Kismet

They cancelled the surgery, but not before I had packed my little suitcase with "just in case" overnight clothes and been deposited in the centre of the sprawl that is Papworth Hospital. The shock! One minute you're about to dice with death or worse - and believe me, there is much, much worse than death - and the next you're set free, suddenly stranded and aimless. Everybody reeled in stunned disbelief, but then we gathered ourselves and got on with it. I feel so at home in this Cambridge house where I am welcomed and to which I returned to lick my wounds. The good news was that Ian could now accompany Olivia to the launch of her new novel at a London party, and I insisted that they both went. They set off looking like the glamorous members of the literati that they are. Later I luxuriated in their gossip about the evening, the buzz of excitement and pleasure they brought home with them. In the meantime I hungrily demolished - split what? - a huge quantity of beef, pickled walnut and prune stew that Ian had thoughtfully made the day before for all of us coming and going at odd times. I've been with lots of married or coupled friends over the years, and experienced this twice myself, but I have never before known two people who are so perfectly matched, who discovered each other through what could only be described as the hand of Fate. They might think that they are happy together, but they aren't half as happy as I am.

In other news I am now comfortably ensconced in Gerrards Cross not 200 yards from where I lived with my husband and children all those years ago. This shift was part of Plan A which perforce became Plan B. Hugo loves our hostess but is slightly wary every time I get up to leave a room. When Olivia and I took a few hours out to visit John Lewis yesterday while Ian was teaching, Hugo might have lain on the hall rug awaiting our return because when we opened the front door he threw himself joyously on us both, body wagging furiously around our knees, tail going bonkers. He must have been anxious, but bore it bravely. He's determined it won't be repeated, and stays close now. All my peeps, Kitty and Olivia, John and Ian, Tricia and Hugo, so dearly loved and treasured. At times like these you don't half reckon their value.

Interest

The lane outside the house was thickly layered with ice, and the field was full of hares. I decided to pop Hugo in the car and take him down to the college grounds for a run rather than risk a broken hip or a massacre. I hadn't put it away in the garage the night before so it had frozen over, but the strong sunlight was melting it. As I turned the key it was evident that the battery was flat and the car would not start. Apparently a door was open somewhere. Sure enough the boot had not closed properly, and then I remembered that the car wouldn't lock the evening before though I flicked the fob twice, and then I got distracted and forgot to find out why. How easy our lives are, many of us. I rang the breakdown people and they sent out a man, just like that. And while he was charging it up and we chatted I looked inside the garage and saw a very large and very dead rat stretched out across my bags of kindling. I screamed the f word, and leant up against the gate, my heart thumping. And the man said what's up? And I said how are you with rats? And he said he hated them, but he's a man and he's six foot six, so he did what he knew he'd have to do and threw the thing over the hedge into the field. The rat must have found the eight or so little boxes filled with poison that I had for the invasion of tiny field mice in the house, and it had gorged itself. The stuff of nightmares.

The day was so nice that, when I'd recovered my poise, I ate my lunch in the summerhouse, and later we were joined by David, and after that by Frances. What a joy friends are, and how Hugo appreciates being made a fuss of. The afternoon and evening were clear and calm, and I'm still getting used to it being light towards 6pm. Eventually we made our way indoors and turned on the lights. Every day brings something different, no two the same. A rat, a flat battery, visitors both expected and unexpected. You have to take them as they come, and if one isn't to your taste the chances are that the next one will be.

Blessings

The news is having an increasingly visceral effect on me. On Sunday, reports of some Oxfam workers' behaviour in Haiti made me reel, and for a moment I thought I was going to faint. Of course, of course, powerful paedophiles and other sex menaces will prey on vulnerable people wherever they can, and what better scenario for exploitation than an earthquake in a third world country. And once these revelations are known, others surface in different zones. Almost worse than this terrible news, though, is the misuse of over 4 billion pounds of aid that was raised in large part by individual donations to rebuild Haiti. My friend who has often reported from there, and sent missives though From Our Own Correspondent, told me years ago that there was surprisingly little evidence of improvements on any large scale. How low can people sink? I can barely stand to read the paper these days, and never watch the news.

So it was with sheer delight and amazement that I opened the back door not once but twice to people delivering flowers to me yesterday. I could scarcely take it in, this sudden floral influx, and couldn't wait to see who they were from. One had been sent by Hugo, telling me he loved me! Such taste! And the other was from an old and very dear friend who really wished me good luck for next Tuesday but made a smiling nod to the day and what might have been. Both lots are absolutely beautiful, and I've taken a photo of Hugo with his, though he is bashfully looking the other way.

I know he must be missing his usual runs, so I wrapped myself against the wind and set off into a very sunny field to let him off the lead. He hadn't gone 50 metres when I spotted two lots of hares sunning themselves, nine altogether. Luckily he hadn't seen them, and I hurried him back onto his lead and down the lane to the churchyard instead. The sun was warm, but that wind has a fierce edge to it still, so I kept my gloved hand to my mouth and stayed out no more than a few minutes. But as the morning wore on it got warmer and in the end I couldn't resist a quick look around the garden. Using refuse collection day as my excuse, I strolled around the beds admiring the very evident signs of growth - green shoots and buds sprouting everywhere. Is anything more designed to fill you with hope that change is on the way, and an end to the recent testing weather?

Philosophical Thoughts

I stood inside the door of the Aldeburgh theatre checking tickets yesterday afternoon prior to a concert, while freezing winds whipped around my legs and head. I knew so many people who then stopped to chat to me that I was distracted from quite how cold it was. So why am I surprised to find that both my upper and lower respiratory tracts are inflamed and mucousy? I had plans for the day: number one was to prune all my roses, a gentle job in the sunshine despite the still very cold air; and two, to support pancreatic cancer research by way of a quiz and supper in the evening. It's a bummer. I hate dropping out of things, letting people down, but givien my important date at Papworth next Tuesday I feel I must protect myself from worse. Another long, long day with more to come. Is it just me or is this Arctic winter beginning to drag a bit?

I watched a film last night, randomly picked on Netflix. Well not randomly: surfing through the choices on offer I saw one about the American writer and critic Joan Didion and I was intrigued. I'm embarrassed to say I've never read anything by her, or not that I can remember, and I suddenly wanted very badly to know about her. I was enchanted by the contrast now at age 84 between physical frailty and intellectual robustness. She's a fascinating woman whose work has taken her to many places, philosophically rather than geographically though she did go to war-torn San Salvador to find out what the US government was really up to there. "Was it frightening?" she was asked by the interviewer. "Was it frightening?" she repeated, eyebrows and hands flying skywards. "I've never been so terrified in my life." I shall start with The Year of Magical Thinking, and move onto Slouching Towards Bethleham which now I come to think of I did read years ago. But can I remember it? Not a word.

I love this time of day, early evening in winter when the sky is still light and any wind has dropped leaving everything still and calm. Through my massive kitchen windows to the right of me I can see the unmoving dark shapes of bare branches creating silhouettes against the pale background. The flightpath from Stansted must have changed because there is plane after plane in the distance, soaring upwards to disappear beyond my ceiling, leaving contrails in the sky. After the Russian crash I'm loth to stare too long in case I have the power to bring them down. It's all so safe and secure, but as I write those words I immediately think of those whose environments are anything but and I feel bad. How lucky we are who who live in this corner of Suffolk away from friction and fear. But then I remember that Putin's planes and nuclear weapons will come this way, straight across the North Sea, and feel almost relieved, the balance righted again.

Equipped

On these cold mornings I look out of the window in pyjamas and dressing gown and shudder. Sometimes I open the window a crack and sniff the air, then hastily withdraw my nose. Walking the dog on these winter mornings is not for the faint-hearted. But as soon as I've got all the gear on and we've gone outside the unpleasantness vanishes. They say there is no such thing as bad weather, only poor clothing, but I disagree. When the evenings are very wet, windy and freezing Hugo gets his exercise in the front garden, for as long as it takes to cock a leg and squat on the forgiving shingle. Then he scurries back inside and we both delight in the warm kitchen. He's not bothered about missing a walk, and makes up for it the next morning by lurching off the second I unclip the lead, and testing his speed with evident glee.

This morning he ran the length of the school playing fields a couple of times to chase other dogs, and by the time he returned to me he was panting hard. He trotted beside me for the rest of the walk, done in and ready for the sofa again. We stopped at the newsagents on the way home to buy a paper, and I took the opportunity once again to ask about having my Sunday paper delivered. I've been doing this on and off for four year without success, but the chap serving this morning looked on the computer and found at least another 12 people in the village who have theirs delivered! He promised I'd get mine next Sunday, so fingers crossed.

Hugo and I have a lot in common. We both love curling up on the sofa, we share a passion for sleeping, and neither of us can resist the sun. So I wasn't surprised to find him sitting in my bedroom with his face pressed up against the wall, eyes closed in ecstasy, when I came out of the bathroom. At first I couldn't see why he was positioned like that instead of lying stretched out against the radiator. And then I saw that it was the only sunny patch and he was making the most of it. I've been known to squash myself onto a narrow windowsill to catch the last rays before they disappear from a room. We're cut from the same cloth, him and me. A marriage made in heaven.

Convenient

The dog's lead duly turned up exactly where I was told it would be, hanging off the gate leading into the Woodland Trust walks. Oh ye of little faith. I'm very fond of this lead: it's soft and light and was very cheap, far superior to the leather and heavily woven fabric ones we also possess. We didn't walk there today though, but stuck to the large field behind the house. The lanes are icy and I don't fancy taking a tumble. The first part of the track is very wet and covered in ice again this morning after a night of heavy frost. It's also been pounded by the horses that take their exercise where we do, so the many little hoof-sized potholes around the boggy entrance are filled with icy water. Hugo immediately spotted a large black bird and started after it, but was not prepared for the ground to give way with a sharp crackle under his feet. Luckily he stopped before he got up any speed and turned back. I would hate one of those long slender legs to snap. Nikki told me how lucky I am to have a long-legged dog as her shaggy spaniel needs a bath after almost every walk. And last night Sophie bemoaned her two ground-hugging dachshunds who can't help slithering through the mud on even the most sedate of walks. Yes, long legs are good, as long as they don't get stuck in the ground mid-gallop.

We dined on Charlie Bigham last night thanks to Judy's temporary incapacity, and the conversation turned for a while to convenience foods. Sophie is partial to the designer  boxes ordered online and delivered to your door containing all the ingredients for a meal whose recipe is enclosed. Apparently they supply the lot, including, where appropriate, an onion and a clove of garlic, a trickle of vinegar in a small airtight bag. I had to chuckle. I'm sure it's very handy when you come home tired from work and don't have to think about what to cook. But this idea is surely having a laugh.

Sophie's sister Caroline is about to qualify as a personal shopper and is keen to try out her new skills on this mother of the bride. She would do it all apparently, dress or trousers, shoes, handbag, hat/fascinator, the lot. The idea is so tempting I'd love to surrender myself to her talents and knowledge of where to shop. I fear she'd find me a very reluctant client though, loathing clothes shopping as I do and exhausted usually after visiting just a couple of outlets. I think I may just continue hoping for a miracle and shove my head back in the sand.

Game

My dear friend Judy was unwell last Sunday so lunch and bridge at hers was postponed. Despite many serious health issues and an advanced age Judy is always bright, positive and cheerful, full of beans. She is enormous fun, and has a much sharper memory than me. To look at her and listen to her you would never know she has thrice-weekly dialysis for example. So for her to give in to illness was unheard of. I'm due there again on Friday evening, and wanted to check she was OK and still wanted me to come. "Absolutely fine," she said predictably on the phone. "Whatever I had last week has left me with fluid on the lungs so I'm very breathless, but they've taken an X-ray and they'll let me know." "Are you sure you want visitors?" from me. "Oh yes, I'm looking forward to it." Then she told me she fell flat on her face into a muddy puddle yesterday when she tripped on a step, and badly twisted her knee. "It's very swollen and I can't walk properly, but I'm completely fine." How did she get home from Halesworth, I wanted to know. "Well I drove of course!" Of course. As so often before, my jaw dropped open. I was going to say that when they made her they threw away the mould, but actually I know a lot of Suffolk octogenarians like her, and being with them is like being with schoolgirls. They are irreverant and funny, and can't abide a fuss. "Stuff and nonsense" is their motto. I strive to be like them, but I'm still a bit young.

Lunch in Orford was also a laugh, until the bill came. It showed £24 for two glasses of wine. I called the waitress back and pointed out the mistake. But there was no mistake. We spluttered, we expostulated, we rolled our eyes in mock disbelief, and we laughed, and they took £8 off, but the damage was done. When did a Suffolk hotel get so far up itself that they thought these prices were reasonable? Ruth Watson has left the Crown and Castle now, and a group of eight hotels has taken over. Well they can keep it: I won't be going back.

And lastly I went to see Three Billboards with Sammy in the evening, and neither of us knew what to make of it. The local lierati were there too - Julia Blackburn, Liz Calder and their gang - and even they, professional talkers, seemed at a loss for words. It was a powerful film, but the violence and cruelty, the gratuitous racism, made me uncomfortable and twitchy, and I'll need time to process it. I was glad when it was over and I could breathe again. Sammy agreed. For the umpteenth time I thanked god I don't live in the southern states of America. No sir.

A Turn Up

Synchronicity, or fate, but how do they work? I've been feeling a bit apathetic, overwhelmed by the joint weights of surgery in 10 long, dragging days time and an inability to make much headway through exhaustion. I go for a walk but can't travel very far and am soon breathing heavily. The breathlessness is rendering me pretty inactive at home too, and the waiting days have been slow and, admit it, boring. This is unusual for me as I am never bored. I've contemplated various distractions but done nothing to make them happen. I'm lacking motivation. Then out of the blue comes an invitation to lunch at Orford's Crown and Castle from my friend Nikki. She's booked the doggie table in the bar for Hugo and Alfie in the hopes that we are free today. Of course we are free, though I was on the verge of making a similar date with another friend. I love a spontaneous invitation. The day is glorious and it's hard to stay indoors. When the weather is like this, cold but sunny, I usually make a beeline for the summerhouse where it will be warm, the 360 degree glass trapping the sun's rays and making it a very comfortable snug. Suddenly energetic, I wash up and tidy the ktchen.

Earlier we drove to the Woodland Trust a mile away where we haven't been for months. In the winter the ground gets very wet and soggy, and soon the feet of hundreds of dogs and owners make it a mudbath. But today I couldn't resist it. The worst areas near the entrance had frozen over making them quite treacherous for walking, but soon we were out on the greensward where Hugo galloped off in sheer joy. But three quarters of the way around I realised I didn't have his lead any more and retraced my steps to find it. It wasn't there! Two Suffolk old boys (my age probably!) were still nattering by the gate when I returned, and they assured me the lead would be discovered and hung on the fence for me to find. I hae me doots. On our way out we passed one man going the other way, and only he could have found the lead. It's the second one I've dropped in two years, and the other one didn't turn up either. Watch this space.

Weathering

Hugo and I have taken to walking down the lane and into the churchyard where I can let him off his lead. The weather is not conducive to anything longer, what with the generous selection of driving rain, bitter air temperatures, snow and hailstones that we are being dealt at the moment. I have to keep an eye on him though as leaving his droppings behind would not be in good taste. Imagine someone going to tend a loved one's grave and coming across what shouldn't be there. I'm a little shocked that I allow him to do this, but it's winter and needs must. We walk the whole way round, but it's not large so we go around again. I read the gravestones and ponder the lives of people who lived in my village, maybe even my house, many years ago. The church dates back to the 15th century though there was one on the site before that. It blows my mind. The Victorians removed most of the original internal features when they did a crass restoration here as in many other places, but it's a pretty little church still with a wonderful atmosphere. I don't mind ending my days here, though not yet.

I watched an episode of McMafia last night, and when one of the super-rich ex-patriot Russians went shopping to smarten up her female bodyguard it was Roland Mouret's gaff in Carlos Place that they chose. Chic doesn't even get close to it. When Roland and James were our next-door neighbours we were invited to visit his place, and we dressed accordingly to suit the occasion. No cordoroys or Guernseys that day I seem to remember. You had to ring the doorbell for admittance, and the beautiful wood-panelled old house was the last word in taste, with a few but not many off the peg gowns hanging decorously against the wall. Upstairs was the atelier where Roland did his designs, and on the next floor a team of men and women stitched them into his elegant creations. On the top floor was a flat. It was an  eye-opening experience for me, but tea at the Connaught Hotel across the road where Roland treated us was pure fun. Those were the days.

Nick came this morning as usual to work in the garden, his breath fluttering around his head like smoke. I asked him how his ride had been in the bitter cold and he confessed that he had seen a lot of black ice and been too scared to cycle. Instead he had walked, setting off at 7.30am and reaching me just before 9. My jaw dropped open, but he said he enjoyed it. Already he's transformed the garden, turning over the beds and removing the beginnings of the weeds that will soon try to take over. He wouldn't come indoors to warm up but had a rolled-up fag with his coffee and was soon ready to go. Needless to say I didn't join him. Hugo and I watched him through the window like a pair of wimps, and shuddered every time the door opened. We're not stupid.

Phenomena

My new calendar arrived on Wednesday giving me the best part of a whole day to appreciate January before turning the page to February. It's from the London Review of Books so doesn't exactly offer the inspiring photographs of lovely gardens or beautiful scenery that I usually go for but it is stimulating in an abstract, bookish sort of way. I'm very pleased with it. Looking at other people's gardens is something I particularly enjoy, and in my travels I see that snowdrops, crocuses and aconites are already flowering though they not at my place. An evil squirrel has dug up all my bulbs and scoffed the lot especially the precious tulips in pots, so there is no early colour for me. Looking in the shed yesterday I could see that all the bulbs I've been storing in there have disappeared too. I can't blame that on a squirrel. The only things left are two packets of especially glorious anenomies in a dark burgundy colour, presumably not very tasty to ratus ratus, or mousus mousus, so they will go into the ground shortly and join my other anenomies. I love their flowers.

I watched All The President's Men last night as promised, and was struck by how dated it was. I don't just mean in the way that both Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman wore their trousers right up to the waist with belts to keep them neatly in place, nice though that was to see. But the politics, where an American president could be impeached for telling a relatively small lie, covering up the misuse of campaign funds, and the massive shock waves this created. Lies and wrong-doing are ever present in American politics these days, and although feeble attempts are made to bring the culprits to justice nobody seems to be very surprised that they exist. The thought of Trump being impeached for his criminality is just laughable.

We went out to see the super blue moon on Wednesday night, and it was indeed very bright. But nothing like the staggering images I saw of it rising over Glastonbury Tor. The trick is clearly to view it near the horizon when it appears to be much bigger than when it's high in the sky. The first of the three super moons on my birthday stopped us in our tracks as we drove back from the restaurant, and so did the one just after New Year. I watched to see if either Hugo or I were affected by the full moon but we remained our normal sanguine, calm selves. If he did anything crazy when I'd gone to bed there was no evidence the next day.

Tempests

We got caught in a tempest today, and by that I don't mean the relatively tame one conjured by Shakespeare but the enactment of a terrible elemental rage. The sky looked innocent enough as we set off for our morning walk, and because I felt unusually energetic we headed off the long way around the fields. Before long a fierce wind started to blow and horizontal rain was fired in its vanguard, right into the side of us. We were dressed for winter, me in my thick jacket, padded trousers and care-in-the-community hat, Hugo wearing his waterproof, sheepskin-lined coat, so were were quite well protected, but we were no match for this weather. Pretty soon my left side was saturated, the dog's coat and all his exposed parts dripping. As we turned right at the bottom of the field the wind suddenly got up even stronger, and it was all I could do to stay upright as it howled against my back. I glanced up at the distant house a few times and wondered if we'd make it back. As we turned up the third straight the rain hit our other side, but now it was hailstones that slashed at my cheeks and made the dog scamper and skitter wildly at the end of the long lead. Of course we got home, and quickly stripped off our soaked clothes and dried ourselves in the warm kitchen. And what do you know! The wind dropped, the hailstones stopped and the sun came out. That's timing for you.

I experienced the extraordinary efficiency and bounty of the NHS today, the part that doesn't make the headlines. First a blood test at my local health centre to check that my new blood pressure tablets are not interfering with my liver and kidney functions. Then a visit to the hospital for an x-ray of my thoracic spine to monitor the havoc that osteoporosis is causing to my bones. A letter from the cardiologist asking my GP to add a few extra medications to my current cocktail caused me to make another date to see him. And when I got home I saw that I had missed a call from Papworth Hospital offering me an appointment for an angioplasty and stent fitting. There! I've put it all in one tidy paragraph, reducing it to a manageable size. You survive nearly seven decades as a fit and healthy person, then suddenly you morph into a patient and your diary has more medical appointments than social ones. But I have an end in sight, and it's not death. Give me a few weeks, a couple of months tops, and this will all be a distant memory. Like today's tempest, this too shall pass.

Suffolk

Half of a half pound of butter is a quarter pound in anyone's language, far, far too much to consume in one go. All that fat, all those calories. But that's exactly what Hugo did when Kitty and I turned our backs for a few seconds. One minute it was on the worktop and the next it had disappeared and there was its wrapper on the floor smeared with teeth marks. Over the course of that day and the rest of the weekend we looked out for any ill effects but came there none. And that wasn't all. We popped out for no more than 10 minutes this morning, and when we returned the contents of the kitchen bin were spread all over the floor, Hugo hiding in the bed he normally ignores unless ordered into: the sofa is his preferred domain. Oh, reprehensible boy! If only I could find a way of locking the dangerous cupboards, the larder and the bin one, but the doors are oddly fixed to the surrounds and nothing I have tried so far has worked. He gets away with blue murder.

I had a very sociable week last week so was primed for a similar weekend. My children love coming to Suffolk, to this house, so their visits are a bonus for everyone. And we didn't waste Kitty's strength and energy either, when she sniffed Hugo's ears and detected the remnains of his roll in fox poo weeks ago. "Let's bath him!" she cried, and so together we lifted him into lovely warm bubbles and proceeded to hose and shampoo his stinky fur. He always stands patiently while these indignities are performed on him, and doesn't even shake himself until he's been lifted out again and rubbed to get the worst of the moisture off. Then he lets rip, and it's everyone for themselves. He refused to stand under the hair dryer but rolled frantically around my bedroom carpet, rubbing his head and ears until they were fluffy and dry, a mad giddy creature. Then it was all tail wagging and pressing up against us with happiness, his ordeal already forgotten.

On Sunday we walked along the River Alde at Snape in bright sunshine and a delectable light. The river was fully in so there were no curlew cries, no waterbird squawks. But the silver sheen of the reeds and the sun bouncing off the water were beautiful sights, very uplifting. "I could live here all the time," Kitty sighed. "It's perfect." "You'd soon get bored," I reasoned. "There's nothing to do." "No, never, especially not if Hugo was here too." And I had to agree with her.

Tiger jimjams, nose tucked cosily in

Gone Lid

Spring arrived this morning, and it was impossible to stay indoors. When Hugo went out for a quick comfort break as usual after breakfast he didn't rush back to the door to be let in out of the cold, but stood outside sniffing the air, nose twitching. We walked around the field for the first time in a while, marvelling at the warmth of the sun and the sound of birdsong all around us. It really was a breath of fresh air. Afterwards I had to go into Fram so stopped off to have the car hand washed inside and out. They call it the Silver deal, £15. I stood in a sunny spot to watch, and right away two men got to work. Nearly an hour later, as cars came and went, one man was still polishing every bit of the interior, hoovering the seats and mats and shining the glass. I started to get nervous. "I think they're doing the full valet and I only wanted the Silver" I told another waiting man, who agreed this chap seemed obsessed with my vehicle. In the end I cracked and told him it was just the Silver I asked for. "Yes," he said. "I know." And he grinned at me. Well, I don't know what I did to deserve it but there wasn't a patch of dust, dirt or dog saliva anywhere in the car when he finished and handed over the key. I know I'll never get that level of service again, but what a treat.

Back home, I drove the lawn mower out of the garage where it has been sheltering and reunited it with its cover, rescued by Mark from the bottom of his ditch. It didn't quite make it as far as its usual spot before conking out. I checked for petrol, topped it up a bit, and then couldn't find the lid, nor would the mower start up. I've hunted high and low but it is nowhere to be found. Did Hugo grab it and run off, ready for a game? I don't know. I had to push the mower into its parking place, trying not to splash petrol, and cover it up anyway. It's a mystery. If Hugo knows where it is he's not telling.

We poked around in the garden for a while, me throwing the ball and him flying around trying to stop me getting it back. Several times he flew over the flower beds, as graceful in the air as on the ground. The lawn is looking the worse for wear, studded with holes where urgent little feet have pounded across the earth, but I don't care. Time was when I'd have kept him off until it dried out and hardened up, but not now. It'll be fine, eventually. More importantly we're having fun. Whod a thought it?

Obstacles

The man came to fill the oil tank yesterday which was just as well because I couldn't get the lid off the new jar of honey. He appeared at the back door, a jolly presence on a chilly morning, and said "I bet you're wondering what a strange man is doing in your garden!" I wasn't actually because I'd seen the giant oil tanker pull up outside the house and put two and two together, but I told him I didn't mind what his intentions were as long as he had strong hands, and I passed over the honey pot. He'd come from Lincolnshire so he probably wasn't used to Suffolk ways, but he took it in his stride. I saw him wince for a moment and a look of fleeting panic crossed his face, but he succeeded in getting the jar opened and passed it back to me with relief. Honestly, I do wonder how people with properly arthritic hands manage, especially with those lids you have to push down and turn with one dexterous movement. I have my new lilac Christmas present aids but still couldn't make the honey lid budge.

I took Hugo briefly to the college sports field, but when I spotted a very bouncy young labrador across the other side we bid a hasty retreat. I just wasn't feeling up to dodging a leaping, bounding creature, and I knew Hugo would invite it back to play. Why do they do that? They have all the space in the world to race each other but they prefer to charge around your legs and barge into you at speed. I know someone who broke her leg like that so I'm not taking any chances. But I felt the boy's disappointment as we headed prematurely back to the car, and felt mean. I will make it up to him as soon as I can. In the meantime we've had some thrilling teddy bear chases and play fights in the kitchen, and though he loves the game he tires of it quickly and just looks at me when I throw teddy across the floor. Just as well he's so sleepy. It suits us both at the moment.

Sharing

I've chatted up many of my neighbours and broadcast an appeal on the neighbourhood website but so far no sign of my lawnmower cover. When it's not so cold and I'm feeling energetic I'll organise a proper search. Walking has been limited to a stroll up the lane for a few days now as I grapple with the effects of a coughing bug with a nice sideline in night sweats. Very appetising. To compensate, I've played with Hugo in the garden when we've returned home, and each time he has gone loopy, spinning round and round in circles, and charging back to me. He's grabbed anything he could find to run off with, then come close enough to tempt me with it before dashing off again. He's full of beans. Yesterday we spotted Alfie way up the lane, and he started to cry and make little dashing movements in his eagerness to get to his little white friend. And today when we called on a new neighbour to offer a belated welcome and ask if they'd seen my cover, their dog barking at a window drove poor Hugo to near apoplexy in his desire to play. I feel sorry for him, but I'm afraid for the moment it's just him and me. It won't always be thus lad.

Unusually for me I thought the afternoon might drag a bit, but my friendly neighbour David popped by with a bunch of daffs for me, and we very contentedly whiled away an hour together. As an ex-bookseller it's obvious he's my kind of person, and we have remarkably similar tastes in books. He left with a couple that I've just finished reading and he had on his list to buy, and when we meet again he has a few for me to borrow in return. Inter alia we discussed funerals, and discovered we share a disdain for people who prepare theirs in complete detail in advance of their death. What is the point when they won't be there to enjoy it? I would hope there would be some music to make my mourners cry, the Lachrymosa from Mozart's Requiem maybe, perhaps a Welsh male voice choir singing Myfanwy. But otherwise they can do as they like. They're the ones who will have to endure the thing.

Tickety-boo

The west wind howled and whipped its way across the country on Thursday night, and I came down in the morning to a power cut and several of my roof slates lying on the ground, smashed. The worst thing was not being able to make a cup of tea, but I was due to pick Ruth up at 9 and take her to the hospital where we both had appointments, so I couldn't hang about. Hugo quickly did his stuff after breakfast, and I left him secure and warm in his cosy tiger suit and headed off. Winds of over 60mph were still bending trees and flinging debris around, but we made it in one piece. Cue several hours later when we had had lovely coffees and eaten the packed lunch she had prepared, we returned here to find there was still no power. I packed for the night for me and Hugo, and we went to Ruth's. There was no appeal in a cold house for me. Next day, back home and warm again, I spent a few hours trying to organise someone to come and fix my roof, and after many conversations with the insurance company and a visit from the builder across the lane I had it sorted. He built a scaffold tower the same afternoon, and was working up there with his mate when I left for Cambridge.

That was when I discovered the car had a puncture. Oh yes, troubles never come singly. As for the cover for my ride-on lawn mower, that could be in Timbuktu for all I know. It's so big, and with the wind inside it there would be no stopping it. I've put out an alert on the community website, and will keep checking  locally. If I find it I promise to anchor it down. In the meantime I've put the mower in the garage to keep dry, which means the car can't fit inside. And now it's snowing, and looking like settling. But me spirits is high, and if I can ever shake off this bug with its horrible cough and night sweats I'll be right as rain in my snug dry house.

Out And About

I don't know why it should be so, but after decades of being self-employed - my own boss, for goodness sake - and now eight years into retirment, I still feel a thrill at being free to do what I want. For almost exactly half of my life I've been able to decide when to work and when to play. This used to mean responding to the day: if it was nice I'd be in the garden, pruning, mowing, planting and weeding, then later I'd sit at the keyboard until all hours. Nowadays the gentle dichotomy is between picking up a fallen towel or doing the crossword. I invariably choose the latter because I can, though not without a tinge of guilt. But the sense of freedom to choose is so great that you might think I'd been recently released from a lifetime in prison, and I suppose that's what my early life felt like. Rules, instructions, expectations - I bridled at them all. Once, my idea of heaven would have been to go into a teashop and order a large plate of cakes all for me. I still get a big kick out of stopping for a meal when I'm at large by myself. Weird, I suppose. You'd have to be a Sagittarian to understand.

After yesterday's near perfection, today has been dull again but still not unpleasant. We've taken it easy, the boy and me, though I had to get my skids on at 12.40 when I remembered I was getting my hair cut 10 miles away at 1pm. When I returned I took the dog out for a quick walk, and unusually I let him off the lead on the lane. With Framlingham closed to traffic while roadworks are completed, and diversions in place, some lorries have been using the village as a short cut. But today all was quiet. Hugo loves to be off the lead on the lane. He becomes very proud, and trots along importantly and fast, stopping at the clumps of grass he likes to eat. If I hear the sound of a distant car and call him back, he comes at once, turning neatly at my knee to face the way we are going. I'd love to know if he has been trained to do that. The light was changing as we got back, but the evenings are definitely brighter than three weeks ago on the shortest day. Getting somewhere, aren't we?

Spring Unsprung

I ran down to a scene of utter devastation this morning. The contents of the  kitchen bin were scattered everywhere, paper and tin foil licked and chewed, bread crumbs all over the mats from the heel I threw away, fish wrappings, icky things you wouldn't want to be reunited with after disposing of them. I quietly told the boy he was very bad and sent him outside, and then proceeded to have my breakfast. He stood politely at the glass door, then sat down to consider his situation. No sound did he make, no howling or barking. After ten minutes or so I let him back in, and he sat by the back door for a bit. Then he crept over to me, each paw delicately raised before being placed in front of the other, slowly, slowly, and he looked up at me tremulously from a bowed head. He was so abject, so sorry. "I know, I know, I wish I could turn the clock back! But the scents coming from the bin could not be resisted. I had to get at them. I couldn't sleep for thinking about what was in there!" I stroked gently down his neck, his face, his sides, speaking softly to him. "You couldn't help yourself could you?" I asked him. "It's not that you're a bad boy, you're just ruled by your tummy." Oh the joy for both of in the reunion, the pleasure of forgiving. I hugged him and he snuggled in to me, head buried in my dressing gown. Blissful.

It was such a beautiful day that I had to get outside. The sun is so low at the moment that the garden was almost completely in shadow, but the spot where the summerhouse sits was aglow with light. For the first time in several months I took my coffee down there, and it was warm inside, very welcoming. I took the crossword with me, but I had to move a few times as the sun was blinding me. When I'd had enough I pottered around the garden admiring the delicious new growth that can be seen in all the beds. Buds arer showing on trees and shrubs, and the wicked squirrel has left a few crocus bulbs to poke up their heads. Of course it's not Spring, nothing like. But it could have been, and it is thrilling to know that not too many weeks away will be the real thing.

Sunny oasis

Distractions

The last of the dehydrated fish skins have been savoured and swallowed, the gourmet biscuits crunched and every last crumb collected and licked away. My, but they went down well. It's what posh dogs get for Christmas - food their owners could eat. The traces of pine needles from the tree are awaiting the hoover, which is awaiting my return to health. Cards have been gathered and given to charity, and the cake is just a smudged silver board with the remnants of some icing. Already we're well into January. I love the winter, and never suffer from seasonal affective disorder as a lot of people I know do. I think living in the country is what makes it a pleasure, because I've struggled with in the past when days seemed interminably long and the world felt grey and heavy. Walking briefly with Hugo this morning well-defended against the rain, and again later, I experienced a familiar burst of euphoria. There's been no wind for days which I love, and the scene outside is settled, silent and serene. The air was thick with moisture but it was clean and fresh. Say it a million times as I know I do, the countryside sustains and supports me, it gives me strength and makes sense of life for me. I hope I can stay here until I'm past caring.

Since being ill I've started and given up on many books that I can't be bothered to engage with. One that has seduced me is The January Man by Christopher Somerville. His writing drew me in at once, and I became engrossed in his memories of his childhood home and friends, and in particular his father. He happens to be the walking correspondent of The Times which is odd because I've never encountered him. And when I looked him up on google his image was a million miles away from what I had pictured, more salty adventurer than gentle lover of all things rural. His father, like all men of his generation, went through the war, and he was a strong, quiet, dutiful and loving man who didn't talk about his job in Cheltenham. His son only discovered in adulthood that he had been Head of the Soviet Bloc at GCHQ, managing the "Cold War" through the terrifying 50s and 60s.

Another book I love and have started to read again is The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry. We watched the film at Christmas, but for several reasons it was not terribly satisfying, the chief of these being the notoriously non-Irish Vanessa Redgrave playing the main part. I've struggled with her for many years, not convinced at all that she's a great, or even a good actor. And now at last I'm convinced. She's actually awful, useless, heavy handed where she should be subtle, resting her laurels on a name and a weary delivery vibrating with pathos but never feeling quite genuine. Begone Vanessa! So I need to recover this wonderful book which might descend into the fanciful towards the end but is still a delightful example of great story telling by a very gifted Irishman. Slainte

Rough

Today I became a whippet like Hugo and slept on and off for hours. There's something lovely about giving in to a bug and putting obligations and plans on hold. Less lovely is a head that feels like a boiling pumpkin with seeds rattling around manically and flesh pulped and bruised. I haven't been able to settle to anything much when I've been awake, my chosen books being either too demanding or ineffably silly. Last night I watched the last episode of series 2 of The Crown, but am so diminished intellectually that I might start again from the very beginning. Just the thing for a bout of illness. It has been superb, untruths and all. Especially moving was the gentle, near wordless reconciliation between the Queen and her feckless, selfish husband who has been behaving badly for many years, leaving her lonely and hurt. He didn't say sorry, but he did say he was her liege man of life and limb, repeating his vows from her Coronation. He knelt before her and put his head in her lap, and she rested her own head on his. Did it really happen? Who knows. But with the benefit of knowing how this story ends the writer has Philip say that some people seem to be good but are really shits, while others seem to be rotten but are solid and loyal and true. And so he has proved to be. Hallelujah!

I ran out of the small sachets of flammable material that I use to light the fire, and had to resort to twisted newspapers like in the old days. My local woodburner shop is out of them, and ordering on the internet I thought I would have to wait days for them to come. But no, they arrived in the post today, a large cylindrical package of 100 that will see me through to the end of winter. My oil is running low and I have to make a decision to buy soon at a very high price or wait and hope it goes down. Since 2009 the cost of a litre of oil has gone from 60p to 30p and now up to 49p. That's over £500 for a full tank of 1000 litres. The price of oil depends on so many things from OPEC oneupmanship to sanctions agains Iran and war in Syria among others. And at the bottom of all these things is greed and the wish for power. They should remember the rich man and the camel allegory. There may not be a heaven but there is such a thing as a state of grace. Or don't they have that in Islam?

Getting On With It

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

Framlingham Castle backdrop

Some dog or other

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

Muddles

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

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

Another Year

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

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

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

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

Good Cheer

Sod has been at it again, evil bugger. Just can't resist making life difficult, can he. I came home from last minute shopping in Fram just before the first Christmas guest arrived, and put the car in the garage out of the way of the other three cars to follow. I put my shopping bags on the drive, and went back into the garage to get a few double adaptors to accommodate all the chargers that would be moving in and needing sockets. Then I came out of the garage, pushed home the padlock on the door as usual, and went about my last-minute preparations indoors. Cue forwards a day, and out I went to the garage to get one of the six four-packs of bottled sparkling water. But where were my keys? Oh, the house was hunted through high and low, the bins were emptied, the garden was scoured, to no avail. There was no way into the garage. The men went out, together and severally, and they sucked their teeth and tried to undo screws, and then they came back in and sighed sadly and said it was no go, no go at all. Well, that was a red rag to a bull. When they were all otherwise occupied I went out with my hammer and chisel and screwdriver, determined to prove them wrong. I had to. We needed water!!! Immediately I broke a chisel. But then I spotted the bolt's weak spot and I went at it with the hammer, backwards and forwards until, bingo! - I smashed the loop on the bolt, and it came undone. And there inside were my keys. Oh they were all proud of me, and I milked my big moment for all it was worth. And we had water. Such a change from all that champagne.

Nothing went wrong after that. Hugo was the cynosure of all eyes, and lapped up the attention. He is so loved! He slept in the garden room with me and stole no food, though he was fed plenty I noticed. He had great walks, along the beach, up on the cliffs, through the woods, around the fields. He sat under tables in pubs, and squashed onto laps in cars. And he loved it all.We had such a good time over the seven days they were here. The pile of presents under the tree was frankly embarrassing, and it took over two hours for them all to opened one by one to enthusiastic comments from everyone. We finally had lunch at 7pm. And I now have to wean myself off alcohol, sugar, chocolate and company. But I've still got Hugo.

A delicious excess

Tiger boy

What am I Mummy?

Some of our best walks were in the college sports field when Hugo went berserk with delight and careened about everywhere. And this morning that was where we headed for our final walk with the last two visitors. All that heavy rain has swollen the stream that borders the field on three sides, and it tumbled along recklessly, tumultously. I love that sort of water, it excites me. And it had the same effect on the dog as he rocketed around chasing other pooches and haring back to us, bouncing in the air from time to time as he ran. Nothing is more guaranteed to make us all smile.

Now it's all over for another year, but it was a really fun time. I have sheets and duvet covers and pillow cases to wash and iron, towels to launder and tumble dry soft, hoovering to be done, and dusting, and bathrooms to clean. I can honestly say I revel in the thought, a huge distraction and a pleasure in itself as I put my house back to rights. It has stretched its friendly walls to embrace us all, my family, the best of people. I love them all.

Unsuccess

So, the chicken sheds are staying put. Or at least they may be replaced by state of the art hen concentration camps, once the old ones have been pulled down and the asbestos removed. Well, it's an agricultural business isn't it, in an agricultural spot, providing jobs for local people. A poultry farm has been there since the 50s, so it's got form, previous. Yes, there are feathers flying around, dust, stink, flies, particles of dried poo, the stench of death, chicken shed maintenance traffic and noise. In the summer it can be intolerable for the neighbours opposite when the sheds are cleaned out. But they chose to live there, didn't they. Who can they blame but themselves? I thank the lord that I am at the opposite end of the village, and only experience any of these problems when I walk the dog that way. I simply could not live there, for many reasons.

After a jolly day at work when most clients stayed away, I walked Hugo on the college sports field. He knows the score by now, and he raced down the steps and then zigzagged from right to left wildly as I always trick him into doing, unleashing lots of energy. But the grass was wet and he was running too low to the ground. He slipped, skidded along the ground on his side for several yards, and then was up and off again with barely a falter. Gosh, but he covered a lot of ground. And when I thought he would have no energy left, he spotted two little dogs at the opposite end of the field and hared towards them. "Wow!" called their lady owner when she saw his speed. "Golly!". Still he had oomph to spare, and a pale labrador didn't stand a chance as Hugo pelted up to him and charged away, repeating the exercise a couple of times. His joy is so obvious, the pleasure he takes in letting his body have full rein, and I just watch in admiration, laughing at his antics. Soon he'll have a house full of pals and he won't know himself. What raptures.