life and whose physical, mental and emotional faculties have gone downhill. After two weeks the joy and innocent happiness of the 4-year-olds had spread to the geriatrics whose mood and mobility showed a marked improvement. Holding a small child's hand is one of the greatest pleasures you can have, one octogenarian stated. The message was obvious: keep active, be sociable, and above all have a toddler in your life. I panicked a bit then, not having regular access to anyone younger than 38. Would Hugo do as a substitute, I wondered? He doesn't do cuttin' an' pastin', nor colourin' in, but when it comes to cuddles and fun he's nearly as good as a child.

I've just finished reading Precious Bane by Mary Webb, a book that has haunted my unconscious since I was 8 and watched a dramatisation on a very early TV, with a very young Patrick Troughton as Gideon Sarn. The harelip scared me half to death, but Prue Sarn is a heroine in the mould of Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennet and Dorothea Brooke, albeit a less refined one. Webb's style captivated me from the beginning, and her descriptions of the natural world and the hardships and tragedies of rural life in the early nineteen hundreds was worthy of Thomas Hardy. Virago brought out new editions of her books a few years ago and I intend to buy and read them all. What a find. I'm hooked.

Easy Pleasures

I've been fighting some kind of bug for a week now, but I think it's got the better of me. It seemed to ease off into the evenings, so I've continued to do my duties at Snape, and honour social engagements. Now I wish I'd given in sooner, accepted offers of help and put my feet up. I'm cancelling work tomorrow, and biding my time for a Snape concert on Sunday. I had to go to Waitrose this morning because the earliest slot for delivery I could get was Saturday and the cupboard was bare. Panadol, Vitamin C and fruit were at the top of my list. I bought a bottle of Metatone too. I have to be well by next Friday. Biggest day of my life, practically. I GOTS to be fit.

Echoing my distress has been poor old Hugo, still wearing his buster collar a week after his eyes got sore. We've been backwards and forwards to the vet and he's put up with all kinds of invasive treatments from injections to drops and pills and cream, not to mention having his eyes flushed out and the lids scraped on several ocasions. He hasn't had a proper walk all week which has suited me, because after several hundred yards I'm exhausted anyway. And it's not as if he didn't cover great distances when he chased hares for three hours last week! We're a sorry pair, and at least one of us has had a glut of treats in an attempt to cheer him up. I like to think he has a rich inner life, as I do, and can think his interesting thoughts as he is confined to barracks. It's hard to tell though. He's not revealing anything to me.

There hasn't been much to cheer about, but the garden has one highlight even despite the horrible weather. After a lush period of productivity and colour until the beginning of July followed by a few weeks of bareness there has been a great flourishing of flowers and everything is looking wonderful again. I dreamed of reaching this point as I struggled with rafts of weeds for the first two years of its existence. It's not perfect, of course it isn't, and it would have benefited from my input over the past week. But I have to say it is looking fabulous and it's a real pleasure to have it to enjoy. As I slowly scan my eyes across the beds and the now healthy lawn, greedily soaking it up, I feel it feeding my soul and my imagination. So these photos are for posterity, and to remind me of how far I have come outside while I wilt indoors.

Skin Deep

The view from my house has changed from golden to muddy beige now as the farmer has scored the earth ready to receive a massive boost of manure. By no means all of the fields have been harvested - I can hear a combine ploughing slowly up and down a few lanes away - but mine are well into the next cycle. With the boy firmly on his extension lead, sniffing wildly and jerking his head up and to the side as he caught a glimpse of something in the distance, we crossed from side to side for a change instead of keeping to the wide margins. I need to be prepared in case he makes a dash for it, and not allow him to pull me over or drag the lead from my hand as usually happens. He still has his buster collar on so I don't know how far he'd get. Yesterday a vet called Michael Something (the Something had a lot of v's and z's and w's in it which makes me wonder if he'll still be here next year?) took Hugo into another room to flush his eyes out and pick the scabs off, and when he came back he looked like a myopic Viszla with pale pink surrounding skin instead of black. All night I kept waking up with a feeling of dread, and each time I remembered his eyes and prayed they'd return to normal soon. This morning they looked much better, so hopefully he'll be signed off later today. And I'm hoping, too, that my Tesco insurance will be better than the last lot.

On Sunday I made a huge summer pudding for my guest, and afterwards wondered why it had to be so big. Old habits die hard I suppose. I did what any sensible person would do, and put it in the freezer for the next lot of visitors. Now I'm kicking myself, and wishing I could have a fat slice every day, and use up the rest of the cream at the same time. But I'm nothing if not disciplined, and I shall not weaken now it's been put aside for a better use. It's not as if I haven't been indulging myself. Yesterday I went to see The Prisoner of Xenda, an absolute hoot in the local Aldeburgh theatre, and beforehand I treated myself to a child's portion of fish and chips, a packet of Payne's mint poppets from the cinema across the road, and a large glass of Sauvignon. Proper replete I was afterwards, greasy and happy.

Changing Tack

Around twenty cyclists in yellow jerseys whizzed past the house this morning, and I probably wouldn't have noticed them but for the ten conversations being conducted simultaneously amongst them. It was like a swarm of locusts, or a group of Italian teenagers, a wall of sound. I looked up as they approached, and every one of them saluted me with a "Good Morning!" as they flashed past. By the time I'd thought of something clever to say they were well out of sight.

Our lives are very restricted at the moment, what with the buster collar and the sore eyes. Poor Hugo is still suffering, his eyes sore looking despite all the drugs I've thrown down and onto him. The skin around the eyes is cracked and red, but at least they are clear now and he can see. Back to the vets tomorrow for another look. He's desperate to have a good scratch but he can't, and so he paws madly at the collar trying to get it off, or comes and rubs it against me trying to get some relief from the itchiness. My legs are black and blue from being whacked into countless times, but I don't have the heart to push him away. As soon as I sit down he plonks himself up beside me and drops his head on my lap, or my keyboard, and then he stretches further onto me, making himself comfortable. But if the only pleasure I can offer him is a good rub and scratch of his dear black body and head, I'm glad to give it.

I've had two quotes for my new shower room out of three so far, both way about the £3000 mark which I had hoped it wouldn't reach. I'm going ahead with it anyway since it will be a big advantage to have another bathroom, and one with a power shower in it, when the house is full, especially at Christmas. I hope the family won't be expecting lavish gifts this year. I laughed when I told them all that the new bathroom would be their Christmas presents, but I'm not sure they thought I meant it.

I did!

Heart Ache

Yesterday was a bad day, one of the worst. OK, it wasn't as terrifying as the time Kitty, aged 13 months and only hours after we'd seen her father off on a business trip to NY, suddenly couldn't breathe and I had to rush her into hospital in the early hours of the morning with her small chest heaving, desperate she'd die before I got her there. Or when Olivia aged seven contracted chicken pox, mumps and measles then a kidney infection in quick succession and was so ill, just skin and bones, that I thought I would lose her too. Throughout the morning as I hunted for Hugo I kept saying, "It's not the girls, they're safe, it's only a dog," but I knew it wasn't true. He was gone for three hours, and all these thoughts and others raced through my mind leaving my head throbbing and my nerves stretched like cello strings. Where could he be? He ran off after two small hares when I left him off the lead for two minutes while I took a photograph. I must have covered 50 or more miles, driving backwards and forwards down all the lanes, scanning the fields with my binos. He'd never been gone this long, and I believed one of three things must have happened: he was lying in a ditch with a broken leg and couldn't move; he'd been run over by a car; or he'd been stolen. Every thought made my stoamch lurch. To make matters worse most of the fields are still unharvested, and I would never see him if he had collapsed. And there was a fierce wind blowing that nearly knocked me off my feet a few times. How would he fight his way home against that, tired and maybe hurt? I went across the lane towards Sarah's drive at noon when he'd been gone for more than three hours, and suddenly there he was beside me wagging his tail. Oh god, was there ever a sweeter moment?

He was not unscathed. The vet had to administer two injections and give me pills and drops because his eyes quickly swelled up and looked raw and painful. Soon he couldn't open them at all. They are still bad this morning, gungy and tight and it took a while to bathe them open. All the time he lay quietly though I could see it was hurting. Some sort of allergic reaction. The main thing is that he's back, he's safe, and his eyes will get better quickly thanks to antibiotics. Me? I'm still shattered, absolutely wiped out. All night I kept dreaming I was changing a tiny baby's nappy and as I turned to get something the baby rolled onto the floor. At least that never really happened.

Somehow this picture cheers me up. It's not the face of pure evil but of someone puffed up with so much hubris, arrogance, ignorance and ego that he's potentially as dangerous as the worst criminal in history. But he looks so comical here. The Donald.

Wireless

I'm reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in Italian on my kindle. I figured it would be complicated enough but not too difficult since it is aimed at middle-range children, and so it has proved. One of the most powerful memories of my childhood is coming home from school in winter with my brother and sister, lighting the fire to warm a freezing house, and settling down to listen to CS Lewis on the radio. Children's Hour, it was. No television then. Oh, the magic of it! We were rivetted to the wireless, barely breathing as we followed the four children on their adventures. I hope some of the magic will still be there, but in Italian. Yesterday I went to see Angels in America, live from the National Theatre, about the AIDS crisis as it unfolded in America. It is a very powerful play, not very comfortable viewing, over four hours long. The cinema was nearly empty, and I had the back 10 rows to myself. Several people left after the first act which lasted for nearly two hours. I'm glad I went, but the waste of lives as the powers that be hedged and shirked and buried their heads in the sand was very upsetting and frustrating to be reminded of.

Hugo still has a whiff of cow dung about him, but I have to confess that I rather like it. You can keep your pig and your chicken output, in fact the farther away from me the better, but who could object to cow and horse? I blame it on a near-lifelong rural or semi-rural existence, and a game we used to play as children in Craigie's field in Ireland called "Nelson's Good Eye". It helped us build up strong immunities.

I weeded around the pond yesterday, gently hoeing the earth where it has become flattened and baked by the sun. So after the heavy rain last night I shouldn't have been surprised to see that the pond water is now completely opaque for the first time this summer. All that run-off loose earth. I only knew there had been a storm because the two girls in the filling station where I went to get my paper this morning were chatting about it. "We was flooded down Parham way this mornin'" said one. "You could scare get along the road that was so deep in water." "I never heard no storm," responded the other one, leaning on the counter with bleary eyes and propping her head on her arms. "I had a right old night in the pub and can't even remember gettin' to bed. That didn't have no effect on me then, that didn't." I was with the second girl, though I hadn't had a right old night. Glass of Sauvignon with my chicken, that was all. And I had the window wide open too. Come to think of it I did hear the wisteria cracking against the glass, and I cursed the two fat near-fledgling wood pigeons which are still there overspilling the nest right under my bedroom, stopping me trimming the long tendrils back. Get you gone, I cry silently, but every morning when I peer down at them and they look up at me with frightened eyes, my heart melts. Stupid creatures. But still creatures.

Challenges

We walked around the fields this morning before I went to work, and suddenly there were three small leverets running for their lives with Hugo thundering after them. Drat, damn and blast! When one veered off he followed, and it was an hour and a half before I found him again. The good news is that the gaiters stayed on and his dew pads were unharmed. The bad news was that he had been running through the manure that is currently being spread on the back fields, and he stank. I was so late for work I decided to just take him straight to Penny and Roger's, and they, old troopers that they are, gamely accepted him after I'd rubbed him all over with a towel to get the worst of the mud off. Apparently he plonked himself down on the floor and slept. He didn't even ask for his usual treats. The gaiters had had a battering but were intact, so now they've passed the test I shall buy a few more pairs. But I'll never let him off the lead on a CAB morning again.

The near field was finally stripped of its last barley ears earlier this week in a lull between cloudbursts, though the straw has not yet been gathered in. Several fields are as yet unharvested. But already the lower field has been muck-spread and the plough is working its way across the contours, followed by a massive flock of seagulls. Yesterday evening before I went out I was dazzled by a large gathering of swifts flashing around in the sky above me. Their physical display accompanied by lots of screaming was something to behold, but it does remind you that they will soon be off - early August is when they leave for their winter home. It's the first time I've seen them in such large numbers near my house and I don't know where they are nesting. I can only assume the insect population was worth their while.

When I dropped smelly Hugo off this morning Penny asked me if I'd like her to pick up a meal for £10 for two from M&S. OK, I said, that sounds interesting, but I wasn't expecting a whole farm chicken, retail price on the label £7.95, plus a bottle of Sauvignon, a carton of mixed green vegetables for microwaving, including fresh peas and edamame, and a packet of eight profiteroles. My eyes popped when I saw what I was getting, and at this moment the chicken is roasting in the oven, sending out mouthwatering scents. What a fantastic bargain, and such a great idea. I think I may have to go back myself next time.The chicken will last for several meals, and so will the wine. I've had two of the profiteroles already, and they are gooooood. I had been planning something simple like puy lentils and smoked mackerel mixed with salad leaves and a nice dressing, but roast chicken, roast potato chunks with lemon and thyme and all the rest, well, what can I say. Yummy?

Pushing Boundaries

We got caught in the rain as we walked this morning, but instead of turning back and putting on a cagoul we continued on our way. It was light showers, not cold or unpleasantly wet, and rather nice to be out in. I was heading for the bath and a hair wash anyway, prior to meeting a friend for lunch at the Leaping Hare, so what the heck if I was a little damp? How Hugo would have loved to encounter a hare, leaping or otherwise. He knew they were out there somewhere, he could smell them and where he caught a scent I ould see the flattened grass showing their tracks. But nothing appeared. It's a relief in a way that he hasn't found any quarry to pursue for well over a month now, but I'm quite keen for him to try out his gaiters and see if they stay in place. He wears them on every walk where he'll be off the lead, his little red and black gaiters, and many comments and questions they elicit. When I'm sure they work I'll add a few more primary colours to his wardrobe - emereld green, perhaps, and daffodil yellow. Very chic.

I looked at the "Pictures of the Day" on the Times online this morning and felt my legs turn to jelly. Luckily I was sitting down. Here it is, the most sickening, terrifying, baffling shot imaginable. Why? I ask. Why would anyone choose to put themselves in that position? Even thinking about where they are sitting makes me tremble. Standing at the full-length plate glass windows in the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Centre decades ago with my then husband, me behind him with my hands on his waist, I gently pushed him forwards. He turned around to laugh, but it was me who half fainted, ashen-faced and needing to be put on a chair with my head between my knees, well away from the window. Not an irrational fear at all, in fact very sensible, but with my feet firmly on the ground something still compels me to look.

Please tell me they're strapped in

My family are all many miles away at the moment, one in Montreal and the other in Tuscany. Both are work related, but they sound like ultra-jollies to me. One rang me from her bed compartment on a BA flight just before take-off at 6pm. The flight is seven hours long. "What on earth do you need a bed for?" I asked. "You'll be there before you'll want to sleep." As she accepted a glass of chilled pink champagne from the steward she told me she would settle back and watch a couple of films, supine and comfortable with a few nice pillows propping up her head and blankets to keep her cosy. Call that work? The other one is staying at a luxury hotel/spa complex that is housed in most of a converted but still authentically unspoiled Tuscan village. She will be the writer in residence for two weeks, and all she has to do is give three 10-minute readings from her books. Her fiance is there too, all expenses paid. Call me an old reactionary, but is that work? Seriously, I look forward to hearing all the details of both sojourns when they get back. It's called living vicariously, but I really don't begrudge them a single second of their fascinating lives. The pleasure is all mine.