Z feels frivolous

And, most secretly and subtly, for no one knows this but you and I, demonstrates the fact by wearing a suspender belt and stockings.

And by eating a Hot Cross Bun for breakfast.

Oh yes, life in the Z household is a blast!

Still sleeping the day away

Today, I intended to do hearty and useful jobs in the garden, using my New Tools. However, it has rained and in any case I fell asleep. I woke up to find Tilly lying still with an uncomfortable expression on her face; she was relieved that I moved as it meant she could. She is a polite little dog and did not wish to disturb me.

I didn't mention, yesterday, that I spent some time last night, with a certain déja vu, making holly wreaths again. A late order. Someone who has been in hospital and is now just well enough to go out and about and wishes to place Christmas wreaths on his parents' and late wife's graves. Well, what can you say. Naturally, Al said "Yes" and then tentatively asked his father if he thought that Mum would mind...
When Mum heard that the gentleman concerned is Gordon, best known locally for feeding the poultry at the famous roundabout, she agreed with quite good grace. I'm afraid that the song is not quite up to the quality of Jonny B's Post Office one but, on the other hand, the campaign to keep the chooks worked; they were decided not to be a traffic hazard and are still there. The number of hens fluctuates, but is certainly exceeded by that of cocks.

I wonder what to cook for dinner. I have beetroot. It might be risotto. Beetroot, although good, is not my very favourite risotto, but is worth making for the startling colour, as well as the frisson of nervousness the next morning when you wonder what has gone wrong with your insides.

Whatever 'normal' is ...

... I'm not back there yet. Largely because of the lengthy afternoon naps I have, which may last anything up to an hour and which are making Tilly very happy because we are having Quality Time stretched out on the sofa under a blanket together.

I am awake in the mornings and evenings however, and today we went to a Special Party. This is held annually to celebrate the birthday of Lord Bruin, who has been her constant companion since her first Christmas, 90 years ago. It is always a splendid party. She is an artist, she lives in about the most beautiful setting you could imagine, in an old water mill. Her studio is on the top floor from which she has wonderful views of the Waveney Valley. The real guests are the bears but one is invited to accompany them; they have their own party upstairs, with competitions. Ro's bear Edboes won the Most Loved Bear prize a few years ago. The rest of us have delicious food and lots to drink downstairs, except for the awarding of the prizes.

You think I'm making this up? I swear I'm not. It is all true. She invites all her friends including all the people whom she knows and who help her, such as her local butcher, greengrocer (Al), windowcleaner, gardener etc. Al couldn't go as the shop was open, but Dilly, the children, the Sage and I went. Squiffany behaved beautifully, chatting politely to people (mainly to introduce her brother and her teddy bear, whom she thought a little young to go upstairs). Afterwards, I popped in to the shop for some veggies. Al was looking a bit tired. "It's been frantic" he said, "like the week before Christmas. I didn't think I'd be very busy."

My present, which so excited me, was - were - a splendid folding pruning saw (600, on the left) with a vicious blade and matching secateurs for small hands furthermore, which I thought was a particularly nice touch. My sister, hearing me enthuse, said that she would not have welcomed such a practical and outdoorsy gift. Of course, this is the point - if you are going to give a useful gift, it has to be absolutely spot-on or it is dull at best, insulting at worst. "He didn't blunt the edges" observed Ro. "He must think you are growing up." And indeed, he has been known to remove new knives from my bloody fingers and dull the blade because he can't bear the sight any longer.

The other present, with which I was also just too thrilled, was half of a pair of L*w*s*o*t cutlery; that is, a fork. He bought the knife for himself. Now, do not think for one moment that this was a selfish act of retention, it was more significant than any eternity ring - it was a Sign. "We can never split up now" I said. "We can't divide the knife and fork after 240 years."

I should perhaps explain, by the way, that the handles are made from L't porcelain and the blade and prongs from steel. They were made about 1765, which is fairly early in the life of the factory. They are not undamaged and have been repaired, but we don't care at all about this as they are very rare and lovely.

My sister went home today and El and Phil left to visit his parents. So it will be quiet here tonight. Except from my usual carousing, of course.

So, how well does my husband know me?

I squealed with surprised delight. The Sage had got it so right. He had chosen a perfect present and given me no clue.
Then he gave me another parcel. I squeaked higher and louder with renewed excitement.

Glasses shattered. Children cowered in the corner, hands over their ears. The dog howled, bats rose, flapping, from the eaves and mice crawled from their holes, paws risen in supplication and surrender.

I am, it must be said, a pleasure to buy presents for.

This evening, we were making coffee. He added milk to my sister's mug and waved the bottle in my direction. "Do you take milk?" he asked.

Jesus is back!!(!)

I called on a friend to wish him a happy Christmas. I gave him a hug. "Whoo, have you missed me?" he asked, as I leaned and didn't let go for a while. Yes, I had, he's a sweetheart and I hadn't seen him for some time, but he was also very nice and comfortable to lean on. It was 9 in the morning, 5 hours after starting work.

Al got a bit frantic at one point during the afternoon as it was extremely busy, not helped by me disappearing for a while in an unscheduled sort of way. We caught up eventually and he put in his order before 5 o'clock - hoping that there will, in fact, be a delivery tomorrow. Back at 6 tomorrow morning, and I hope that by 4 pm I'll be ready to leave to get ready for the carol service at 6. I have not practised the clarinet, which is a bit of a shame as I am accompanying the pre-carol service carol singing for half an hour - it's not the notes I'm worried about getting wrong, but that my lip muscles will be tired and wobbly by the end of it, and since there was a bright idea of me leading two carols during the service too (as being more appropriate than the organ for 'Silent Night' and 'Away in a Manger'), I want enough puff and embouchure to take me through that without inappropriate dribbling. Too late now to be any use, however. It'll be fine. The worst thing that'll happen is that I'll look a fool and that is a given fact at the best of times.

Oh, and baby Jesus from the church crib suddenly turned up, a year after being discovered to be missing. He is a very naughty boy. I must remember to take a photo of the other crib, which is fabulous. The children from the village school made it last year from papier maché. Everyone has fabulous pop eyes and we can't tell which animal is which. Last year, we turned the altar into a stable, which was most effective, and this year they are positioned at the back and the nice old plaster crib is at the front of the church, with Jesus about to be reinstated. Last year he was replaced by a Plasticene understudy.

Happy Christmas, darlings.

The razor-blade is too sharp to hurt much

Kenny, our 87-year-old gardener, who doesn't actually garden any longer but just comes round on a Friday for old time's sake, came in for a cup of coffee this morning, so I didn't get the presents wrapped. No matter, plenty of time. I was back at the shop by noon and have just got home. Al hasn't; he was about to do his order for tomorrow. He says he'll have to go in earlier tomorrow, to get everything done. I said, whenever it is, I'll go with him.

I have a brace of partridges in the fridge which, wrapped in streaky bacon and roasted, will make an easy meal. Ro is not fond of game so he will have chicken, similarly wrapped.

And an early night, perhaps.

Update, 7.30 pm. Al has just called in, on his way back to the shop to phone through his orders. He says he is going to start work at 4 o'clock tomorrow morning. I assured him resolutely that I will be ready. Furthermore, that he is right, as it will mean less pressure later in the day.

When he left, I poured a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

'Bum', I thought. 'BUM.'

197 years and 8 months

At some point yesterday evening there were six women chatting in one room. The brother of one of us had been told by his wife, a couple of months ago, that their marriage was ended - his business had gone bankrupt and she didn't intend to stand by him. "How long have they been married?" asked someone. "Twenty-eight years." We were silent for a bit. "We're a bit unusual, all six of us have grown-up children and we're still with our husbands." I asked each of them how long they had been married, and totted it up. Thirty-seven, thirty-five, thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one and twenty-six. And all of us still in our fifties...though not all of our husbands. "By July we'll have two hundred years between us, we'd better have a party."

We left around 11.30, but I still had wreaths to finish so it was half-past one by the time I was in bed, and I was up again four hours later to help Al put together his orders. By the time his three staff came in at 8.30, they were done except for the few items waiting for the Mr Fru1ty delivery.

I've had breakfast - bacon, eggs and tomato - and I've got some clearing up to do, bits of holly all over the floor. Then I'll wrap the rest of the presents. It all seems very calm and organised, I wonder what I've forgotten.

Z catches up with the rest of the country

Today is the day that our Christmas tree will go up. Not for a few hours yet, first I have to make more wreaths and clear up afterwards. Then - and this is several days early - I might wrap some presents, simply because they are in bags behind the sofa and rather too accessible to an inquisitive toddler.

I saw Dilly running down the drive an hour ago. I assumed - correctly - that she was chasing Squiffany with the intention of strapping her in her car seat, so I put on my coat (my mother never did learn that it was not a bad idea to put on her coat before going out on a cold day, rather than getting thoroughly chilled and taking the next hour to warm up again) and hurried out. When she heard my voice, Squiffany called from the car "Hello Granny" - this is said with such charm, it melts me every time. I stayed with her while her mum went to fetch Pugsley. We chatted about her new gloves, each finger of which is a different colour. She correctly told me pink, green and orange, hesitated over yellow, got blue right, but I had to tell her purple*.

They will be back at about 4, so will come in to help do the tree then.

Tonight, we are going to a party with particularly darling friends; she is also cousin to the Sage. You might not be able to choose your relations, but if I could, I'd pick her.

So, I'm writing now in case I'm a bit incoherent later.


*yes, there is a logical explanation if you think about it.

Are you being served?

Al made his fruit baskets today. Four at £15 and three at £10. They are popular as presents for the Person Who Has Everything And Hasn't Space For Anything More, as they have the virtue of being used up and just leaving you a nice basket to play with at the end. Each of them takes about half an hour to do (time not included in the price) and so he needed a shop assistant so that he could get on with the job and be finished by noon.

I like being a shop assistant so much. His customers are lovely. One chap came in with two presents, one for the shop and one for the shop down the road which makes no concession to the season but shuts on Wednesday regardless. They were from Freda, who can't get out much but rings all the local shops to put in her orders for delivery on a Friday. Val at the pet shop mentioned that she delivers to Freda - Al said, he goes every Friday, he'd be happy to take her order too. That's all right, said Val, Freda likes a selection of cat toys taken round so that she and the cat can choose a new one. It's not a delivery that can be delegated.

Chestnuts are particularly good this year. The English crop was good, but now the French ones are being sold. Walnuts are also really delicious. Al rather fell out with one of his wholesalers - once the local suppliers were sold out, he bought a bag (these are not cheap, over £50 wholesale) but thought they were a bit lacking in flavour. Upon enquiry, it transpired that they were last year's stock. Crossly, he sent them back, knocked them off the bill and bought fresh ones from his other wholesaler. Very naughty, and the way to lose customers. And if Al loses a customer over one detail, he may be gone forever.

Until the last couple of days, it has been very mild, so there have been plenty of local cauliflowers and calabrese, which may be frosted by now. There has been freezing fog; a still, cold day today. Going into town, we drove through a patch of fog, and straight out again. It was like going through the smoke of a bonfire, it was so patchy. The land is very low-lying around us, it's on the flood plain of the River Waveney, used for grazing cattle most of the year and left to become waterlogged in the winter. The Sage remembers, as a boy, ice-skating on the frozen waterways, but they don't freeze hard enough for that now.

Guilt kicked in

Al sold out of wreaths again today. So I've been making a new batch. The Sage went out to pick fir and holly (all our friends have bare bushes - ooh, chilly - by Christmas time) and I started work. Ouch. The fir was prickly. He hadn't realised, because he had worn gloves.

I started work, and by the time I went to cook dinner, I'd done seven bases and completed four of them - I do a base of fir on the wire framework and top it with berried holly. Those people who like artificial flowers can have them, but only red or white.

I started again after dinner, 'ouch'ing as I went. When half-way through the fifth, I held up my hands. They were bleeding. The Sage was stricken with remorse - he'd been able to ignore the 'ouch'es, but physical evidence of my pain was something else.

We did the last few together.

Tomorrow morning, Al has seven fruit baskets to make up. He doesn't have extra staff in the shop on a Wednesday, which used to be his half day until he discovered how much business he was losing in the afternoon. So I will be wrapping up very warmly and being his glamorous assistant for the morning, or however long it takes.

This evening, he thanked me. I was really embarrassed. You don't want your children to be grateful for their parents' help - appreciative is nice, but grateful is unnecessary.

Until January, that is, when he and his family are going on holiday and I will be left in charge of the shop!!(!) Then he will owe me big time.

Eight yards of silk and a glass of beer

Well, since Jen, Martina and Stitchwort mention it - the sari in the pub. No photo however, I'm afraid as it doesn't exist.

I went to a party a few days before Christmas - this would be five years ago. My friends Bob and Di were the hosts; charming and hospitable as always. We all ate and drank rather a lot over several hours - they live in the village, within walking distance for most of us, so we were were able to relax and not count the units.

At some point, Bob told us about a fancy dress party they had been to, before moving to Mahsrae (I'm imitating BD and using backspeak, to save myself from the Power of Google). He went as Gandhi. This was not an obvious choice; he is slim but well built, with a head of thick white hair and a white beard and moustache (he does not look in the least like Father Christmas) and it was a little hard to imagine, but apparently he managed to make himself look convincing by means of a home-made dhoti - the turban was less authentic. Someone, knowing I'd worn a sari at a wedding I had been to in Madras earlier that year, said we'd make an attractive pair.

We had already all agreed to meet up at the village pub on Christmas Day for a quick drink before the family festivities. I'm not sure who first suggested it - it could even have been me - but at some point I did say that I'd wear my sari if he'd wear his dhoti. He agreed. I'm afraid he was one over the eight at the time.

On Christmas Day there is a church service at ten in the morning, at which I always play the organ. A sari-wearing blonde organist is an unlikely sight in an English country church, but not an unwelcome one, I hope. Afterwards I walked the half-mile to church. There was Bob. In trousers, a shirt and a jacket. Pfft.

Anyway, they were pleased to see me and quite impressed, not least for my sari-folding skills - secure with no pins. Furthermore, not many middle-aged women go around, even now, in this country with a bare midriff and no one had ever seen mine before. It is a simple sari, in plain dark red, fine georgette silk, and the short tight blouse is decorated with gold thread. I stood chatting, clutching my half pint, and I felt something cold at my waist. I turned. Bob, giggling, was pressing his pint mug to my exposed flesh. Really, he's such a boy.

Is it too early to mention Christmas?

There will be a Trustees meeting here at 6 o'clock this evening. Having made yet more wreaths this morning (58 so far, so the Sage tells me), I have just hoovered up the debris and put a rug over the stains. I looked around. There is no sign of Christmas in the room at all.

Is there anyone else who decorates the house for Christmas, rather than for the whole of December? I think that you have three weeks for preparation and the festivities start on Christmas Eve and go on until 6th January (Epiphany). That's a fortnight; Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the Twelve Days of Christmas. But this relaxed, albeit expectant, attitude seems at odd with the rest of the country. I can understand shops, offices and schools decorating early, but does one not get fed up with dusty old cards and greenery by the New Year, if they've already been dangling around for a month?

I won't deny that there is a certain degree of procrastination in my attitude. And when my children was young, we were persuaded to put the tree up a week or so in advance. In those days, we used to make elaborate decorations, most of which have fallen apart now. One year we made Father Christmases, using golf balls as heads. These bowed the tree branches down considerably and if I do the same thing in future with the grandbabies I will learn from it and use ping pong balls.

The smartest decorations for the tree date from the time Al and El took stained glass classes. Al made lots of glass decorations; angels, Father Christmases, bells, Christmas trees etc. These are also heavy, but we just make sure we buy a sturdy tree.

I bought some Fairtrade tree ornaments. These include little wooden dolls, wearing saris. How multicultural. Have I told you about the time I wore a sari to the village pub? It doesn't take much in this village to cause a sensation.

Imperfect memories

I've been trying to remember what we used to have in our Christmas order from Fortnum & Mason. I should think we ordered the stilton from there. We used to have a whole stilton; we had a round cheesedish with a big cover. The top crust of the cheese was cut off and we scooped out helpings with a cheese scoop. There was, apparently, a tradition of pouring port into the cheese, but we never did that - sounds like a good way of ruining both stilton and wine to me.

Then there were the sweets. I remember we had griottes en cognac - hope I've got the name right. Brandied cherries in dark chocolate. We also used to have butterscotch rolled in flaked almonds; I can't remember their name. *Something* amandine, logically enough, but the missing word is the one that matters. They were gorgeous and I haven't been able to get them for years - I've asked but haven't tracked them down. We used to buy tea and coffee from F&M all year round; we drank Earl Grey tea and you couldn't get that locally in those days. We sent for it and coffee beans every month or so.

I can't remember what else we bought. Things like tinned anchovies, olives and olive oil, avocado pears ... in the 1950s and early 1960s few people used these things, but my parents were early devotees of Elizabeth David and were adventurous cooks. My mother went to a great deal of trouble with food and my father was a keen vegetable gardener. We had a full-time gardener, but Daddy had an extra greenhouse too, where he grew the things he fancied. I remember one year he grew loofahs and had his picture in the local paper. We used them for years and the black seeds used to drop out in the bath. I've grown them myself, they are like cucumbers to grow, but you have to leave the fruit to dry out, until only the skeleton is left. If it starts to blacken at all, the whole thing will rot, so that needs care. I hung them above the Aga to dry out slowly.

Anyway, yesterday my sister and I pottered happily around F&M food hall for some time, and I bought a Christmas pudding. She says her contribution to Christmas dinner will be champagne and smoked salmon. I think I'm all sorted.

A veggie weekend

A friend of Ro's is coming to stay for the weekend. I've met him briefly a couple of times, delightful lad, but it's at times like this that I notice how odd we are and how people might be a bit puzzled by the way we live. However, no point in glossing over this sort of thing, this is how we are and we just have to be matter-of-fact about it.

I was a little more taxed about feeding the boy. He is Muslim and only eats Halal meat. In effect, that means that he eats no meat when away from home. He is also teetotal. I have been asking Ro, anxiously, what other things I have to take into account. Fortunately, that's about it. Apart from vegetarian cheese. And he does eat fish. And he is extremely polite, said Ro helpfully, so he will eat whatever you give him anyway. As long as it hasn't touched meat. We had spaghetti carbonara last night, to use up the bacon and, apart from a jugful of stock, the fridge is now a meat-free zone.

I'm going to London tomorrow to spend the day with my sister, who lives in Wiltshire. She will come to Waterloo by train, I'll go to Liverpool Street, and we are going to meet at the National Gallery and decide what to do. We're meeting other friends, who are up from Somerset for the weekend to visit their son, for lunch and so, apart from the sheer stupidity of visiting London a week before Christmas, it should be fun, as long as we can move for the frenetically shopping crowds. My sister suggests visiting Fortnum & Mason for old times' sake - she used to work in the Millinery department back in the late 60s, but I have been there at holiday times before and it heaves with humanity.

She sold hats to all sorts of people; she served the Aga Khan (she tied his helpful finger into the bow fixing the hat box), Michael Caine (he gave her peppermints), Dame Flora Robson (she was her favourite assistant and Dame Flora always asked for her). Awfully low pay, but there was commission and it was fun. In those days, my parents always used to have a big order sent from Fortnum & Mason for Christmas. A few years ago, my mother said, wistfully, "we used to spend about £25. What would that be now?" We though about it, and decided that it would be at least £600, after inflation. Actually, I suspect it would be more.

The two year birthday and other ponders

A friend of mine will be 89 in January. So she has decided that 2007, being her 90th year, will be for her an all-year-round celebration, just in case she doesn't make the big day. She is planning holidays, parties and general fun. Furthermore, if she does get to the Big Day in as fine form as she is now, she will be able to celebrate being 90 for another whole year. I think this is a great idea and certainly one to follow when I next approach a significant date.

After fine words yesterday about writing cards, it didn't happen. I spent two hours making wreaths and the Sage, after a strenuous day in London, read the papers. There are more wreaths to make this evening, unhappily. The drawing room carpet is stained with crushed holly berries, although I have put down a sheet. I will not do it in another room, I want to be somewhere where there is a lighted fire and company and television and a place to put a wine glass.

Mail order stuff is piling up, and I do hope it is all right as I haven't got around to opening it yet to check it. Some stuff still to come, but nothing too important. I have ordered the beef for Christmas day but have done nothing else foodwise. A friend makes us a cake - I would make one, but as she kindly gives us one and it lasts all through January, another would be redundant. I no longer make a pudding as we eat so little of it, so will buy one. I'm not sure if this makes for a minimalist Christmas, but I don't see the point of buying loads of food when we won't eat much more than usual.

When I was a child, my mother used to work for hours and hours in the kitchen and I'm not sure what she was doing. She did make two stuffings for the turkey and we had a whole ham, but these are easy enough to cook. A big starter would have been too much to eat, so we had consommé (tinned) with added sherry, and followed with Christmas pudding of course. We had a dishwasher, even when I was a small child, so whatever took so long?

When I had children, I knew that their parents' time was what they really wanted, because that's what I would have liked to have had, and so I did all the preparations I could in advance and made time plans, with regular stops scheduled for fun with the family. If preparations fell behind, things would be simplified or left out, I never wanted to say I was too busy to enjoy Christmas day with my children.

Coos and bills

I took a break to open some of the post. A credit card bill. Several Christmas cards - I'll leave them til later, when the Sage is home from London. An electricity bill, for the Sage's workshop, so not for me. Tickets I'd sent for and wasn't at all sure I'd be able to get. Unmistakably, a dividend cheque! I opened the tickets envelope first, happily, then the divi, expectantly. £4.30. Ah.

I've got a load to do from the meeting last night. For once, housework is a welcome distraction from the computer instead of the other way round.

The Sage is home, so we opened the cards. A party invitation! Whee!! To celebrate a 40th wedding anniversary. These friends give extremely enjoyable and lavish parties, so I will send polite apologies to the next churchwardens' meeting and go and have fun instead.

There was also a round robin letter in one card. I can see the point of these if, for instance, you have moved away from a circle of close friends and want to keep in touch, but these are people we have known for many years, but not that well and their children not at all. I duly read the whole, small fonted A4 sheet and it confirmed my intention never to write such a letter. Entertaining though it was in its way.

GRR - in a good-humoured way, of course

Oh dear. I look at Bloglines and there are 124 posts to read (mind you, sometimes someone has 25 and I've read all of them, what? What? Is that what happens when you republish?), not counting the ones that aren't Bloglined, like those who post every day. But I have been a bit busy for the last couple of days.

Largely making sodding holly wreaths. Grr. GRR. I so don't enjoy it. But Al keeps selling the buggers and the Sage took Hard Cash for another 3 today - one of them obscenely overpriced as the person concerned has London Ways (not my daughter, she isn't daft) - I won't see a penny of it, I'll just get prickled by the splendidly-berried holly - and promised a Particularly Splendid 'Nother One in return for some lovely greenery. I made 2 last night and 5 this morning, and Al sold them all, so I made another 8 this afternoon - before going to a meeting where I multi-tasked to the extent that a darling friend took me privately aside and told me I looked tired and should take care of myself, honestly, I nearly cried at the kindness before assuring him that I was fine. Which I am. In fact, I've been leaving honeyed comments on blogs which are, actually, sincerely meant, in case any of you were recipients.

I'll be acid tomorrow. The Sage is going to be in London ALL DAY on business (which means coming home with money) and I am planning the pre-Christmas house clean. Housework is not my favourite job, but if I don't do it, no bugger will.

Did I say GRR?

PS. I just checked the business emails. Just the titles. There are three. Two, from Lawence01, say PAYMENT OVERDUE. The third, from Online lottery winne says BRITISH LOTTERY CERTIFIED WINNER'S CLAIM. At least the apostrophe is in the right place. It is five to twelve. I will delete them tomorrow. Is anyone, please tell me, anyone? still taken in by these?

I thought I'd be a Daimler Dart, but this'll do

Taken from the fabulous and, happily, newly returned BD.

I'm a Porsche 911!

You have a classic style, but you're up-to-date with the latest technology. You're ambitious, competitive, and you love to win. Performance, precision, and prestige - you're one of the elite,and you know it.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

I looked at his second quiz but I couldn't answer the questions - for example, it asked you to choose between three films and I'd not heard of any of them. And 'would you work for a startup company?' - I'd only work for my own company, pigheaded lass that I am.

Of booze and hips and healing whacks, of adjectives and fillings

I puzzled the osteopath a bit. He doesn't think that bursitis should keep coming back like this (third time in fourish years) and wonders if it could be something else. He had me bending over and touching my toes and suchlike agilities and seemed to decide that my back and hip are all right. So I received an extremely painful massage and he hopes that will do the trick. I wanted some more of that nice ultrasound, which hurts but really works - the massage works too, but was more painful than I really wanted to have to deal with. At one point I silently gabbles the seventeen times table, which is normally my refuge at the dentist (it really works, soothes me no end).

Probably, regular gentle exercise would help, but I'm never going to do it. Far too much once in a while is more my way. On the way home, I wondered if I should investigate a Pilates or yoga class, but I'd talked myself out of it, to my relief, by the time I'd driven the couple of miles to my house. I simply wouldn't bother and there's no point pretending I would.

Getting dressed, I contemplated a drawerful of underwear. One has to get the knickers right on this sort of occasion. Too frivolous or - eek - too revealing and it would be embarrassing, but hopelessly sensible would be just dispiriting. And ancient and falling apart has no place in my bedroom, unless it's me or the Sage.

I spent the morning at the High School, with the teacher who deals with remedial reading. I sat in - and joined in - on various lessons and afterwards talked to him. He's a lovely bloke, had some years in industry and earned a lot of money before deciding that teaching would fulfil him more (I didn't discover this today, I interviewed him for his original job as a teaching assistant). I asked about liaison with feeder schools and it seems to me that this is an area rather ripe for development - he has spent quite a lot of time at one of the middle schools, but I think that time, when available, spent on some analysis could be worthwhile. I am sure that a pupil who comes along at the age of 13 not knowing the difference between a noun and a verb has already received some learning support, but it doesn't seem to have worked very well and it would be helpful to see the sort of remedial teaching in each of the dozen or more primary schools that feed the two middle schools, and their relative worth. Schools are supposed to 'share best practice' nowadays and if comparisons could be made, it might be found that one or two schools stand out either before or behind the rest. One has to be immensely tactful, however, as schools do not necessarily appreciate 'helpful' comments from outsiders, even other schools.

When I arrived home, the Sage and Ro had just got back from the dentist. Ro had not been for three years and was rather dreading it - extremely chuffed with a clean bill of dental health. The Sage was not quite so lucky and had had a tooth extracted - it could have been crowned but it was right at the back and the dentist felt it would not be missed. No alcohol tonight, apparently - ow, poor dear.....how does one do that?

The family that drinks together links together

I rootled through the cupboard in search of a little something. I'd already eaten chocolate - it is Superb Chocolate and therefore limited to one piece per evening. I found some Cadbury's Snaps (chocolates shaped like tuile biscuits) and some jelly babies, but they are reserved for the PCC meeting on Tuesday. I wondered if I had any icecream, but I knew I did not.

I nearly gave up and made tea. But, after all, I found an unopened packet of Plain Chocolate Digestives. Hah! Unopened no longer!

The day started early, around midnight, when the Sage arrived home after a jolly evening out (without me, hmph) and I politely asked if he had called at the church to turn on the heating. Forgotten, he was apologetic and said he'd go and do it - I heard the faint reluctance and said I'd go. Brightening, he offered to accompany me. I pointed out - look, I was good-humoured, can you tell me you would have been? - that there wasn't a lot of point in both of us going and off I toddled with Tilly. There was a hard frost and I was very careful at the end of the road where a regular wintry entertainment is watching the pedestrians go feet in air and bum on ground.

Back in church at 7.30 to get ready for the 8 o'clock service; I am truly adorable (and if there is, after all, no heaven, I will be mightily pissed off - unless I find Belial in hell, as - according to Milton anyway - he is quite hot) for which there were only seven people, including me, the Rector and her husband.

Back again at 10.00 for the 11 o'clock service, when I was playing the organ - had I practised? Is it likely? I had by 10.30. And then, Sue taught me how to programme the boiler so that I don't have to go down at all hours in future, but can warm up the church for little children's events automatically. It is the Nativity Play on Wednesday evening.

I came home and completed making delicious soup which we had for lunch.

This afternoon, went to Norwich to see Casino Royale. On the way home, Ro and I debated whether Daniel Craig's eyes really are that blue. I, pathetically, want them to be; Ro thinks he may have been wearing contact lenses. Do you know?

We arrived home to find the Sage dishing up dinner. Well, not a bad day. We shared, the three of us, a bottle of wine. The Sage and Ro don't always drink wine - though never say no to champagne or similarly jolly fizz - so it always feels like a moment of togetherness.

Z is sentimental

"There's a fruit fly by your glass" observed the Sage. "I know, bless it," I replied. "I've never seen fruit flies in December before, poor little thing, I'm not going to deprive it of its last few days of life."

Saturday morning ramble across the keyboard

All the stuff I ordered online last week having arrived, I started ordering the frivolous stuff. Except that one thing, whilst in stock, did not come up on the order form, not even when I cried and begged. Strange, how impervious most websites are to threats and pleas. Anyway, it's all done now as I telephoned. Nice girl. When I gave my postcode, she confirmed one letter -"F for Freddie?" Indeed, it is, and it is noticeable that, although the correct identification word for the letter F is 'Foxtrot', nearly everyone says 'Freddie?'

I didn't write yesterday as I had nothing to say. You are thinking, as I am, that it is a wonder that I ever write, in that case. A mistress of small talk as I normally am, I'd been out for lunch (again...) and was all chatted out.

I owe Jen a post for her Mad wedding day. Jen you will, I know, understand that, as it must be heartfelt, it doesn't come quite to my command. It is one for a wakeful night, it will happen and I'll let you know when that is - sorry I'm late.

At this point, a little dispirited, I broke off to read the paper. And was highly entertained to read this article, describing how church congregations are cowed by bullies and that vicars are stressed by the need to be nice. Apparently, 'troublemakers' 'indulge' in 'church hopping', trying out different styles of service and going to the ones they are happiest with. Yes, and so? The person quoted says that these people suffer from neurotic personality disorders bordering on the psychotic. That is the rudest thing she says, but by no means is it the only insult. She also says that one of the most stressful features of ministry is the effort to be nice to difficult people. Well, maybe she should chat to shop assistants, they might say the same thing; and they have rather less job security, no pension and no free house to live in. I'm not fulminating against the clergy, nor against the Church of England, only commenting on an academic who is being most oddly offensive. Maybe she hopes to provoke debate? Not here, I'm just laughing at her.

New school

Tonight, there was an open meeting at the village school to display the plans for a new school, on a new site, that we have been working for (with the full support of the Local Authority, some people there I regard with Deep Respect as, with all regard to their dispassionate professionalism, they have been very helpful and really wonderful) for several years, having been through the throes of PFI (don't ask, it's a way the government have of disguising the amount of money they borrow; they are willing to pay through the nose for this deceit) and beyond, and the plans are, finally, going to be submitted tomorrow.

The site of the proposed new school is part of a large field, owned by the Church (Norwich, not the village) which is willing to sell for a Good Reason if it comes within the remit of a carefully drawn up Trust.

This is fair enough, I am a Trustee for two Trusts myself and understand the obligations.

There are several houses that back on to the aforementioned field and the owners, naturally, want to be sure that the value of their properties and their own lifestyles will not be adversely affected.

All reasonable. Yet, I cannot abide Nimbyism. I have, tolerant as I am, a fair degree of idealism within me and I think you have to look beyond yourself to the greater good.

Anyway, people had a chance to have a look at the plans and then the Headteacher introduced the various people from the local authority who had come along, and then they explained the plans and took questions. At the end, the Head asked if there were any more points .... I found my hand raised - it was possessed, I didn't do it......

I reminded everyone that twenty years ago, the government had wanted to close down small schools and the whole village had united to keep this one open, although there were only 19 pupils. When I became a governor there were 24 pupils and my son became the 25th; five years later there were 56. A couple of years later, 76 and, with fluctuation, that is the number there are now. The new site is still in the heart of the village; the choice is to have a school or not, as the present site is completely unsatisfactory for modern times (true, it is tiny; no hall, no playing field, one out of three classes in a mobile classroom and they have to run round the whole building to get to the loo. Staff room, what's that? Dining room, 2 classrooms with a dividing door between transformed while the children go outside, whatever the weather).

I said, I am partisan and, if you have concerns, do object, but also do try to consider the bigger picture. I was a governor there for 18 years and, when the new school was first mooted, we offered a bit of our field for access if that would help, we were happy to have the school right by our garden. I really want a school in the village for my own grandchildren to come to, I cannot be disinterested, and I care very much for the future of the children of the village.....time to shut up and stop ranting.

That was the gist. I shut up, went into the kitchen and did the washing up.

And, on the way, asked the LA chappie to let me know if there were many letters of objection because, if there are, I'll write in favour.

It's no wonder I've a bit of a reputation as a passionate woman. Hah!

Sodding Blogger

Not too long ago, I complained that I didn't receive notification of any comments. I dealt with it by logging on to Blogger by Firefox instead of Safari and putting in my gmail address instead of hotmail. Since then, it has been all right, except that I'm not that enamoured of the gmail inbox. So, today, using Firefox, I put in my hotmail address, which I nearly always use. It didn't sodding work, I've just found a comment that has patiently waited for approval for sod knows how long because I didn't get an email. I don't use word verification because I have to type in the sodding wv myself and I do it wrong as often as not, sometimes several times, and I haven't even the excuse of being dyslexic - I think it is discriminatory to put in random letters that can easily be misread.

Please excuse multiple uses of 'sodding' but it could have been worse, after all. This is not today's post, this is a mere rant and will be followed by a proper post quam celerrime (if that's how you spell it, it's been a long time since 6th form Latin)

Strutting their Stuff

At last night's dinner, I sat obliquely opposite *Dawn*, whom I've known slightly for several years but not got to know very well. She seemed to know about me, however, within minutes she was teasingly remarking on my liking for a drink or two...look, really, I don't get this, I really have never fallen over or become truly embarrassing through drink. I am a regular moderate drinker (okay, those awfully tightlaced types who think that anything over 10 units per week is a bit dodgy might call it more than moderate, but they all weigh less than 110 pounds and are thinking of what is appropriate for themselves) and I am also a person who is only truly awake in the evenings - those of you who have only met me during the day have not received the full esprit de Z - (so help me, this sentence is becoming truly convoluted, are you losing the thread yet?) but that is no reason for the reputation I seem to have as a frightful tippler who is never happy without a drink in her hand. The only consolation is that everyone feels able to tease me about it, so I must be spoken of as a sot, but a good-natured one.

Anyway, I had a chance to chat to *Dawn*. She is lovely and I love to hear people talking about their enthusiasms. She mentioned she is going to Stafford for a big chicken competition so I encouraged her to tell me about them. It transpired that she has, this year, started entering her chickens into shows and has done extremely well. She said that it had taken her years to work up to first prizes with her goats, but she is already winning trophies with the chooks. Apparently, they particularly enjoy their pre-show bath; she uses a maximum-shine shampoo she buys from her hairdresser (she has lovely hair herself) and puts them on a wheat and corn mix for a week after the bath, to stiffen up their droppings so that they don't dirty themselves before their big day.

I wonder if she has to lead them round the showground, like they do at Crufts.

Praising older women - and younger men - and older men - and....you get the picture

Having stayed up late to get all preparations ready for the meeting, I was rewriting by 8 this morning. I knew I would, I always rewrite, but you have to do the writing first to be able to see what could be improved. Meeting was cheerful and lunch afterwards was jolly. Ladies in their 70s were complaining that men in their 80s only want them for their potential nursing qualities, which I agreed was a complete bummer and have recommended non-commital relationships with younger men. Men are absolutely adorable but quite a lot of work, which an independent woman can't necessarily be doing with.

I drove a darling friend home afterwards; I haven't known her very long, less than a year, but I absolutely love her. She is funny and upbeat and stalwart - she's actually very ill but shrugs it off and enjoys life regardless. She fell badly the other day and her son scolded her for wearing high heels when she is so frail. She said 'pfft' and sent him on his way, but admitted that he is absolutely right, her heel caught on something and down she went and she says she's rainbow-hued all down one side. Her husband was ill earlier in the year; when he returned from hospital he was quite emotional; he said that he thought she would not be able to look after him and have to put him in an old peoples' home. She and I both nearly cried too at that. They are a pair of beautiful cracked pieces of porcelain, who are happy as long as they have each other and they make the most of every day.

Many of my friends are older than I am, some by thirty or more years, and they are so wonderful. Most of them have been through some degree of hell but they don't let themselves dwell on that and just get on with living.

Z is about to light the other end of the candle

It is now eleven minutes past midnight and I have not completed the preparations for the meeting that I need to leave the house for at 8.45 in the morning, which counts as early for me as I only get up in the dark for vital reasons, such as ... I'll insert one if I can think of one...

The reason is that I could not find the book in which I had written vital information. I had it this morning and so looked in the kitchen and the study and then in the car. Goodness, it is mild tonight, positively balmy. I went out without a coat on and did not care at all. It was not in the car, so I looked in all the places I had previously looked and checked under the dog too.

Finally, I remembered checking answerphone messages as soon as I had arrived home, so looked in the drawing room and, eventually, found it on the windowsill, behind the drawn curtain.

But that had disconcerted me and so I needed to do frivolous things for a bit to settle my nerves.

Right-oh, back to work.

Z is becoming a new woman

It's odd. 4th December and I've done quite half of the family Christmas present shopping. Both grandchildren, husband and two children pretty well sorted. Three children and one sister to go. This is unprecedented - added to my Extreme Accountancy of yesterday and I'm almost tempted to believe that I'm starting to become sensible. Surely not. It is not the way I want to be ... or maybe it is .... I don't know, it doesn't fit in with my mental image of the 'free child'*, who has no need to plan ahead because it's far more fun to wing it on the day; on the other hand December is a fearfully busy month, try as I do to catch up with things so that I can take time off with a clear conscience, fit in as many jollies as possible, fill remaining evenings with making up holly wreaths for Al to sell (this is my most hated job and I do it purely from selfless maternal duty) and help him in the shop as we near the Final Shopping Day as the week before Christmas is the busiest in the year for a greengrocer - and so, each year, I bemoan the fact that I still have all the shopping to do in mid-December. So, if I can keep this going, I will be pleased with myself, but I will feel as if a little bit of carefreeness has vanished from the Z personality.

I also, sensibly, took myself to the osteopath to get my hip ultrasounded. He was a bit surprised to see me as he said bursitis shouldn't really come back - I explained that it had never quite gone away as my patience did not return me enough times for a complete cure. Nevertheless, once it's better he intends to check that the joint is all right. Which it is. As long as I can still switch on the light, at shoulder level, with my foot (which I can, I just went to check), my joints are fine.

I also booked train tickets to London. I have been explaining the use of the Oyster card to the Sage, who is concerned that its intricacies might be beyond him, as he has to go on business (and also a bit of pleasure, as he bid successfully for a vesta (Victorian matchcase) at a London saleroom and he needs to pick it up) on Wednesday of next week - ooh, what will I do all by myself for a whole day? - and I am meeting my sister for a Day Out on the Saturday. This is probably not a good idea at all, because it will be vastly crowded, but we intend to do Cultural Things at museums and stuff, so maybe we'll be all right. A long and boozy lunch is indicated, for sure.

A meeting tomorrow morning, for which I have prepared rather less than half the things I promised. An evening's work ahead of me, I fear; or, rather, a night's, as I'm going out for a drink with a friend in a couple of hours.

*Those of you who actually know me are, I appreciate, laughing like drains right now. Look, I never quite got over 1969, all right? Not that I was ever a hippy.

Called to account

Well, this has been a useful evening, if only because it demonstrated Forethought and extremely sound Common Sense.

Yes, I've been thinking about my tax returns. Furthermore, I have put together papers for the accountant and can confidently ring him to make an appointment, knowing there won't be a last-minute panic AND (this is getting good), making sure that all the current years bits of paper so far are all together and accounted for so that I will not have to panic in a year's time.

Ooh, I wouldn't be an accountant, not for the world. I would come home crying every night because yet another anxious-looking person had come in clutching tumbling armfuls of paper and hopefully thrust them at me in the hope that I could magically sort them out. I can cope with my own things, but anyone else's would give me nightmares.

Rather more jollities to come this week than I know what to do with. Including the WI Christmas dinner. Whoo-hoo, dancing on the tables before the week is out.

Have fun, darlings

Candling and eggs

My little girl and her husband are coming home for the weekend, and so I am happy. Although I won't spend all that much time with them, as the Sage and I are going to a party this evening, to celebrate friends' Golden Wedding anniversary. So my children are going to spend the evening together.

First, I have to put together the Advent ring. There are five candles, one to be lit every Sunday in Advent and the fifth for Christmas Day. That is, each week you light the previously lit candles plus one more. They symbolise stuff, but don't ask me to remember what. I'm not really sure about all these ritual symbolic thingys. It's the sort of thing that really alienates people who aren't involved.

After that, I must go and buy wine. I was startled, the other night, to discover that, apart from the Good Wine, I only had a couple of bottles left. I've been busy recently and haven't done much shopping, except for fresh food. I don't keep much convenience food in, except for the odd frozen pizza, and usually prepare meals from scratch.

The Sage went to pick up some hens yesterday. Not for us, but for several friends who needed to replenish stocks. A local egg farm was due to get in new stock and so wanted to sell the 18-month-old birds. It is a splendid place, as free range as you can imagine. There are big barns for the chickens to sleep and shelter in, but they are free to roam over large fields too, which are kept safe from foxes by electric fences. Al used to get supplies of eggs from there, but when the lion stamp was brought back in a year or so back, they decided to sell all the eggs to a large supplier as the equipment was expensive and the individual stamping made an extra job they didn't have time for. Al can sell our bantam eggs unstamped as you may sell your own stuff, but if bought in, it has to go through 'the system'. He had to find another source of free-range eggs as he never sells anything else. Anyway, the Sage went and chose the hens, they were put into boxes and he went off to deliver them (no charge, he's just nice like that). When he looked, there were quite an array of new-laid eggs, the girls weren't wasting any time.

Utterences

For no particular reason, I've been thinking about the year that Arthur moved to the village. Not the whole year as such, but particularly the Harvest Supper. He'd been to church two or three times, but no one had really got to know him much as he arrived late and was the first to leave.

Unexpectedly, he arrived at the supper. C, who was organising the affair, hastily sent someone to lay an extra place and went to greet him. She smilingly asked his name. "Utter Fisk" he replied. I am quite good with an impenetrable North Suffolk accent so I understood him, but C came from Sussex. "Good evening, Mr Utterfisk, and may I know your first name?" she enquired fruitily.

Arthur looked completely confused. "Utter Fisk," he repeated. Poor C, I've never seen anyone look quite so taken aback and embarrassed. She is not the sort of person who would amusedly shrug off a mistake, so I retreated behind the font and wept quietly with laughter.

Mind you, Arthur has confused me too. Not long after this, we found ourselves in the pub together (now, how did that happen? Me, in a pub?) and I bought him a drink. He chatted for some time. He is not that easy to understand and there was quite a bit of background noise, so I nodded and smiled a lot and picked up nearly half of what he said. And then, suddenly, I realised that he had changed from making general conversation and was telling me about the death of his wife. I just managed to alter my expression in time.

He also told me that his next birthday would be his 80th. I painstakingly committed this to memory and when, a few days before the event, another friend mentioned that it was his 70th, I said "Arthur, it's your birthday too next week, isn't it? A special one, I think?" "I'll be 78" said Arthur. I still don't know whether he exaggerated up or down.

Z spends Quality Time

This evening, Ro and I have been talking. I will not call him taciturn, though he is not the most chatty of individuals, but he does open out if the opportunity arises and he is good company. Really, I had quite a lot of work to do which I had foolishly neglected during the day - that which I did do was deeply boring and so I deserved some entertainment, as I am a flibbertigibbet and a dilettante, but I have also a dutiful and puritan streak that means I feel obliged to catch up eventually. But Quality Time with a family member is far more important.

So I am, as they say, All Behind Like A Cow's Tail.

I'm going to be careful in the future about posting a half-story. You all picked up on what I'd left out and quizzed me about it. That is fair enough and I enjoy not being allowed to get away with things, but maybe it should be a lesson learned. The thing is, I can say anything about myself, but I do try not to say things about others that I'd be sorry if they read. I slip from that sometimes, but I do bear it in mind.

Only half past nine, so I will finally get to work.

Laters, darlings.

Z turns on the charm

A Business Call this morning on someone whom we've known for years but who has always rather disregarded me. This hasn't ever bothered me in the least as his business is with the Sage, not me, but today I decided to charm him. In an understated and unflirtatious way, but just sufficiently overt for him to know I was taking the trouble, you know?

Yeah, he really likes me now.

A germ of an idea

Towards the end of the meeting tonight, my left-hand neighbour looked thoughtful. "I've just thought," he murmured. "Tonight, or around this time sixty years ago, I was conceived."

The new Rector was impressed by the part I took towards the meeting. Bowls of sweets, one between two people (so you don't have far to reach). "I've never been to a meeting where there are sweets before," she said. I resisted the temptation to say "Darling, you've never lived" and explained that there used to be biscuits, but either people had had their evening meal or were going home for it later and in neither event would they wish to chomp on biscuits. Jelly babies and Maltesers are different, however.

Lunch in Bury was good. We didn't go to the Angel, in the end. We went to a pub called the Fox. As we approached the door, I was confused by a sign that said 'Up your Sunday afternoon' and then quite relieved to see, after a few more steps, the almost-hidden word above it, that read 'Free'. Another sign offered 'Al a carte' menu. In fact, once we went in, my spirits rose, partly because it declared itself to be a smoke-free pub and partly because there was an appealing menu chalked on the board. They rose again when I asked for a glass of red wine and was handed a wine list. I had a good mixed mushroom stroganoff (would have been excellent had they been all wild mushrooms and not a good half ordinary button ones) and my chum had red snapper on a bed of crushed new potatoes with fennel.

Afterwards I pottered around while he went to try on trousers, and found how I'd managed to get completely lost last time I'd been there. I must say, Bury St Edmunds is not well signposted for pedestrians. A sign says 'Town Centre' so, slightly puzzled (for I'd thought it was another way), I followed it. A few minutes, it turned me right and then (this time I used my brain - at last - for there was no sign at all) right again. Ah, where I thought it was in the first place, I wonder why I'd been sent an unnecessary half mile. But I discovered that one shop faced the other direction than I'd thought, so when I came out last time, I had walked the wrong way.

The Rector and her husband met Ro, Dilly and Al the other night at the Quiz Night. She said how much they had liked them. "Your daughter in law is lovely" she said. "We said how much like you she is, anyone might think she is your daughter." I thanked them for the implied compliment and agreed that we do have a lot in common.

Time for an early night, I was just thinking. I looked at the time. Ten past eleven. By the time I'm ready, it'll be nearly midnight. Not so early after all, but not late anyway.

Dinner is cooking

It smells good. Timatar wali macchi and Tahiri. And cabbage. If your Hindi is no better than mine, that's fish baked in a spicy tomato sauce and rice and peas cooked with onions flavoured with cumin. And cabbage.

I wrote whole lots at the weekend and I have been awake since 3 o'clock this morning, so I will give you and me the evening off.

See you tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will have lunched in Bury St Edmunds.

PS it was all most yummy. Even the Sage liked it, and he is wary when I cook Indian dishes, but I aim for Aromatic rather than Hot, so he enjoys the food really.

The family story – part 9 – the stepmother

My mother's stepmother is a shadowy figure to me. I don't even know her name. It is a sad story for all concerned.

My grandfather needed someone to look after his little girl. He had been shattered by the early death of his wife, and glad to have his mother and father-in-law to take in Jane and care for her. He adored his mother. When she died, he could not bear to have her hands stripped of the jewels she always wore and instructed that she should be buried with her rings on her fingers.

He always told Jane that he had remarried to make sure she was looked after. That is, if not for her he would not have saddled himself with a wife whom he did not love and who cared neither for him or Jane.

I suppose it seemed a sensible arrangement. She would have security and the status of marriage, and a pretty little daughter as ready-made family. He had a housekeeper and someone to care for him and his little girl. But it didn't work out. For one thing, Jane was unhappy and difficult. They did not make a good start, by dragging her away from her beloved grandparents, and she was not a sweet, biddable little thing. She was clever, independent and stubborn and she preferred books to dolls.

But it was not too bad for a time. Then, the stepmother, out of the blue, was left a large sum of money in a relation's will. The effect was to make her mean, resentful and positively unkind to Jane. I presume that this was because she was very angry at the realisation that she had married too soon, for security. If she had known and waited, she would have had plenty of money and not needed to marry at all - or could have married for love instead. Sadly, she took it out on Jane as well as her husband.

Mummy was always slightly claustrophobic. She said it was because her stepmother's favourite punishment was to shut her in a dark cupboard. She had to cycle to school every morning, whatever the weather, and remembered carrying her bike over snowdrifts - this was not unusual, in those days schools did not close for rough weather as they do now. But Jane had to bike home for lunch too, as her stepmother would not pay for a school meal, although ample housekeeping money was provided for her. A typical lunch was a small bowl of cornflakes and half a banana.

She used to lie in bed and hear them quarrelling. She used to analyse it. "Now, if he hadn't said anything when she said that, or if she had then said something neutral instead of shouting, the quarrel would never have happened." When I was grown up, I pointed out to her that the reason they quarrelled was that they wanted to, they were looking for an opening to pick a fight. She was surprised, she still saw it all with a child's eyes and had not realised that, but agreed I was right.

My grandfather was still away from home a good deal and Jane just had to put up with it. I suspect that she did so by despising her stepmother. By preferring intellectual pursuits and showing that she was cleverer and more sophisticated. It was the only way she could fight back.

She could only remember one occasion when they had laughed together. They had decided to make a lardy cake, a traditional Wiltshire delicacy made of bread dough enriched with lard, sugar and dried fruit. They spent a great deal of time and care on it, put it in the oven to cook and eagerly took it out and put it on a plate. Stepmother tried to cut it. She tried to chop it. She managed to saw it. It was rock hard and impossible to eat. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Stepmother's sister Elsie was a different person altogether, affectionate and welcoming. She lived on a farm in Devon and Jane went to visit during the summer holidays. She was fed on lots of good rich, if simple, food, and used to help with the dairy deliveries. Each customer had cream at the weekend and sent in her own jug with a muslin cover, weighed down with a decorative border of coloured glass beads. They knew which customer owned which jug and delivered it, full, with the milk which was ladled from a churn. The surplus cream was made into clotted cream, made by heating cream on a very low heat until it thickened, and sold in little pots.

Mummy, not surprisingly, idealised 'real' mothers. She felt, keenly, her unlucky status as the only child she knew without one. She was shocked when any of her friends misbehaved at home - how could they upset the person who loved them best? She didn't dare misbehave and mischief wasn't an option. Her father and she had a good relationship and they went walking and cycling together and had a shared love of music. She played the piano (self-taught, her parents would not pay for lessons) and he could play any wood-wind instrument. However, home life was not bearable for anyone and, after seven years of marriage, her father and she left to make a new home for themselves in Weymouth.

Z looks in the mirror

Why are they called 'laughter lines?' Nothing is that funny.

I was quite amused though. The door to the vestry* has a doorknob and a latch, and also a lock. The latch is wedged so that it isn't needed, or else you need to twiddle three items at the same time to get in. A couple of weeks ago, the knob stopped catching and, so that the door would stay shut when unlocked, I unwedged the latch.

A couple of days later, someone came to me anxiously, to say that the door wouldn't open. I told her to try the latch and she blushed at having given up so easily.

Today, I had an email from someone else who assured me that someone had locked the door with an extra key, could she have it please. I emailed back to explain. She emailed again to say that, of course, she had tried all the latches and knobs and the door WAS DOUBLE-LOCKED.

I have told her that it really wasn't and I unlocked it yesterday and today with no trouble. I have also mended the catch so that she can use the knob again. I said, how puzzling that it didn't work for her and I couldn't work out what the problem had been.

I thought it was quite funny that she could not accept that she hadn't done it right, there had to be another explanation.

We cleared the guttering at the right time. It poured this morning. Fellow Churchwarden and I feel quite smug.

I'm listening to Django Reinhardt at present. Most cheering for a wet afternoon.


*That's the room in a church where the vicar puts on his/her churchy clothes - the vestments. It is also where you keep record books, wine for communion, that sort of thing.

You always knew it really

And if I tell you that I got this from Kitchen Witch from two years ago (and she found it at Blue Witch), you will know that I spend TOO MUCH TIME reading blogs.

What Level of Witch are you

Congratulations you have achieved level 4 witch status... you have studied hard and learned well!! Take this quiz! Quizilla | Join | Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Hold the front page!

I forgot to tell you - the Sage and I were highly gratified to find that his sale report made the front page of the Ant1ques Tr@de G@zette, the must-have weekly paper for those in the way-beyond-second-hand business. Two photos and an article. He rang the editor to thank him. "I hope you don't mind me describing you as an 'enthusiast'" said the editor. "You sound like one."

No, the Sage didn't mind. He was chuffed, very.

On a totally different subject, I just opened to door to find a young starling hopping around outside. I can't remember the last time I saw a starling. There used, periodically, to be whole flocks of them, like something out of Daphne du Maurier, but not for some while. Or is it just that I am not very observant?

The family story – part 8– the motherless child

After her mother died, Jane lived with her grandparents, her mother's father and her father's mother, until she was seven. She loved them dearly and was very happy there. I don't know where her father lived - he was away a good deal on business; the late 1920s were a time of high unemployment and you obtained work where you could. It doesn't seem likely that he stayed with his father-in-law except for the odd night or two, but my mother never mentioned going to visit him, although he was obviously part of her life. It's the sort of question you don't think to ask until it's too late to find out the answer.

Her grandparents were getting old and infirm and could not look after little Jane forever. Her father remarried. In those days, little heed was paid to the feelings of small children, and it seems that there was little attempt to prepare her for her new life. She remembered being pulled away, screaming, from her grandma's arms. It was not deliberate cruelty; she was dearly loved, but it was believed that 'a clean break' was kindest in the long run. She went to live with her father and stepmother in North Bradley.

She ran away. She rode her bicycle all the way back home to Melksham. I've just looked at the map; it is a long way for a little girl to cycle, especially on her own. Her grandmother and she hugged each other and cried together, and then she was taken back to her new life.

She was a clever, hard-working child and when she was nine she took the entrance exam for Trowbridge Girls' High School. The normal age for entrance was eleven and therefore, when she passed the both the exam and the interview with the headmistress and was offered a place, her father was very proud of her. He bought her the latest, most expensive bike as a reward and she used it to cycle to school each day.

It was an excellent school and although she was, by far, the youngest pupil, she loved it there. She was ambitious, academically, and intended to go to university. Home life was not happy and school was her refuge.

Z gushes a bit too much

I've been on the phone to my daughter for the last hour. We don't have girly chats every week, but always enjoy them. We can ooh and aah indignantly, have a giggle and ask each other for advice - we both value, and feel free to ignore, each others' opinions and don't usually butt in where not wanted. She is, quite honestly, perfect and I adore her.

Look, do forgive me for gushing, I've had a good day. All my children have been so lovely. Dilly and I and the children went shopping in Norwich this morning, Ro and I painted his bedroom (all done, rah rah rah) this afternoon, I rang Al at the shop to bring home veggies for a stir-fry this evening and he tucked in a hunk of ginger in case I wanted it - "Ooh, there's ginger in it" said Ro. "I love ginger in a stir-fry" and then I chatted happily to El. I didn't speak to Phil, but he was spoken lovingly of.

Tomorrow, I'd better do some typing. I've been too busy this week and I'm all behind.

And I must be sensible for a week or two. Not that I will be really, but I'll be sorry if I am not. I have bursitis in my hips and it has been particularly painful recently, largely thanks to crawling multiple times through Squiffany's play tunnel a few weeks ago. I've been rushing around in unsuitable shoes ever since and I can see a visit to the osteopath (no, it's nothing to do with bones but he is the Bizz!) for some ultrasound treatment at vast expense will be needed before long unless I behave myself.

Painting bedrooms and towns.

Ro has taken this week off and decided it would be a good opportunity to paint his bedroom. So yesterday I popped into the local very splendid hardware store for colour charts and then we had to discuss how much paint to buy. I decided, briskly, that a litre of paint would do one wall, by the time you'd allowed for built-in cupboards, windows and door you could subtract a wall. The ceiling would add as much again, two coats, allow a bit, call it ten litres. He spent more time working it out properly, then agreed.

Today we have been painting. He did the bulk of it with the roller and I did the corners and fiddly bits. Until we received an invitation to go and play with the babies. Things slackened off abruptly, especially when it was discovered that it was time to get ready to go to Bungay's special late night opening evening. There were all sorts of things planned, including flamenco dancing and 'ice' skating in the hardware store's car park.

It was, indeed, splendid, and Dilly and I spent a couple of hours toddling around the shops with the babies. Squiffany was suitably impressed - when Dilly asked her to fetch her coat, she had been very surprised. She is not unaccustomed to her parents going out in the evening and taking Pugsley, whose food supply is provided as nature intends. "Me? Coat? Dark, my coat?" - but she was happy to comply. She "wowed" and "oohed" cheerfully at all the entertainment provided, especially the fire-dancer, who twirled her fiery sticks with skilful abandon (don't try this at home).

A bit of a problem when the sound system for the flamenco dancers didn't turn up; arrangements were made but they took some time and, sad to say, we couldn't wait ... well, we waited for an extra half hour, but it was already way past Squiffany's bedtime and soon the baby, who had slept peacefully throughout, would want a feed.

Al, at nine-thirty, is not yet home. Bless him, he was not expecting to do much business - although it's useful publicity and people did buy nuts - but being right in the centre of town, he could not pack up early. He had decorated the shop beautifully and it all had to be dismantled. The shop opened at eight-thirty this morning, he works hard for his living.

Tomorrow, I'll spend a couple of hours painting, then off to Norwich with Dilly and the children, early shopping for their presents. No Norwich shopping in December is my rule, I buy local or online. I'm sorry, but I can't cope with crowds.

In the stars, looking at the gutter

Well, what a fun morning. I staggered along to the churchyard at nine o'clock, minus contact lenses to give my overstretched eyes a break. I had, briefly, considered going without make-up too, as mucky work was to be done, but a glance in the mirror brought me to my senses. I compromised, leaving off lipstick.

On the way, I noticed that the drain at the end of the drive was blocked by grass. When I cleared that, I discovered that the whole drain was filled with earth. Possibly decomposed leaf mould, which would be wonderful compost, it is sure that winter rain would not be getting away in a hurry. I removed the drain cover and forked some loose, which I removed by hand, but it quickly became apparent that this was a job for another, less busy, day.

Actually, I had all the time in the world. I did a few odd jobs while I was waiting for Fellow Dave. At half past nine, I rang him. he had forgotten, but would come along. I chatted to the church administrator and she made me coffee. I did a couple more little jobs. Brian turned up, and we worried about the problem with the drains. I am a good and sympathetic worrier, but made it clear that drains are Men's Work and beyond my capabilities. I recommended getting in a builder and implied that a Man should ring him because then they could talk Men's Talk.

At half past ten, the Fellow arrived, apologetically. His motorbike had had to have (I stared at that, but it is more grammatical than it looks, I think) a new battery fitted and he had not had breakfast when I rang. I was sweet and cheerful - I am, really, people like me for it.

We went to get the ladders from the church gallery. I had not done this in advance as I am notoriously clumsy and also quite little and so long ladders can fall from my nerveless grasp and do unfortunate things, such as break bits that Cromwell's men accidentally left undamaged off the font (which they did knock the faces off, of course). We took the ladders outside, put them together and erected them, and I offered to mount them.

Happily, the Fellow said he would climb to the church roof. This was not patronising of him, as he is not like that, but it is true that he has a better height and reach than me and also would have felt a bit of a girly if he had hesitated on the ground while I strode up the ladders. I did, however, lend him my rubber gloves for getting the mucky bits out of the guttering.

We did a splendid job and were finished by twelve-fifteen. I came home and heated up the remains of the steak-and-kidney pie, a baked potato and a tomato. With a cup of elderflower and rose tisane (yeah, I know, no hope for me), a glass of sherry, a chocolate biscuit and an apple in addition, I was only able to manage a cup of black coffee and a single sticky bun with pink icing at the governors' meeting in the afternoon.

My job this evening is to make holly wreaths as Yagnub has a special Shopping Evening tomorrow and the shop needs to show its Yuletide Wares.

I need to start now. Have a lovely evening, or, if you read this tomorrow, I hope you had one.

The substitutes' bench, home of much talent

yes, well, I may have said I was going to wear flats, but how many of you believed me? Nah, 7cm heeled boots, which were much better for me. I admit to being dumpily short, but why should I accept it? The cautious teeter up on to the M@dderm@rket Theatre's stage notwithstanding, I prefer not, in conversation, to be looked down upon from everyone over the age of 11. Just everyone over 5'7".

Today's lecturer substituted at short notice for one who was taken ill, and needed an emergency operation, when on a lecture tour of Australia, poor lady. This chap was a fabulous replacement, however. He was so good that many of us were taken aback when he concluded. We had no idea that an hour had passed and would have relished a bit longer - as many of our members are very conscious of car parking charges, we can't allow for much overrrunning. When I tottered back to the stage to give the vote of thanks, I was stopped twice mid-enthuse by audience applause. They were not clapping me, simply showing their appreciation. He had already booked a ticket to see the Vel@squez exhibition at the Nat. G@llery today, and gave it up* to help us out. And earn a fee of course, but he was extremely knowledgeable, interesting and entertaining and certainly deserved it.

I checked emails this morning and there was one from the chairman of governors at the high school saying she hoped the altered time of the meeting to 10 am was all right for me. Um, no, it wasn't. I rang her. It turned out that the other committee members couldn't do it either and it could not be postponed for another day as the external advisor was already on his way. I had to leave her with the options of changing the time back to 2 pm or finding a substitute. Luckily, she rang back ten minutes later, having gone for the second option. So I had a free afternoon. Marvellous.

Gardening Club tonight. All about pruning, apparently.


*well, he didn't really, he was able to change it to next week

I ♡ my eyes

and should like to thank those stalwart little face-orbs for being so good-natured and forgiving. After all the dreadful abuse I gave them, having slept in contact lenses, they have put up with 15 hours of constant use with barely a complaint. The complaint was one falling out ten minutes after arriving at the cinema. I caught it, however, rested it on my tongue to stop it drying out (more abuse, you see) and fished out the pot of cleansing solution I had stashed in my bag in case I needed to remove them during the day (oh blimey, you can see why people think I'm organised, can't you. May I point out, yet again, that it is because I am not organised that I have to think of things like that, or life would be chaotic) and then got out my handbag mirror to put it back. Of course, that was the moment the lights went down.

This did not deter me. The lens went back in. I know where my eyes are, and I know to stop pushing when I touch eyeball.

A splendid day and, oh, how glad you will all be to know (heh heh) that I am, again, good-humoured. I have a limited capacity for spleen and sadness and bounce back, as one does if basically happy.

This evening's do at the castle was to celebrate the publication of a series of catalogues of paintings in non-private* ownership; it's intended to go through every county and ten have been printed so far, including Norfolk, Suffolk and the Fitzw....... Museum in Cambridge. We were promised a 'special' price on the evening, which turned out not to include post and packing -- er, we picked it up, no p&P, special price? Furthermore, no paperbacks were available. However, stoutly supportive as we were , many of us stumped up the £30. Including me; indeed I doubled it and bought both the Norfolk and Suffolk versions. These have been stashed away and will form the basis of the Sage's Christmas present, as he is truly impossible to buy for. He will love these, however.

I was quite charmed by the lady I paid. I asked to pay by cheque and offered to get out my card. "Wouldn't know what to do with it if you did," she said airily. I like being trusted. Unspokenly, I had been sent an invitation to a Prestigious (well, a bit) Do. Therefore, my cheque was good.

And so it is.

Later, after a ten minute speech to introduce someone who gave a fifteen minute speech to disguise the fact that we were waiting for the Guest Speaker whose train was late, I went and sat by by friends who had commandeered a small sofa, but kindly budged up to accommodate me. We were in a divine spot to see the lady who had been taking the money looking at a cascade of notes bulging out of the cash box. A younger woman went up, obviously offering to stash it in a safe place. She was presented with a double handful of ten and twenty pound notes and, cradling them carefully, wandered off with protectively bent back to a staff room. I got the giggles. I bent my head to my arms and wept quietly. My friends nudged each other, and then me, grinning. I didn't know how not to laugh aloud.

It doesn't even look funny now. But it was, it was. It was the loving embrace of the banknotes which were about to spill from her gently clutching hands.

*as ever, trying to save myself from Google.

The film was Little Miss Sunshine. If wondering whether to go, do - not many films make the audience laugh out loud quite so much. Could so easily have missed the spot, but it was wonderful and, at the end, the audience applauded, which is a rare occurrence at the cinema. Well, at the 'art' cinema it was shown at.

After midnight, no blogs read today, out again by nine tomorrow (yeah, I know, but that's early for me :-), you always knew I was a lucky girl), mad whirl and all that. Flat shoes though, I wore the rather nice red ones and they were, indeed, admired, but they were not intended for quite as much walking and standing as the day has entailed.

I'm off to bed. Night night.

For this relief, much ... relief

My right eye felt uncomfortable all day and I was not at all sure if the contact lens had come out. Several times, I ran my finger across the eyeball, trying to tell if it was there, but I couldn't feel anything. The Sage was very sweet and brought me a restorative glass of whisky as I reclined on the sofa in the evening, cuddling the dog and watching television. I sniffed the glass. "Ooh, you got out the malt, and the nicest too," I said appreciatively. He looked pleased. He doesn't like whisky and I was surprised he knew which of the three opened bottles was my favourite.

I stayed asleep as long as I could. I wanted my eye to have a chance to get better, or at least not to have to confront the problem as long as possible. But at last I opened both eyes, and was dismayed. The vision in my right eye was badly clouded, like, I should imagine, a cataract in the days when it had to grow thick before it could be cut away.

I looked in the mirror. It was slightly red and weepy. I wiped it and went to the bathroom, thinking that I'd have to listen to the optician nagging me about how I shouldn't sleep in contact lenses. And it would be pointless mentioning that I hadn't actually meant to, I thought I'd taken them out. I took a tissue and wiped the eye again and went to fetch my clothes. And, when I looked down, there on my hand was a crumpled contact lens, that had spent 24 hours somewhere in the inner recesses of my head.

The eye is fine now, which is just as well as I am going to Norwich in another half hour. A short meeting, then lunch with friends, then a flower show, then a reception at the Castle Museum, then the cinema with Ro, who has the week off work and who will come into Norwich at some time on the bus. Gosh, what a social whirl. And what to wear, darlings, what to wear?

Oh, by the way, and on a completely different subject, comments get sent to me for moderation as I can't take all the spam and word verification when I reply to a comment on my own blog is just too annoying. They get sent in an email. But I discovered by chance yesterday that this has stopped and I just get a notification on the Blogger dashboard. Silly Blogger. I'll turn on the wv for a few days, however, as I will be out most of the time.

Eyeless in Err sham*

For the rest of the day, I will pamper myself. I feel a bit needy and woebegone and, although it is my own silly fault, there actually is a reason this time.

I forgot to take out my contact lenses last night and slept in them.

I went to bed early as I felt both ill-humoured and tired - there was some connection between there, but it wasn't the whole story - and usually, if I don't take them out I realise as I get in the bath and have to trudge downstairs wet and nakedly and cold, or wrapped in a towel that is then pre-wetted for later use which is not nice; or else I feel them as I am removing make-up (in the bath) and go down wet-footed and disappointed after that. But I was unaware and went to bed.

You would think that I'd be aware of the difference in my vision, but it is not so. For many years, I wore glasses only to drive or at the cinema or theatre. Eventually, I became a little more short-sighted and found I was having to wear them more. It was when I found that, sitting at the organ, the music was too far away to read without glasses, but too close to read with, that I went for multi-focal contact lenses and they are, usually, fine. But I am so used to the world through my eyes that I don't notice whether it is clear or a little blurred.

At 5.30 I woke, and thought I had an eyelash in my eye. I tried winking and pulling the lid down, and all the things you do, but it didn't help. It wasn't quite bad enough that I had to get up - but later, the other eye started to hurt. I thought of lenses, but I was sure I'd removed them. I fell asleep in the end and got up late. It was only when I wanted to put them in that I realised...

The left one came out. The right one was nowhere to be found. I suppose it is somewhere in the bed, but I haven't found it. I hope it isn't somewhere in the back of my eye - I'd know, wouldn't I? I put in a new one, and replaced the left one and went to church and peered at the hymn music. Hm. Fortunately, the office is presently in the church room and I was able to photocopy it, enlarged. So I got through the service, squinting headachely at the hymns.

Now the lenses are out and will stay out until tomorrow. And I have had lovely home-made soup followed by a baked potato with garlicky cream cheese and I will go for a stroll with Tilly and then light the fire and read the papers.

Music - still Jimi, he suits my mood. Right now, 'Hey Joe'. Later, I think it;ll be Belle and Sebastian. I've only one album of theirs which is 'the Life Pursuit'.

Ooh, 'Foxy Lady'. Can I join in?

Heh heh.

*That's how it's pronounced but not how you spell it. Not that keen on being googled by a local.
Ah, just googled it myself, as one word. One cannot rely on the spelling in mediaeval records.

Glowering with a smile

I'm sorry to say that I am in an absolutely filthy temper. No one has noticed as I've been quiet and plastered a pleasant expression on my face. I really rather want to pick up my wine glass, half full is it is, and hurl it at the wall.

What is going on?

Purplish haze

Our friend was persuaded to stay an extra day and night, so we had a delightful day yesterday, mostly spent lunching and chatting, with a little light shopping thrown in.

In the evening, I had to go out briefly (or so I thought) to a small social gathering, so I prepared dinner up until the last half hour's cooking of the pie, while friend D went to lay the table. I glanced into the dining room. She had put pudding spoons and forks on the table. Ah. That had not occurred to me. Regular puds are not a feature in our family life, but I didn't want to disappoint. I decided to whip up a batch of chocolate brownies that could be served warm with cream. I knew there was a bar of good plain chocolate in the cupboard.

When, in mixing terms, I was past the point of no return, I noticed there were no eggs. Asked the Sage for eggs. He explained that, when he'd said that the hens were off lay, he had meant entirely off lay.

Rang Dilly next door. Luckily, she had three and I only needed two, so that was all right. Except that the do I went to was rather more generous in the food and wine department than I had expected, and I came home late and rather full. They were not troubled by this and used it as an opportunity to have second helpings.

Later, I had an email to tell me that small-but-meaningful-to-the-one-involved problems were getting more problematical and the one involved was upset. I had not, as I'd been busy, posted my letter to her, so I amended it to sound even more sympathetic - but unfortunately not, as far as she was concerned, more helpful - and worried for several sleepless nighttime hours.

Today, I have been listening to Jimi Hendrix in a fruitless attempt to regain a feeling of lost youth and, now that D has left, have time to sit and glower bad-temperedly. I should go and throw myself into some useful and destructive autumnal garden work, but maybe I will think beautiful thoughts instead.

Z is interrupted. But has returned to blather again.

I'm sitting here, glass of Cava at my wrist (that sounds odd, but it is - if it were at my elbow I'd be much more likely to knock it over), waiting for our guest to arrive.

I rather thought she'd be here by now, but it's all right, dinner isn't ready yet. She drove up from Kent - from where she lives it is a Good three hours - to see a friend and is staying with us overnight. I have prepared a simple meal, game soup, roast chicken and pineapple and I will stick with the Cava myself, though a glass of sherry wouldn't go amiss with the soup as there is already some in it.

Ooh, she's arrived. more later.

Later.

An odd thing happened today when I was on my way to Norwich. The way there is on a B road, quite winding in places, that goes through several villages. I was waiting at a roundabout when I heard a hoot behind me and saw a very large lorry angled as if to pass me. There was not room for two vehicles side by side and, as the side roads are small ones, I knew he must be taking the Norwich road and ignored him. Later, as we were going along in a 30mph limit, I noticed he had forgotten to cancel his indicator.

As we were getting near the end of the village, behind two slow-moving cars, he hooted again and started to move out. I could see cars approaching and there was not room for him to pass us all and, frankly, I didn't want to let him in, so I edged slightly closer to the car in front. I looked in my mirror and saw that he had stopped. He hadn't pulled in to the side of the road and no cars could get past him. I kept glancing back, eventually he started again slowly, then must have speeded up.

As I got on the approach road to Norwich I was stopped by traffic lights. He pulled up beside me, signalling to turn off to Great Yarmouth. As I glanced at him, he looked at me and rubbed his hands together.

Why? I was bemused and unsettled. When he started all this, I wondered if he was trying to warn me that there was something wrong with his car. Then, I thought he might be having trouble with his lorry. But it was evidently neither. So, ?.

Actually, as I write, one thought has occurred to me. It might have been nothing to do with me at all. it might have been a really annoying driver behind him who was trying to overtake dangerously and whom he was preventing from doing so. I rather hope so as otherwise he was creepy.

Oh. That turned into a bit of a non-story, didn't it. After midnight now, too late to start again.

By the way, Lynn has put up the report on the sale on our website. Well, so she says although it hasn't actually appeared yet. However, it should be there by the morning I hope. Under 'Journal.' I write it in the Sage's name, but it is all ME. As you'd expect - though it is done in rather more formal and polite style than this is.

Z is a Good Girl

I know that, for the postman told me.

My Fellow Churchwarden and I had agreed to meet in the churchyard to have an autumnal clearing-up session. There is quite a long path from the gate to the church and it was bestrewn with pine needles. There are twelve lime trees along the railing beside the road and lots of suckery-type twigs grow from the bases of them and need to be cut back regularly. In addition, there were weeds growing at the edge of the path and dead lime leaves on the pavement. Also, when last we cleared the guttering, the north side of the church was still frozen hard and so it was left and now grass can be seen growing up there.

I arrived first and started raking. The Fellow joined me. "Where are you planning to put those pine needles?" "I'm taking them back home, I've brought my barrow." "Ah, that'll be why you're raking towards the gate rather than towards the church." "Yes, I thought of that." "Because, if you'd been going to put them on the church rubbish heap, you'd be better going the other way." "Yes, we are thinking As One. We are both of a practical frame of mind."

The pine needles filled the barrow and I took it home to empty. It is a very large barrow with two wheels and is beautifully balanced so can be wheeled easily even when extremely heavy. Meanwhile, the Fellow started to cut back the limes. Upon my return, I did the weeding and raked and swept the rubbish into piles. It was about now that the postman arrived and went up to the church, where there is an office for the Parish Administrator. He was gone for some time, so I suspect he was offered coffee. On his return, he gave me my own post (a small but welcome cheque) and complimented me on my goodness.

The job has been done, most beautifully. I am glad to say that the Fellow and I are equally thorough, as well as efficient, so we swept the path and the road as well as picking up the leaves, the branches and the earth that had mysteriously appeared among the leaf mould. However, we did not get the church gutters cleared. The leaf etc clearing took three hours and we had had enough.

People walking past had little chats (which were pleasant if they did not expect you to stop for more than a few seconds). Millie said "You want to watch, do you'll get arthuritis in your knees." I pointed to the kneeler (a piece of cardboard) I was using to protect those useful joints. On her return, she said "You'll ache after this."

She is right.

I may not know much about anything, but I know a little about an awful lot.

What has happened to general knowledge? There used to be so many things that *everyone* knew. The capitals of countries. How many yards in a mile (a bit out of date, perhaps, but I wonder just how many know how many metres in a kilometre, even if the clue is in the name). Who wrote Oliver Twist and Daffodils. The date of the French Revolution and when Caesar invaded Britannia. When I was at junior school, we used to have tests in General Knowledge. You were supposed to know who Venus was and what was her Greek equivalent. How many inches in a hand, and at what height a pony became a horse. You couldn't revise for these tests, you either knew it or you didn't. I was lucky, even at ten I was a voracious reader and used to browse Encycopaedia Britannica for pleasure, and I usually did quite well. I also liked knowing that sort of thing - I had little practical knowledge or ability at anything, but I knew all about it in theory.

Now, only a generation or two later, no one seems to know any of this. It's gone. With nursery rhymes and a sense of history. I understand nowadays that girls don't 'get' Jane Eyre - "Why doesn't she just go out and get a proper job?" - without any sense of what it was like to live in the 19th Century. Even people of my age, largely, seem to have forgotten.

After the Anglo Saxon lectures last week, we chatted to the lecturer. She mentioned the complete ignorance of the heritage of Christianity that she finds nowadays among her university students. She was not talking about religious faith, but about basic ignorance of the facts, legends, fallacies, call them whatever you like - this is not a religious post. She said that it is impossible to teach history of European art to someone who has literally no concept of either the stories of the bible or the importance of religious faith in times gone by.

When I was a child, I read, for pleasure, stories of the Greek and Roman gods. A little older, I read Homer and Virgil. If I had not, when I took Latin A Level, how would I have known my Aeneas from my Elbow*?

The lecturer, Anna, said that the first thing she has to do is give students a copy of the New Testament and tell them to read the Gospels. And they find it really hard to understand, or to remember the references. Especially the students from countries such as (I am sure she said) Canada, where religious teaching is not allowed in schools. But without it, there is little chance of them getting to grips with Renaissance or pre-Renaissance art.

People are interested, more than ever before, about researching the past. Their personal heritage. And it is vastly interesting. But so is history, and culture, and what has made us who we are, and this seems to have been almost lost. I'm not being nostalgic, I don't automatically think that 'the good old days' were better, but I do feel that there is some loss in our lives.


*no need to worry, Anon, about lowering the tone (comments, yesterday)