The family story – part 11 – the Land Army, part 1

If the farmer had expected a landgirl who would feed the hens and not know a cow from a bull, he received a pleasant surprise. Not only was Jane a knowledgeable countrywoman, she was determined to earn the respect of the men by working hard and well and expected no concessions. She was of medium height, slender, with curly brown hair ... I have no photos of her when young, but she was told she looked like Deanna Durbin. She loved horse riding and enjoyed working with the horses - there were cart horses and an ex-polo pony. Nearly all the farm work was done with horses or by hand, rather than with tractors or other machinery. It was a family farm run by two brothers and the other workers were older men, beyond the age to be called up. Other Land Girls did come along, but they were all from the city and were teased - not unkindly - for example someone would rub his arms, comment on the draught and ask the girl to run and shut the five-barred gate.

Jane prided herself on her skill with horses. She could judge to an inch how to take a load of hay through a gateway and, small as she was, she could manage the biggest cart horse. The cows liked to be milked by her as she was more gentle than some of the men and took into account their personalities. However, she told of one time when a particularly cussed-natured cow, known as a kicker, waited until the pail was almost full before lashing out, tipping out all the milk and knocking Jane flat on her back. "You sod" she exclaimed, to the great amusement of the men, who had never heard her swear.

She found aspects of farming hard. There was one pig kept for the farm each year, which was bought in as a weaner and fed all the household scraps, boiled into swill, the leftover buttermilk and grain as required, and then slaughtered in the autumn to feed the household during the winter. She avoided the pig, as she felt she could not eat any animal she had looked in the eye - but one summer day, it was standing in its sty, front trotters on the gate, and looked hopefully at her. She went to greet it, scratched its head, talked to it...she said she went very hungry that winter. She couldn't touch a mouthful of the meat and the farmer's mother, who thought she was ridiculously sentimental, would not give her any alternative food. You would think she would have been allowed to fill up on potatoes and bread; it was a farm after all, but she was strictly rationed.

My mother was passionately opposed to identity cards as a result of her Land Army experiences. She said that they were more nuisance to the law-abiding than anyone else and - well, quite a lot else that this place is irrelevant to put. She told one tale of a blistering hot day, when she, on her own with the sheepdog, had to move a flock of sheep from one field to another a mile down the road. This was going well until PC Jobsworth stopped her and asked to see her ID card. She hadn't got it. She hadn't thought of herself as going off the farm and she was in her lightest summer clothes. She pointed out that a) he knew her and b) it would take an unusually determined spy to drive a flock of sheep to disguise her tracks. Constable Jobsworth gave her a lecture on 'there's a war on, you know', which she had to listen to as, in despair, she saw the sheep wandering off in all directions. It took a long time to round them all up again.

The worst job was pulling up the various beets - sugarbeet, mangle wurzels, turnips and the like. You had to pull them up, chop off the leaves and toss them to the side to be loaded onto a cart. This was an autumn job and muddy beets are hard to get a grip on, for pulling and for chopping. It was often cold and wet and standing at one corner of a field, seeing acres of beet stretching ahead of you, is a daunting prospect. On the other hand, she enjoyed hoeing carrots. She had a short hoe that she had to bend to use - the men had all rejected it. She found that she could put her back into the job and work quicker than any of them.

This is too long to go in one post, more another time

Z should be working, but has found an excuse to blog instead

I lurched out of bed late this morning. I woke up, dozed and woke again more zonked than before. I lay supine for another half hour before I was able to stir myself.

When I arrived downstairs, I discovered that there had been a message from our chainsaw-wielding chum, to say that he had to work this morning so can't come to help with the trees - we have a large ash tree down and a scrubbier hawthorn. They are both on the field, but the roots of the ash have come up, leaving a hole by the beck and the thorn has fallen over the beck itself. They will both need sorting out; let's hope that, once cut, the ash stump will just drop back into place. The beck has a gravel base and disturbance isn't good for it.

Squiffany and I did have our happy day yesterday. We went for a walk round the village. I'd thought to walk into Yagnub, but Tilly the dog looked so hopeful that I changed my mind. A dog on an extending lead and a child in a pushchair are not easy to manage on the main road to Yagnub, which has a narrow footpath. Tilly feels very self-important when she is responsible for Squffany. It is the only time when she is not nervous of other dogs. She even goes into territory-marking - stopping to pee every few minutes and, hilariously, trying to lift her leg against a wall or lamppost like a dog. She gave a hard stare at a cat, surprised behind a parked car, but they both moved in in a dignified way.

When we arrived home, the Sage's car was missing. My bag was in the house and we were locked out. Fortunately, I'd fetched something out of my car before going out and left the key in the ignition. So the three of us went in to Yagnub to ask Al if his father was around. He had, it seemed, received a phone call from an Elderly Friend in Distress, whose electricity was off after the gale and who was worried about the contents of her freezer. Sage forgiven for forgetting us, I borrowed money from Al and we went out to lunch here.*

Dilly arrived home while Squiffany was eating tea - scrambled eggs on toast followed by a satsuma ... I'd gone for the simple option that I knew she'd eat. Sqiffany wielded a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other skilfully and didn't notice her mother for a few minutes. Then "oh, hello, Mummy, hello Pugsley," she said and kept on eating. Halfway through the satsuma, she suddenly looked at me. "Thank you, thank you, Granny" she said. "Hug." And I received a juicy orange hug and kiss.

*This is more child-friendly than the review sounds as you can have anything from a teacake or sandwich to a full meal.

Today, I'm mostly being Granny

Dilly is planning a day with her sisters. They would like to have a good chat and to enjoy each other's company. Toddlers take most of the attention, especially if they are very happy to see their aunties.

No power cuts, some branches and part of a fence down, some broken glass in the greenhouses but the structures have survived. One ash tree has fallen on the field, but harmlessly.

The sun is shining today. I think we'll go for a walk. Maybe we'll call on friends. Perhaps we'll go on the swings. Go to see Daddy in the shop and maybe call at the café for a snack or lunch.

It'll all be delightful and relaxing and by this evening I will be entirely exhausted.

The wind is blowing. However, the snow is not snowing and the cattle are not lowing.

A hasty post in case the phone line goes off again. It is being rubbed lovingly by a tall and gangly broom (shrub, not besom; an explanation I've already given to a friend - sorry to bore you, AB, if you look in) and might go. I have heard two creaks and crashes, which sounded like branches rather than whole trees. One of the greenhouses is badly bowed; let it go if it will, there's nothing to be done about it. I have lit a nightlight so that we will not be left scrambling for matches if the lights go out. Nothing more to do, as long as the tall pine that is due to be cut down (after our experience of a couple of weeks ago) doesn't fall on the house.

I'm watching television as I write, with tears in my eyes, at the lives lost during this storm. In the usual English way, it is not a dreadful gale by global standards, but we like our undemonstrative weather and this is quite bad enough in its unpredictable devastation.

The Family story – part 10 – the War

My mother, Jane, and her father had moved to a village near Weymouth. Jane was disappointed to find that her new school was not a patch on the previous one. However, home life was much happier. Her father, proud and angry, had left his wife with virtually everything he owned and money was tight, although he owned his bungalow and a car, so he can't have been too badly off. Perhaps he had inherited money when his mother had died. I don't know, this was one amongst many questions I never thought to ask my mother.

He gave housekeeping money to Jane and she kept house. I don't know if she did all the housework or if they had a daily; she never mentioned one. Grandad lived in the bungalow for the rest of his life. It isn't there now; there was a large garden and the house has been pulled down and new houses built - this is in the Coombe (hope I've spelt it right, it's a long time since I wrote it down) Valley in beautiful scenery.

My grandfather was not an easy man to live with - he had left his wife with everything impulsively and rather regretted it, and he had had much unhappiness and disappointment in his life. However, I think it was a happy time. They regularly went to the cinema and belonged to a rambling club. They were both musical - Grandad, at that time, had an oboe, which he later sold in exchange for a clarinet; a Boosey & Hawkes Regent, dating from the early 1950s (he bought it second-hand), which I still play*. Jane played the piano, which she loved. She was self-taught - she always rather resented the fact that her father had refused to pay for lessons - and her most treasured possession was her grandmother's grand piano. They used to hold musical evenings with friends who brought their violin, flute or other instruments.

A year or so later, the War broke out. It seems odd that Weymouth, on the South Coast of England, was used as a refuge, but London children were sent there for safety from the Blitz. It was decided that the local children should go to school in the mornings and the London ones in the afternoon. Books had to be left at school for the others to use. The Headmistress was obsessed with drill and held practices several times a week, when an alarm would ring and all the children had to run out to the air-raid shelter. Jane was receiving no useful education at all, and left school in the summer of 1940, when she was 16.

She went to a secretarial school in Weymouth near the harbour. By this time, there were regular sorties by German war planes and they were intercepted by the British planes. These 'dogfights', as they were called, took place in sight of the school and the girls excitedly ran up on to the flat roof to get the best view. The Principal of the school, a rather dainty, prissy man whose name I have forgotten, hurried up after them, wringing his hands. If they were lucky, a German plane was shot down, the pilots ejected into the water and were rescued and arrested. The girls ran back downstairs again and outside in time to see them being walked dejectedly along the road to the police station. They had always lost their boots and trooped along in socks. This fun came to an abrupt end one day when it was a British plane that was shot down in flames and there were no survivors. The girls never watched the dogfights again. They were also upset when a German plane came down in a field a couple of miles away and was not found until a week later, when it was too late to rescue the pilots who had survived but were trapped.

After she had gained her secretarial qualifications, Jane went to work as Almoner's Assistant at Weymouth Hospital. She enjoyed this job as she loved to meet people. She greeted everyone as they came for their appointments and took records of their health insurance. This was, of course, before the days of the National Health Service, but she said that it worked well and no one (in this hospital) went untreated. They used to pay a penny, or a few pence, a week, depending on their circumstances and this qualified them for full treatment. She prided herself on remembering each person's name and ailment and asked after their family - she contrasted this with my father's treatment ten years later when he had a broken arm. He visited the hospital weekly for a couple of months, and on the last visit the receptionist, who had seen him each time, snapped "Name?" just as abruptly as she had on the first.

The only fly in that particular ointment was that, although she was entitled to a free lunch, she found herself unable to eat it and had to take a packed lunch. She could not take the gruesome conversation of the nurses who chatted about their day's work.

She also discovered that her father, as her share of the expenses, expected her to buy all food, cleaning materials and other household essentials. He paid the bills, but she had no money to spend on herself. She had one weekday dress for each season and bought two removable white collars, so that she could wash one each evening and iron it the next, washing the dress each week.

Once she reached 18, she knew that, sooner or later, she would be called up to one of the services. She did not want this at all. For one thing, she did not want to wear a uniform, for another, she did not want to be sent who knows where, and she was also shyly disconcerted by the notion of the required medical examination. So she decided to volunteer to join the Land Army.

* Some years ago I took it to be tuned to an old man who was pleased to see it. "I must have tuned this before it left the factory," he said. "I worked for Boosey & Hawkes in the 50s and I tuned all the clarinets."

What's in a job?

Dandelion put me on the spot by challenging my assertion that "I never ask about jobs as I do not evaluate people by what they do for a living."

I don't of course *never* find out what someone's job is or *never* express an interest in it - some very interesting conversations are with people who have decided to take on a challenging and unusual job, or who love their job. However, a great many people draw conclusions simply by what your job is and, more tellingly, what you earn from it and what prestige it gives you. It can get in the way of making your own mind up about what someone 'is' as a person. Finding out what his interests are tells you much more. I had a friend who was a carpenter working for a local builder, skilled at what he did, but it wasn't his greatest interest; he had a huge passion for and knowledge of Lowestoft porcelain and classical music. I love to hear about a person's enthusiasms, even if I don't share them. Once, years ago, at a party, a very shy man was completely tongue-tied until he found an opening to start talking about bees. Although, in his keenness, he talked for too long about bees, it was endearing as well as interesting to hear him. I don't know what his job was, but I suspect I'd have simply found out his approximate income and social standing by asking, and I have no interest in that at all - which was what I meant by 'I don't evaluate...'

Of course, if someone loves their job and is glad to tell you about it, that is part of getting to know them. You would not talk to the Sage for long without finding out about his work, nor to Al. My other two children, whilst being happy in their jobs, probably would not bother to chat about them in a social situation. Ro's job, for instance, is in IT. You ask what he does. "I work in the IT department of a local factory that makes ***." What is there to follow up? Does he enjoy it, has he been there long, is it a field he wishes to stay in - if you had a similar job you might ask a technical question or two, but you wouldn't know more about his personality from it, unless you have a 'mind's eye' view of IT technicians that could cloud, one way or another, your view of him. On the other hand, ask me about porcelain and I'll still be enthusing quite some time later. You would, indeed, be taught quite a bit about me, if only never to bring up the subject again.

Once, someone said to me - and he meant it in quite a complimentary way -"I should think you don't suffer fools gladly." "I love fools," I replied, hurt, "I'm a fool myself." When I meet someone, I try not to prejudge them. I am predisposed to like them and sometimes, of course, there is an instant rapport. But I don't feel a wish to judge or decide about them, I would want to accept them on their own terms and receive the message they wish to give. I draw some conclusions from that, of course, but I still keep my mind open.

I take on board Dandelion's comment (about herself) I'm sometimes too self-absorbed to really care enough for it to occur to me to ask as that certainly used to apply to me. I was far too shy and self-conscious for many years to wonder about the person I was speaking to, I was more concerned with worrying about the impression I was giving. I don't think that's the case now, if anything I'm slightly under-concerned about my own self-portrayal.

I wrote, a few weeks ago, about going to see someone on business, whom we'd known for years and who had always disregarded me, but that, on that occasion, he started to see me as a more interesting and likeable person. I did put some effort into charming him, but what I didn't mention at the time was that (after the initial spark of friendship had been lit, for we'd got on to more personal conversation by then) I referred to the place where I grew up, which was the poshest part of Oulton Broad. He asked if I'd known a couple of families and I did; they were close friends of my parents. He asked what my father did for a living - I was slightly startled by this and replied "Er, nothing ... he just 'lived'." An odd way of putting it, but he was, indeed, a man of independent means and this came across in my confused words. The businessman was impressed. And that, to me, was a little offputting - except that I know, for another friend had told me, that his own father had built up his business from very humble beginnings; they had adopted a different way of life and left their roots behind. Whilst this is not the way people go now, they would be proud, if anything, of both their achievements and their origins, it was not often the case 50 years ago. And so, whilst not liking the hint of snobbery, I understood its origins and did not 'mark him down' for it.

Darling Dandelion, I bet you wish you hadn't asked. Have I explained? I don't expect to be agreed with and I like to be challenged, thank you for your comment.

And if one green bottle...

should accidentally fall, you'll get pale brown lager all around the hall. This was unfortunate, but when, later, I knocked over the bottle I was drinking from (not at the moment I was drinking, you understand, I'd put it down) and spilled it on the carpet, it seemed more like carelessness.

On the other hand, my luck was in and I won a bag of seed potatoes at the Gardening Club raffle. I sat next to a woman I hadn't seen before and who, it transpired, has just joined. She grows lots of vegetables and sells some of them at the Friday evening market and I said that, if she still has a surplus, to offer them to Al. I even asked her name and have remembered it!!(!). This may not appear remarkable to you sophisticated yet friendly people, but I am remarkably bad at that. When meeting someone new, I always tell them my name. Generally, if there seems any doubt in their eyes, I tell them again on the second and third meetings as I do not expect to be remembered - this is not humility but an acceptance that this is the way life is, most people are not brilliant at remembering names. However, when I say "Hello, I'm Z, I am *something pertinent about me*", quite often I simply get "Hello Z" back, when I'm hoping for "Hello Z, I'm X."

Sometimes, I know someone for quite some time before I find out their name or their job. I never ask about jobs as I do not evaluate people by what they do for a living. But it means that I'm always the last person to find out anything.

Tomorrow night, it's the Car Club Christmas dinner. They always have it in mid-January, which I think is a very good idea. We're all Christmas-dinnered-out in December. I always find it slightly sticky, actually, as I hardly know most of the members, but I'll put on my party manners and scintillate as much as decorum suggests.

Hello, and welcome to the school. I'm Z, one of the governors...

It is one of the perquisites of the post of school governor that one is asked to sit on interviewing panels. I do enjoy this. It is particularly interesting when one is interviewing support staff, such as Learning Support/Teaching Assistants, Librarians or Clerical staff, because one has quite a deal of scope.

This was the situation today. It is a temporary post, for maternity cover. I interviewed the person who currently holds the job, a year or two ago and liked her immensely. Her enthusiasm and aptitude shone through in a strong field. I spoke to her today, to congratulate her on the impending birth of her baby and, as we chatted, I realised I knew her via her husband, who comes into the shop periodically. Al delivers a £15 fruit box to them each week. It is one of those surnames that is neither common nor uncommon and I'd not connected.

We interviewed four people, all of whom were interesting and really pleasant people. Again, a strong field, but it came down to two. I was inclined towards one, because of the enthusiasm she had shown ... I'm a sucker for genuine enthusiasm, I think it is inspirational, particularly for children*, and she will be dealing with teenagers. She started nervously but, when questioned (and I don't believe in aggressive** interviewing, I think you can get more out of people by asking for their strengths; their weaknesses come through unconsciously), she blossomed. The other two on the panel had been slightly more drawn towards another candidate but, being reasonable people, agreed with me in the end.

Heh heh, no, it was not I who convinced them, but a careful evaluation of strengths, weaknesses and the need for someone who could slot into a temporary position at once. In fact, I would have been happy with the other person too, but she would have needed some training and support in the short term.

I was in the shop all morning and finished at 1.30. I feel a bit bereft. I reluctantly handed over to Al and went back at 5 o'clock to help him pack up.


*and me, who has never entirely grown up

**probing, perhaps, a gentle but thorough probe is always a good idea and can be a pleasure

Regarding moderation...

...I'll drink to that!

No, no, I'm not to be distracted by such frivolity. I have taken your comments on board, as they say, and - as I am a Reasonable Woman and believe in making the first move (wouldn't you have guessed it, heh heh?) - I have turned off comment moderation. Under no circumstances will I go back to WV, however, so it may have to be haloscan or similar if I get spammed to total frustration.

If even one of you is inspired to turn off wv, my gesture will not have been in vain.

Z is peeved. Then, having let it all out, Z is cheerful

No one has taken on board my suggestion that they abandon word verification. If I weren't so fond of the sight of my own voice, I would boycott comments on all sites that used it*. It almost always rejects my first attempt and takes the second, which is extremely annoying when I know I got it right first time.

Moderate comments instead. It is the way to go. Unless days go by without checking your email.

Ah, while I'm being peeved, Blogger has it in for Mac users. First, they didn't email comments to my email address, I now have to have them sent to my gmail address which, in cussedness, I therefore use for nothing else. Now they won't let me post photos using Safari. Sodding Microsoft, as I fondly call it, doesn't let Mac users use Internet Express any more (not that I ever did if I could help it) and the only alternative is Firefox, which is not only both slower and more temperamental than Safari, but also asks me silly questions.

That's it, off my capacious chest. No need to be peeved any more.

*I still might. I wonder if anyone would notice.

Just time to relax

It's a lovely day, cold but bright and sunny. The seed heads of the clematis in Al and Dilly's garden are outside my study window and look very pretty against the blue sky.

It's the Sunday when I go twice to church (this just works out that way, it is no excess of devotion), and I've just returned home, having left the house at 7.30, attended a service, driven to Norwich and back to deliver some papers, played the organ at another service, cleaned several months build-up of wax off the brass candlesticks, drunk two cups of coffee and eaten a ginger nut. Breakfast, by the way, was a small, round Communion wafer and a good swig of port. I feel cheerful and peaceful, apart from still worrying about my friend of yesterday. I'll go back into Yagnub later and, while I'm there, keep an eye out for him.

The family is recovering and Al still hasn't succumbed, so I've said that I'll deal with tomorrow's order and go into the shop tomorrow morning and, all being well, he can take over after lunch for me to go and do my interviews. If he is ill, the Sage will take over instead, but Al is confident. I've tried the 'I won't be ill' technique many times and it can work for some things but not, in my experience, a gastric bug - however, let's hope he's right. Because I don't want it either. The one we all caught last year (except Ro, who kept well out of our way) was Most Unpleasant.

Ooh, I've just had an email from Amazon to say my book order is on the way. Yay! I checked back through the 20 emails I haven't got around to opening yet (personal and business ones have been read of course) and my CD was posted on Friday. If only I could find the lead to recharge my iPod.

Time for some food.

Talking backwards

A man pulled up outside the shop at twenty past five and hurried to the door. "Are you still open, I wanted a stalk of brussels sprouts?" I welcomed him in. I had started to bring everything in from outside ... I say 'everything', but so much has been sold today that my display of produce was considerably diminished.

He bought several things and chatted for a while. He lives in the next town, nine miles away, and doesn't often come to Yagnub, but always calls in at the shop when he can. It's the welcome, he said, the quality of the food and the care in the display, Al's friendliness and interest in his job.

Actually, you could say that of many of the shops here, I'm sure it's because so many of them are run by their owners. But I was happy to hear it.

Not long before, I had been considerably cheered by a woman and her daughter who came in and spent over thirty pounds - what a nice thing to happen at the end of a Saturday afternoon. The teenage girl enthused over the fruit - she loves fruit, she said. I'm not sure how many there are in the family, but a lot, I imagine - they bought 20 satsumas, 5 mangos, 10 apples --- whole lots more, plus a sack of potatoes. They said that all the fruit would be gone by Monday.

A little before that (I'm sorry, I am ending the day on a 'Memento' note, although I haven't tattooed its events over my body) a man had come in and, after a minute or two's conversation, I suspected he was newly out of prison and so it proved. I was in the middle of serving someone else; I wish I had done more to help him.

He simply asked how I priced the fruit; by item or weight, and how much a banana, for example, cost. I weighed a few of different sizes to give him an idea. He said that where he had been, they served very small pieces of fruit that didn't taste of much, which is a pity as he loves fruit. He said he would come back and buy some after the weekend. He was newly released and money should have been available for him today but it hadn't arrived so he would have to manage without for the weekend. His solicitor would contact the authorities for him on Monday. "It isn't supposed to happen like that, for someone charged under the Mental Health Act" he said. He raised his trouser leg and showed me the tracking device. "They keep track of me, but don't tell people I have shown you, I don't want everyone to know" he said.

He left and I called him back to offer him a box of various fruit that had marked skin - it was quite all right, but I'd put it on one side to take home. I gave him a few bananas too, and said I hoped he would not be offended - not at all, he said.

He went out quickly, before I realised I should have checked if he could cook food where he lives - a couple of pounds worth of vegetables such as potatoes, carrots and greens would see him through the weekend and my fruit won't take him past the night. I'll drive through the town tomorrow and see if he's about. I hesitated because I didn't want to land Al with someone who might be a bother to him - I was friendly at any rate and, at least, did something, but really not enough. He seemed a nice man, very polite, and quite simple.

Unfortunately, although the family had a lovely time away, in the night Dilly became ill and today both the babies did too. Nothing they've eaten, it's a stomach bug. Al is fine but nervous as he suspects he will be next. I've said I'll go in the shop on Monday morning, but I'm doing staff interviews at the High School in the afternoon and can't be there all day. I have something on on Tuesday too, but I can ditch it if necessary.

Here it is, Betty

I was tagged by Betty, for five things most people don't know about me. This is awfully difficult, as I am such a blabbermouth that anything not generally known is probably a dark and deep secret which I will not tell even you.

1. If I had been born a boy, I would have inherited a baronetcy. Yep, Sir Z. My grandfather was the heir of his uncle, and he and my father debated the matter. You do not inherit a title as a matter of course, you have to claim it. They agreed that they were not bothered about a pointless title and would only claim it if there were a further heir, my sister being an only child at the time.

2. I always eat the pith of oranges. I love it. I peel the peel, then I peel the pith, then I have, alternately, segments of orange and pieces of pith. I really don't know why. It's not exactly that it tastes good. I also love to eat the peel of lemons and of the various types of mandarin orange. I really hope that wax they put on to stop the fruit drying out is not carcinogenic or something, as I've taken in a fair bit over the years.

3. I am absolutely, if silently, evangelical about the importance of sex within marriage*. I am confident that it should become more important, as well as better*, the longer you are married. I was, some years ago, shocked speechless when a long-married friend, then probably about the age I am now, said confidentially and confidentally, that of course, at our age ('OUR'? - I am about ten years younger than her, and hadn't realised she thought of us as similarly aged), thank goodness we don't have to bother with that sort of thing any longer. I asked another mutual, and older friend what she thought and I'm glad to say that she, too, was open-mouthed with horror.

4. When I was a child, I was hopelessly in love with Bamber Gascoigne. University Challenge was my favourite programme and I played along and kept score.*** Jeremy Paxman is not the same at all.

5. Once, I saw a spectacularly striped snake swimming in our garden pond. It was multi-coloured and quite large, about three inches in diameter and maybe three feet long. It, and this is the odd thing, was several decades before I realised that I must have been dreaming as such a snake does not exist in this country.

*this is with a bow to Betty. I could not respond to a tag from her without mentioning sex.

**sorry everyone, I know you, knowing my age, are going 'ew'. Especially any of my family reading this.

***I feel quite embarrassed writing this - about the keeping score, that is.

Midnight conversation

Ro went to bed. Fifteen minutes later he returned. "Has Tilly been upstairs today?" "I was out all day, no idea. Why?" "There's a big poo in the middle of Alex's old room carpet." "Well, I didn't do it." "I know it was none of us," (with dignity) "that is why I asked about Tilly."

The design of Tudor houses is for the rooms to lead one into the next, rather than via corridors. There have been alterations in this house and a landing was put in, but Ro still gets from the bathroom to his room through a spare bedroom, formerly his brother's.

Tilly is a well-behaved, clean little dog and must have been desperate. She doesn't often go upstairs and, if she does, it's usually to have a Saturday morning bedtime cuddle. I suggested that the spare bedroom, being hardly ever visited, did not seem part of her indoor territory and, therefore, not a 'taboo' place to use.

"I couldn't believe it, when I went through after my bath" bemoaned Ro. "I just stood there looking at it, thinking 'this can't be right' ". I fell about, laughing. "Can it be picked up?" "I don't know," he said, "I haven't tried." I snorted with laughter. "Where should I put it?" "Down the loo?" I suggested.

When I went upstairs, there was no sign of anything amiss in the spare bedroom. But "this can't be right" still cracks me up.

Z's brain has gone

with the wind.

It was a difficult morning. I went in half an hour early as I had a lot to do, and decided not to put the full display outside as it was, by a long way, the windiest day yet. The nice man with the fish stall on Market Day came to help me put up the heavy wooden shelf.

From the start, I felt tired and confused, bewildered from the strength of the wind. At least I was indoors. The Egg Man (he merely sells them, don't imagine Humpty Dumpty) gave up and packed up by 9.30. As the gusty wind strengthened, the veg market stall took down their awning. I hadn't even put mine up, although it is sturdy wrought iron.

I changed my mind when it started to rain. I brought in the nuts, the soft fruit and the cauliflowers (beautiful local ones), put the boxes of cabbages, leeks and 'carrots on stalks' as Eileen calls them on the shelf and the pineapples and mangoes, which I had bought cheaply and really wanted to sell, on the lower staging, and pulled out the awning. A few minutes later, I was glad I had. The rain was torrential, lashed by a strong and gusty wind.

The market started to pack up.

I forgot to mention that I'd ordered apricots for my big order. I asked how much 20 would weigh. About a kilo? No, said Jason-the-wholesaler, about a pound. Send a kilo and I'll sell the rest, I said.

A kilo was 19 fruits. Thank goodness for the market, I nipped out and bought a couple more apricots for 38p. Belt, braces and baler twine girl, me, and I was allowing for one being soft. When I checked, indeed one was - worse, it had a bruise. So I ate it.

Anyway, the shop certainly filled up when it started raining, customers, dogs, the lot. If the rain had lasted a few more minutes, I'd have made tea.

It all got better later, I did the order, including 60 equal-sized shallots (I like this lady, she likes to get it right and so do I) and I added four extra free, in case one pinged to the floor and under the fridge, another was soft, another got burned and one more was irresistible once roasted and had to be eaten immediately. I had a fruit basket to do in the afternoon, but it took me until nearly 5 o'clock as I was busy.

I mastered the tills and got the totals right.

I remembered an errand on the way home, although I hadn't written it down.

My hair is a total mess.

My back aches. I have taken a pill and would be lying flat on my back, except that then I'd have to get up.

I am going to cook dinner. Pork chops and lots of vegetables, followed by a mango. I don't want anything clever or complicated and want simple comfort food.

Do you know, I feel fine now. Must be the ibuprofen mixed with wine.

I'll be over all this in a couple of days and will write about something else. You must have had enough about vegetables by now.

Congratulations to Pat on all her visitors. And Betty tagged me (I've linked to neither as you all know them both and love them as I do), which I will deal with soon.

Psst - Never mind the apples and pears, 'ere's a lovely lot of mangoes going cheap

I have just poured my third glass of wine*. I know that I've already drunk a comfortable amount, given that I'm quite tired.

I am going to drink the third glass. Fortunately, such an amount will make me splendidly relaxed, but will not have any morning-after effects.

Today went fine, except that I monumentally cocked up the till at the end of the day. I had to correct an error (a really silly one; I'd put in £1.09 and 85p without pressing the 'enter' button between, so a poor chap looked as if he had to pay a total of £114-something) and do a 'pay-out' of Eileen's wages. I thought I knew what to do, but I was wrong and everything just kept adding on...Al will take it in his stride, just uttering a shrugging 'Bof' or 'Pfft' as he perambulates.

I have also had my hair cut. The Sage minded** the shop while I was gone. He does not trust the till at all, so had all his takings written down for me to put in to the till. Have I ever mentioned that he is older than me***, and even more set in his ways?****

Jason from one of the wholesalers rang this morning. I was quite excited, for he had Special Offers to proffer. I said 'Yes!', for that is the kind of girl I am. I really hope there are a lot of people around in Yagnub tomorrow, as I have bought all sorts of things. I've not taken a chance on everything though: most of them are extremely good value and I will reduce prices and still make a Fat Profit. I am mindful that, this week, I need to pay for Al's holiday.

There were quite a lot of lovely ripe plum tomatoes that were going a bit at the stalk end - good but unsaleable. I cooked red onions, red pepper, red chilli, red tomatoes and (green) parsley and served it with lamb chops, baked potatoes and purple sprouting broccoli. And, as I might have mentioned before, red wine.

Finished the wine, time to get to work*****

*I don't mention the size of the glass

**that looks wrong but isn't - 'mound' is another word entirely

***Whole lots, for he is a Pensioner

****I am not set in my ways at all, and he hardly is, except that he will not go on holiday so I have to go alone

*****Looking up stuff on Bonhams (the auctioneers) website, Lot 12. This counts as work in our business

The Crop Shop

It was so windy today. I put the shelf out this morning and started to arrange the crates underneath, on which go various veggie goodies to attract the customers. I had to chase them down the road. I found it was simplest to have baskets of vegetables ready to weight them down until I was ready to arrange the display.

I made an early start, so that Eileen didn't have all the fresh produce to put out before the customers started to come, as I had a meeting to go to and had to leave her alone for the morning. I was a little concerned that she would be rushed off her feet, but she said it had been all right; she was constantly busy but "the line of customers didn't reach the door". Most people take a basket (real ones, not wire) and wander round helping themselves until it is their turn to be served.

An uneventful day. We sold lots of root vegetables and cabbages. The weather made everyone think of stews and soups. We also sold salad stuff, as people want crunchy and colourful food too. I am always fond of young people and am vastly cheered when 20-somethings come and buy 'real' veg; swedes and carrots and sprouting broccoli. I have never known English purple sprouting to be this early - one can get a bit in the autumn for a week or two when plants that have gone early to seed are picked over before being rooted out, but normally it's a March/April delicacy.

Old Ron hovered around as usual in the afternoon, hoping for a lift home. He hobbles up on his walking frame to each car that parks in the road outside the shop and asks if the driver is going his way. He doesn't have too many takers; unfortunately he smells of wee, rather. Sooner or later, someone usually takes pity and good-naturedly takes him home. He occasionally buys a banana, but otherwise only comes into the shop to ask for a tissue. Yesterday, he needed help with the zip on his anorak.

The photo was not taken today; it was an autumnal scene, as you have probably noticed. You might also have observed that the doorway is not shown. The reason is that Al was standing in it and he is too modest to show his face to the Public.

Z turns an Honest Penny

I was cooking dinner this evening when Ro came into the kitchen and stood behind me. After a minute I turned, having a sense that he didn't just happen to be standing there.

"Hug" he said. And we did. "I'm tired," he said "and I didn't work nearly such a long day as you."

I meant to close the shop at 5, but I was still busy and the last customer left at 5.40. By the time I'd taken the display in, cashed up, worked out tomorrow's order and phoned it in, a further hour had passed.

I had a great day. I have been given a recipe for Seville orange gin, given one out for marmalade*, explained why you cannot make pineapple jelly with uncooked pineapple, made a £10 fruit gift box, flirted delicately, made friends with several dogs, including a terrier who licked all over my face while my hands were full, carried a 25 kilo (55 pound) bag of potatoes to a customer's car, taken a huge order for Friday (the receipts will be impressive on Friday and not had time to read a word of any of the three books I had taken in to occupy my afternoon. I also ate a maple and pecan Danish pastry in the afternoon, to keep my strength up.

Tonight, I cooked a simple and encouraging supper of bangers and mash, with tomatoes and (close your eyes, Wendz) lots of small green fart-bombs. Followed by a few chocolates.

Tomorrow morning I will go in early to set up as I have a Meeting to go to in Norwich. I hope Eileen isn't as busy as we were today, as she will be alone from 9-1, although the Sage will go in to offer encouragement. He will also deliver Meals on Wheels for me.

*to a young man who made his first pots of strawberry jam in the summer and, fired with zeal, wishes to repeat the feat with marmalade now.

I waited until after midnight and thwarted Blogger!

Hah! Pictures!

At last I took photos of the papier maché crib figures made for the village church by Year 4 at the village school. They are quite large - the standing figures are about knee high. They can stay up until Candlemas, whatever and whenever that is. I've a feeling it is sometime in February.

I particularly like the shepherd (middle figure, right of the angel). He looks as if he has swigged a few deep draughts from his hipflask. Jesus also has a beatific smile on his face. Joseph (bottom right) has amazing boggle eyes that come just above his head band.


These animals are an ox, an ass and a sheep. They are almost identical, but the clue is in the ears.




Yesterday was the Feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi turned up with their highly symbolic but useless presents. Well, apart from the gold. That would have come in handy on the Flight Into Egypt


Jesus did have a manger, but he broke it so he has to sleep in a box lid. He is not at all tired at present and nor is Mary, who looks wide eyed and startled. It is a wonderful and funny crib and makes me smile every time I see it.

I tried to catch the last post, but Blogger would not oblige

I wrote you a nice little post this afternoon, with pictures and Blogger wouldn't take them. Not directly, not via Photobucket, not even one at a time. It still won't tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

This evening, Ro and I went to the cinema! To Pan's Labyrinth, (el Laberinto del Fauno) a Spanish film set in 1944, after Franco's victory and directed by Guillermo del Toro. It was well done, but I'd check it out on iMDb or something before seeing it as it was a trifle unusual. Brutal Fascist captain, guerilla fighters, little girl in a strange labyrinth on a quest. The monster with eyes in his hands was splendid.

From tomorrow, I'll be running Al's shop for him as he and the family will be on holiday for a week. It will be a great pleasure and absolutely knackering. He has left a note for his deliverers, asking them not to put the heaviest boxes, of oranges and bananas and the like, on the top shelf as I am not very big.

If music be the food ...

It's always a pleasure to hear the correct use of the subjunctive tense and the Bard does not often disappoint.

It is, of course, Twelfth Night. The decorations have been tenderly put in their boxes. The blowsy fairy, which originally belonged to the Sage's grandmother, received particular care. Her face is, though highly coloured, not unattractive but her hair is just a mess and her dress, made by my mother-in-law several decades ago, is a particularly unattractive green. I feel she deserves a new one, but will forget about it for the next 49 weeks and I won't have time then.

Squiffany wanted to call in this morning. We had been out in the garden, watching the tractor with a fork-lift shifting the root of the fallen pine tree. The lad driving the tractor is only 18; he has worked for the farmer for a year since leaving school, but we were impressed by his skill and care. The previous boy had been a disappointment as an employee - he didn't appreciate the early start to the day that is required on a dairy farm and was often late or absent. Young O is another matter and he's already trusted to do skilled work.

Dilly was going to take the children shopping in Norwich, so there wasn't time to visit, so an invitation was issued for later on. Instead, I took her to see the impressive gap in the hedge that will be cut to a row of stumps and allowed to regrow. Good friend Jamie was startled to see my handiwork and teased me about my vigour with a saw. I didn't mind, as long as he kept removing the debris. The hedge had been about 15 feet tall and there were large branches to drag away.

By noon, it was raining steadily so I went grocery shopping while the chaps started to clear the greenhouse which the chickens will be invited to ramble through for the next couple of months. I was talkng to my friend Mark the Butcher as he cut me some cheese and weighed the meat when his boss, John the Butcher came up. "When you've finished chatting to Z" he said "we need to talk about where you are putting sausage skins. And how much water you're putting them in." Mark had put the skins in a tub, filled it with water and put in on a high shelf. John, reaching for them, had tipped them over himself. He was wet and unhappy. I offered a hug. He said he really needed a shower and a change of clothes. My offer had not extended further than a hug, however, so I paid and left.

Later, Dilly and Squiffany turned up. "She didn't forget, she's been saying 'call at Granny's house' all the way home." Squiffany's face lit up when she saw the Pooping Reindeer. He is small and plastic and contains 10 brown jelly beans, which he excretes when you press his back. This entertained her for a good half hour. "Poo-poo!, hah hah hah" is a good joke which bears much repetition. "RoRo, poo-poo, hah hah hah" "Granny, poo-poo, hah hah hah." RoRo and I were surprisingly entertained too, there really is nothing quite like a baby's laughter.

Who else?

Your results:
You are Supergirl

Supergirl 78% Superman 75% Iron Man 65% Wonder Woman 63% Robin 45% Hulk 45% Catwoman 40% Green Lantern 40% Batman 35% Spider-Man 30% The Flash 25%

Lean, muscular and feminine. Honest and a defender of the innocent.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...


Lean is way out, by a good ten years. I'm a bit concerned that I'm 45% Hulk* so no work will be done on the Muscular.

Thanks to BD for pointing me in the right direction and so encouraging me to fritter away my time. This is not a complaint. Frittering is what I dedicate my life to.

*Funnily enough, I'm quite pleased by 65% Iron Man.

Z wields her new pruning saw

I've spent an energetic and productive couple of hours in the garden. The sycamore sapling is no more! I counted the rings, it was nine years old, which just shows how long it took me to get around to the job. Although, to be kind (and whom should one be kind to, if not oneself?), it spent quite some time hiding among other shrubs before it was noticed.

I have cut back quite a lot of the boring laurel hedge. It was immensely tall when we moved here and we had it cut to ground level. It has been cut back many times since, but I can't keep up with it and it is never a pruning with secateurs sort of job, or even with loppers, but needs a saw. It is too useful a screen to do away with entirely.

After all this, I returned to the house and finally finished the Christmas food. Well, apart from three-quarters of the Christmas cake, which will linger for weeks. The last of the meat. We finished the beef on Monday and the remains of the Boxing Day lamb became Scotch Broth and Shepherd's Pie. So, lunchtime today was leftovers of these. Whew. A clear fridge. Ah. That means it's time to buy more food.

It was a particularly excellent Scotch broth, in fact. I took a packet of wholegrain barley out of the cupboard and saw that the use-by date was Feb 06. I wasn't sure how stale barley actually goes, but cooked it for the chickens and bought fresh. In fact, when cooked, it was fine and I could have used it, but the chickens certainly enjoyed it, especially as it was still warm. I made the stock for the soup with vegetables and the lamb bone, which still had quite a deal of meat on, and the chickens had that to peck clean too. Of course, Scotch broth should really be made with neck of lamb, but I always find that you get little bits of bone left, and you have to eat it cautiously. Lots of onion, turnip, carrot, leek and cabbage; it was almost more stew than soup.

Back to the garden. More pruning to be done. Joy!!

And first, I'm going to cut down that sycamore sapling

I have spent the last hour reading blogs. This is not a sensible use of my time when there is work to do, but a week spent not nosying into your lives has left me feeling that I've been left out of all the fun.

Several of you have been making New Year Resolutions. Or have resolved not to. There's only one resolution I'd really appreciate all Blogger bloggers making, and that is to moderate your comments before publishing, rather than go for word verification. WV is the most annoying thing imaginable, because, however carefully and accurately you type and check the letters, they are usually refused the first time.

As for me, I don't do resolutions because I don't set myself up to fail. But I will this time, because I think I'll do them all. Except possibly the last.

I. I will start building my wall. When the Sage has chosen the bricks at last, I will make a start. In fact, I'll have a friendly chat on the subject today.

2. I will take clarinet lessons again. The other day, I was listening to a Mozart trio and knew that, ten years ago, I could play that really well and now I could not attempt it. I didn't realise, although my teacher told me, that actually I became pretty good, especially if I was playing jazz or blues and Mozart. I also fancy playing the tenor saxophone (I can play Ro's alto sax, but it's heavy on my neck, whereas you can rest the tenor on your hip), but first things first.

3. I will carry on with broadening my musical range. I started last summer when I persuaded Ro to let me have some of the stuff he listens to - excitingly, my iTunes list now contains categories such as 'Alternative and Punk' and 'Electronic', which makes a good addition to the usual 'Classical' and 'Jazz'. Tom Lehrer is categorised as 'Folk', which would probably piss him off mightily.
I really will get to the Aldeburgh Festival this year. I've missed the last few years as I have to go on my own. The people I sometimes go to concerts with prefer more accessible music than is sometimes on offer at the Festival. I will go to hear a couple of pieces that I don't know at all (see 3) and may not like. I often find that music, of whatever type, that is hard to listen to at first is, in the end, the most worth getting to know.

4. I will (all being well) continue to be frivolous. People like me when I'm happy. I have noticed (and I'm sure it's the same for you too) that my mood affects my family. If I'm cheerful, it lightens them too.

5. This is more of a wish than a resolution... I'll get to London more. Again, it'll have to be on my own - unless I'm meeting my sister or daughter which is always a delight, of course. But I get more done on my own, I go to museums, exhibitions, and explore unknown streets. I love to walk in cities, it's the only way to get to know them. One is never lost for too long, there's always a clue to your whereabouts.

pictures!

Friend of Gustav was shocked but unhurt.

He had thrown himself facedown to the ground to protect his hibernating little chums

The Sage and Ro measured the trunk. 48 foot long.

We reckon the tree was at least 75 years old. Probably, Pa and Ma (my in-laws) planted it when they first moved here - they bought the house in 1928 and moved in about a year later while work was still being done.



Spare tiles are kept outside so they have weathered and you'd hardly know which are the replacements. It's a temporary repair but it's weatherproof for now.

If you know of a better 'ole...

... go to it. A picture of the Sage!!(!)

Perishing phone line

So, where was I? Right here, but without a telephone or internet. The photos* tell it all, really, so if you prefer, you can just Marvel and Wonder at the narrow escape my family had – any closer and they would have had to move in with me and realise the more interesting aspects of Living With Z. Al knows all about it of course; many years ago he took the photo of Mum’s kitchen all round New Zealand to remind him of home (get it at the right angle and all you can see is chaos) but his wife and children only get hints of my version of home comforts.

I had just sat down to tell you about Bananaman, when I became aware that the wind had strengthened and there was, suddenly, a gale blowing outside. Then I heard a ‘thwumph’. It was not a loud noise, but it was wrong. I jumped up, calling to the Sage that something had blown down and grabbed a coat and a torch.

The gap was the first thing I noticed. The absence of tree. The pine tree outside Al and Dilly’s bungalow was missing. Instead, there was a large hole in the ground and a large tree on its side in their garden. The sound I heard must have been the roots tearing themselves out of the ground and the swish of the fall. There was no crash. It touched and broke the corner tiles of the bungalow and tore off the soffit board. It landed on sticking-out branch stumps, having had its fall broken at the last by the garden roller. Because of these stumps, it is balanced above, rather than on, the row of flower tubs on the patio. The light on the corner of the bungalow was still alight.

I went indoors to tell Dilly and stayed with the children while she went to look – by this time, the rain had stopped and the wind had died down. I explained to Squiffany what had happened and we went to look out of the window. “Tree, huge, in garden. Leaves, tree, HUGE. Dark. Wet.” she said, accurately.

Our good and useful friend Jamie came round the next morning with his chainsaw and we spent the best part of three hours cutting up the tree (a good section of trunk has been left in one piece and will, in due course, be Useful Timber for floorboards or whatever. No resin at all came out of the trunk so the logs will, when dried out for a year or two, go in the woodburner.

However, we couldn't do anything about the phone line.. Theirs was broken and ours didn’t work. It being a Bank Holiday weekend and a stormy one too, it took until today for an engineer to come round. I did pop down to the local internet café on Tuesday (one computer in the back room of the computer shop, with the chair too low and the monitor too high) to check emails, but I couldn’t blog from there, it didn’t feel right.

I’ll tell you about Bananaman another time.

*whenever Blogger lets me upload them.

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.