Banalities

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

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

Hors de Combat

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

Before, perfect

After, blighted

Picture does not do justice

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

Snippets

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

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

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

Grumps

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

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

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

Biding Time

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

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

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

Small Triumphs

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

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

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

Snoooow

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


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

White Out

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

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

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

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?