Z muses

A friend of mine has a grandson, who is now about 12 years old. She has adored him from the start. Her son and his wife live quite close to her and, from the start, she looked after him regularly while his mother worked part-time.

Three or four years after he was born, his parents announced that they were expecting a second baby. My friend was a bit worried. "I love Matthew so much," she confided, "that I'm afraid I might not be able to love another one like I do him." We all tried to reassure her that love isn't limited and that it grows to fill the space available - and, of course, that was just what happened. She dearly loves both boys and is very much loved by her family in return.

My feelings, when I've been told another grandchild is on the way, are different. I feel that the more I love, the more my capacity to love increases. Additionally, the strong feelings I have for this unborn baby hasn't diminished my affection for Squiffany and Pugsley in the least.

You'll probably be thinking 'of course'. And yes, I agree. I am stating the obvious - but I'm only having a little emotional moment. We're all finding this waiting a bit hard to bear. I'm resisting the temptation to phone Weeza every day - spoke to her on Saturday and she emailed last night - she's doing some work for her father and she needed me to send her some information - but it's becoming unusually hard not to fuss. I don't fuss. I control my inclination to gush (look, you don't know what I'd be like if I let go) and it would be disconcerting for her if I changed now.

Um. There's no point at all to this post really. I'd delete it, but it's too late. We're expecting a power cut any time, so I've been publishing it as I've gone along, so feed readers will show it up anyway. They are having to check the whole system following the transformer explosion the Friday before last.

Do you know, I've got two meetings today? It's supposed to be the bloody holidays.

Hm. No, that's it. I'm too distracted and the electricity will go off any moment - they said 8.30 and it's already after 9. Forget I said anything at all, I'm talking nonsense.

Ro and Z become Inverted Snobs

Last night, we were awfully cheered to be ushered into the nearest car park and not to have to tramp across a muddy field to the concert hall. I picked up some tickets for next week for Al and Dilly (really quite surprised at their choice) and a programme - the programme for a whole month of concerts is only £4. A bargain indeed. I have a collection going back many years.

We went and chose our food and found a table with a couple of spaces on it. An elderly man and woman were in the end places, she in a wheelchair, and a young man next to each of them. The two younger men politely cleared a tray away so that I could put down ours. They stacked the crocks from their own tray onto it as I put our food etc on the table. "Would you like to put them on my tray?" I suggested. The elder young man did so, but didn't let go, ready to put them all in front of him. "I'll put them on the bar" I offered. "Thats all right, we'll clear them when we leave." I looked at his face. He was startlingly good-looking. Stunning. So was his brother. "I'm already standing up, it's no trouble" I said cheerfully. He demurred again. Look, no assertiveness with a woman old enough to be your mother, however gorgeous you are. "thank you, but I'm as polite as you are," I insisted and took the trays over to the bar. Actually, if he was as polite as he wanted to look, he'd have stood up and taken them himself; not that I wanted him to but that would be what I'd expect if I were his mother.

Ro and I, whilst keeping up a conversation between ourselves, eavesdropped between the boys (early 20s) and their grandparents. Frightfully public school, they were. Impossibly handsome (as I might have overstated already), very suntanned, elegantly tousled hair - naturally so, not styled, fine teeth, white but not whitened, very well-spoken without being plummy-mouthed, come on, go into the City of London or a major auction house and you will find them by the dozen. The subject of the conversation was cricket; having discussed the score (they didn't know the most recent any more than I do, and apparently rain had stopped play early) they suggested to Grandma and Grandpa that they watch the two of them play in a tournament next week. "I lost my Captain's cap today" said Elder Toff. "Overboard?" asked his sibling. "Yes, pretty blustery out there."

Later, "Next time I visit, I must bring you some vegetables out of my garden, Grandma" said ET. "Some lovely lettuces." He also has a pumpkin plant that has rampaged over the garden. Lots of flowers but no fruit yet. "How many pumpkins do you get from a plant?" asked YT. "Well, there are two flowers at every leaf joint." "Will each flower grow into a pumpkin?" "That's how it works, the fruit grows from the flower" - with good-humoured patronage. I longed to ask if the flowers were male or female. I'd be very surprised if many of them grew into pumpkins, you just don't get dozens from each plant. "What'll you do with the surplus, sell them?" asked YT. "Oh no, I'll give them away. Give them to poor people."

Ro and I sucked our cheeks hard (each our own, stoppit, ew) not laughing.

Once seated in the concert hall, the people behind had to stand to let latecomers past. They apologised. "No, there's plenty of room, isn't it a joy?" said the overenthusiastic patrician lady behind me. In front, latecomers were barging past without giving anyone time to stand up.

I must tell you about the art installation, but for today I have delighted you long enough.

Z records another means by which she can be Laughed At

Tonight, Ro and I are paying the first visit of the month to the Snape Proms. I am looking forward to it. Mozart, Bruch and Brahms are on the programme (their music not the dead composers in skeletal form).

I stood wondering what to have for lunch. Nothing in the fridge quite did it, nor in the cupboard. I opened the little freezer on top of the fridge. It contains a bag of ice, a wine chiller and a tub of ice cream which the Sage bought. Its message led me to pour some wine, but didn't inspire me. Then Ro came down the back stairs, carrying an empty cereal bowl.

"We're going to Snape tonight - shall we have supper there?" He thought that was a good idea, but added sniffingly that he thinks he's developing a cold. "Chilli omelette!" I declared. "Yes please" he replied. I went down to the greenhouse and tasted Hungarian Hot Wax, Jalapeño and Georgia Flame. Unable to decide, I picked them and chopped an onion and a tomato and chucked in all three peppers. He had 4 bantam eggs (they are small) and I had 3 and we shared the hot filling. I breathe freely. I trust he does.

I bought some new phones, weeks ago, and couldn't be arsed to read the instructions and set them up. I mean, really. I finally did it today though - well, one of them. The rest of them are still charging. The recorded voice on the answerphone was awful. Really bad vowels. I had to resort to doing a message myself. It's so embarrassing, to hear your own voice. The first time, I could hear myself breathing, so I did it again. Still makes me cringe. Posh little girl, surely I have a deeper voice than that? 'this is The Sage and Z's answerphone, you're welcome to leave a message' or something like that is what I've said. I hate long messages. Once I rang someone from a telephone box and my money ran out before the message ended. I haven't left our names before, but now we're internationally known via this blog and his website (and there's a sale coming up) ... I still couldn't turn it into a business message but oh hell, there's no privacy anyway.

The phone rang while I was cooking the omelettes. Ro was horrified. "There's no choice of ringtones" I explained. He disagreed. I've read the bloody book, I don't think there is. He's welcome to deal with it. I have enough on my plate, teaching the Sage how to use a new phone.

So you've never thought of it

But it's a good evaluation of how supple you are if you're past the age of 40 or so - below that, you should be able to do it unless you have a mobility problem; especially if you are taller than I, which most people are. I thought, a few months ago, that my kicking the light switch days were over. They aren't. Even if you think I'm peculiar, which had occurred to me (or Special - in a SEN sense, Dan?), I'm sure you can appreciate how pleased I am?

There is time for blogging at the weekend. Another post follows; almost as brief I hope.

Just wondering

Just out of interest, do the rest of you switch on lights with your foot? I mean press a light switch on the wall 4 foot-something high.

It's just that I often used to, haven't been able to for a few years and now am within an instant's control of doing so again. But it's just occurred to me that maybe it's a bit peculiar - or does everyone do it? It is what I'm using as a yardstick of my own agility now, though.

Weeza is fine, baby still tucked up safe.

Later I've just tried again and I can switch on the light easily. I can touch the wall 56 inches above the floor. Since I'm only 62 or so inches tall with an inside leg of 30 inches, this is damn good for an old girl. I don't care if it's odd to want to, it's enough to do it.

*goes to wash footmark off wall*

Z makes a Chappie Happy

Weeza rang me just before 7 - I'd decided, in the end, to wait until Phil was home just to make it plain that I wasn't fussing. I don't fuss but I can look as if I do. My family thinks I worry, when I really just look worried. Actually, I feel extremely emotional. But not uncontrollably so. I have realised that, however close you are and how much you love your son and his wife, it's different when your daughter is going to have a baby.

Still, be cool at all times. Relaxed. Supportive. Weeza has seen the midwife - the one she saw before, and liked, is on holiday for the next fortnight and the one who rang her the other day is a bit of a fusspot and if Weeza hadn't known her onions, she might have been made anxious. As it was, she explained the situation (she is Rhesus negative and has had injections) and later the midwife rang back to say she was right as she'd checked with the lab. Weeza was patient. Today's midwife was lovely and they got on fine. They have discussed Norwich's 10 day overdue guideline, and NICE's 14 day one, and come to an agreement. Weeza is very diplomatic. It was her job (she was not a diplomat).

Anyway, in other news...I cycled in to help in the shop this morning as Tim looks after his children in alternate weeks during the holidays. Al's Saturday staff are filling in but it's quite busy on a Friday. In the event, it kept raining so we had to rush out and bring in vulnerable stock, mostly flowers and peaches, and then take them out again. Additionally, there are a lot of orders to deliver on a Friday which need to be made up. I did them, which saved Al a job on a busy Friday afternoon. However, I had to meet the chap servicing the church boiler at the church to let him in - with remarkable foresight, I'd given him my mobile number (not knowing I'd be in the shop) to give me 20 minutes warning so I didn't have to wait all morning at the church. He rang at 10.40 and it was raining. Lovely Sage had already rung to say he'd pick me up, so we phoned and he was able to fit the bike in the van.

I made the boiler chappie happy. I told him I'd put the heating on for a few hours this morning. His face brightened. "That's really good news! The heating isn't normally on at this time of the year and the boiler do sweat." Last time I'd met him, he'd been a bit patronising, but he was all good cheer and helpfulness - I was glad that I'd set the timer. It made his job easier, so he'd passed the goodwill on; not that he had been awkward before, I'm not criticising...oh blimey, let's just drop it, okay?

Apart from the tenterhooks, it's been good. Yesterday, I approached someone about taking over a chairmanship from me next year and she demurred, but only politely. I think she will agree. The boiler chappie, as I said, was very helpful. My friend who we had lunch with gave me some lovely trout, which I baked en papillote (not sure about relative numbers of ls and ts there) which her husband catches and brings home in greater numbers than they can eat - two were too much for us too and tomorrow I have scope with delicious leftovers.

Phil is pleased because he has successfully cycled up Mousehold Heath and then further uphill for a couple of miles, on consecutive days. He has worked out that his cycling uses 900 calories a day. Gosh, is all I can say there. Certainly, I will never be able to cycle up Mousehold Heath, even with a bike with more than 3 gears. Humility is good and I'm more than happy to embrace it.

The Sage has been entirely charming. He brought me wine, he scrubbed potatoes and now he has brought me a bowl of raspberries. The prospect of new as well as existing grandfatherhood is making him even more adorable.

Oh wait...

... oh wait, oh wait.

No sign of the baby yet.

Now overdue.

The Sage alters the Rules

Phil and Weeza came over last night - now they have a car of their own and they brought mine back. After dinner, they went next door to see Dilly and Al. I went outside a few minutes later and remarked how warm and humid it was. "Could you replace the bulb in the outside light before long, please?" I asked. "It's been months." I didn't exaggerate. It's been at least three months, could be up to six. I'd have done it myself, except the shade needs two of my little girly hands to open it and it's stiff, so I don't want to let go of the ladder. A proper man-size hand can open it easily.

I went to fetch a bulb to leave out and jog his memory. While I was fetching it, I heard the torch being wound up. I followed him outside, where he was fetching a ladder. "You don't have to do it now, it's dark," I said. "You'll be out tomorrow morning," he replied. "You can hold the ladder." "I'll be back mid-afternoon." "Yes, but I might forget and then you'll mention it again."

I have always gone by the idea that mentioning something once is a request or information. Twice is a reminder. Three times risks being looked upon as a nag. It seems that the goalposts have shifted. "Damn, the light just went" is allowed. However many months spent fumbling in the darkness later it's referred to again, that is nagging.

I held the ladder and thanked him for putting in the new bulb. He is a sensitive man, and he appreciated that.

There was a sensational lightning storm later, and then the rain came down in torrents.

This is, and completes them, exactly. The pictures are a bonus

I had said to Ro that he was welcome to stay, but he might prefer to go and visit a friend or a gallery or something. In the event, he enjoyed the company too, so he stayed with us. The weather was a bit iffy so we didn’t go out. We didn’t eat scones either, but we did, at various times, drink water, tea and beer and scoff Lovehearts. Furthermore, I was given Prizes! I was awfully pleased. I’m sure you want pictures.


We all had engagements to keep in the afternoon, so drank up and left, after much conversation, soon after 1.30. I suggested walking back to the flat, where we’d left our suitcase. The key decided not to turn for several minutes, so all our friend was allowed time for (which she was very good-natured about) was a quick hurry up and down the stairs before we left again. We strode along to the City Road, where we parted company.

The bus arrived at the stop as we did, so we actually arrived at the station in good time. Ro had been quite sure I was fussing more than I needed to; he was right but one has to allow time for hold ups, I think (one hopes, not of the hijacking variety).

This is not part of the thousand words

A couple of people are concerned about the number of typos they are, for understandable reasons, making at present. In a demonstration of solidarity, today I will correct no typos on any comments I make, unless they make inadvertant (whoops) rude works. Nor am I correcting this post. And mistakes are not deliberate, I make them constantlt.

Because we can all work out wat we mean, can't we?

The ears have it - well, Hadrian's did. We simply used ours

We had a most enjoyable evening, although the Hadrian exhibition was quite crowded. As it was a Members' evening, everyone was looking properly and listening to the whole of their audio guides. Being frivolous, I hadn't hired one. Emperor Hadrian really was the image of Rory McGrath. Or, correctly speaking, the other way round. We were all quietly feeling our earlobes for an unexpected horizontal crease (I can't vouch for R McG's ears, I don't suppose the resemblance stretches that far).

It took 15 or 20 minutes to get in, because the first people had to get through the first room of course, and then when they were in the second room the next people - oh, you get it. There were two chaps in front of us; the younger one, who had spectacularly curly hair, closely cut at the sides but untrammelled on top, was quite lively. He kept nudging and touching his older companion and chattering excitedly. At one point, the nudging got too much and the other man twitched him away. he retreated in mock alarm and Older Chap stuck out the tip of his tongue.

A fine and delightful evening and Ro and I have the same taste in overheard snippets of conversation, so we sniggered together at intervals. Dinner was so good I ate most of mine, and Ro finished anything I couldn't. He was kind enough to say that the first amuse bouche, a creamy cabbage soup, tasted just like my soup, in a complimentary way, and added that I wouldn't add the cream, but he prefers, for everyday dining, the lighter alternatives I use.

The next morning, I was up early because I needed to send someone a text before he left for work. Then I went out for coffee and papers. I was overtaken, as I went along the road, by five cyclists and no cars and in the next road by eight cyclists and three cars. I also entertained myself by noting the dog poos. Three, all laid by small dogs and one, although it was barely 7.30, already trodden in. Since it was right against the wall, I thought it would have been easier to miss than to hit. I decided to return by the canal path, the other side from where the boats are moored. There were about fifty steps down but only about twenty up. I'd never noticed that the road went down, but since the alternative was that the water went up, it must do. Several chaps had overnighted on the benches; five in fact. Two of them were asleep. It was lightly raining, but they were all sheltered by the trees. One was eating breakfast. I felt I should offer him my coffee, but then I'd have to go and buy coffee for everyone - yes you're right, it would have been polite. I am sorry.

I went out again an hour later to go and buy stuff. This time, there was a tiny green dog poo. It really was not much bigger than a raisin and right in the middle of the pavement. I reflected that, if the dog's owner couldn't be bothered to pick it up, it would have been the least possible gesture of courtesy to toe it into the road. It really was unusually green.

When we went out again, it was raining. I had an umbrella, but it was a small one. I remembered to look in the cupboard by the front door and, indeed, Weeza and Phil had left a couple more brollies there. One was very large and marked with the name of Weeza's one-time employers. I gave it to Ro and he held it over both of us.

I exchanged a text or two and settled in the nearest pub for our blogmeet.

Z travels heavy

I bought new telephones about three weeks ago. I was fed up that they don't really do the job too well. Cordless digital phones don't like our house, presumably because of the thick walls; although maybe because of the spiders and woodlouses inhabiting them. I bought one simple, unelectric corded phone, in case of power cuts - and in view of our 13-hour cut last Friday, that was sensible.

But that's the only one I've plugged in. There are instructions to be read and followed and programming to be done, and the inevitable disappointment when they don't work in most of the rooms of the house. I'm staving it off. What a little fool I am.

All went very well in London, and I had a lovely time, as did Ro. He thanked me for it when we arrived home, which was perfectly charming and not at all necessary; the company was altogether delighful. We came back with a laden suitcase, which has destroyed my light-travelling credentials (though the Boy can vouch for my usual behaviour. Oh wait, no, that implies he has met me more than once. Well, put it this way, he was surprised that I had no visible hand luggage and was slightly underdressed for November. I think it was November.) and I will have to be ludicrously casual in future to regain them. At that, I left a small rug behind because the case was full and will have to fetch it next time.

It is not impossible that we might have found tenants for the flat, but I'm not counting chickens. I could count eggs though - the Sage picked a great bowlful today. he was woken in the night by a great squawking - sadly, the fox caught one, who was sleeping out, but no more. He's made every effort to shut them all up tonight, for the beast will be back.

Z sets out on her Adventure

I've got a great big suitcase, which is nearly empty but won't be tomorrow as it'll be full of bed. Phil left their inflatable bed and the pump behind, but they'd rather like it back. They also left a rug and a blanket. I'm not sure if they left loo roll, so I'm taking that to be on the safe side.

I know it's hard for you all, darlings, but you'll hardly miss me at all, honestly. I'll be back tomorrow evening,

A slight hiccup when I couldn't find the spare Oyster card, but then it mysteriously turned up in the drawer where it was supposed to be and where I'd already looked thoroughly. I have also remembered to put in the keys to the flat.

Time to get ready. If you're at the British Museum this evening (early) or the Chancery restaurant in Cursitor Street (late), do say hello. You'll know me by my green eye and red handbag. No, they go very well together. And the chap with me is my son.

The Housewarming!

Oh, call me a safety first sort of girl. You'd be wrong, but call me it all the same. All the restaurants in London, and I've booked one I've been to already, because it was divine - really, for a girl from the provinces it was just about perfection - and convenient for where I'm spending the early part of the evening. Also, Ro hasn't been there and he'll like it too and I promised to take him for the final part of his birthday present - we like to make birthdays last.

We had a barbecue at Weeza and Phil's house. We are very full. It was yummy. Phil made burgers, and all oniony and fresh herby they were (meaty too). We took sausages and they did veggie kebabs and corn on the cob. We took the polite strawberries and they had a cheeky chocolate gâteau (do you know, Blogger is such a pedant that it underlines that as incorrectly spelt if you don't put in the accent).

The baby is due on Thursday. Weeza still feels very cheery and still, from behind, has a waist (although a bigger bum than usual). I assured her that within six months she will have lost all the weight and more. My weight used to drop below 8 stone, I told her truthfully. "You were the perfect size before" said Phil to her, smoothly.

All I have to find now are our train tickets. They are in one of two rooms. It shouldn't take long. *coughs loudly*

Power to all Z's friends

The town centre is still off. The butcher opposite Al is quite despondent about the meat in his fridge - it's a huge walk-in larder fridge and although the meat will still be quite all right, it may have risen above the temperature he's allowed to sell it at. They reckon the power will come on later this morning at about 11. Al will put his Saturday girl and boy on to shelf stacking and he'll serve the customers - the Youth of Today aren't too good at adding up, and he thinks the lack of a till will confuse them completely. The scales are operated by mains or battery, so they're all right.

A sudden and complete power failure really made life difficult for businesses. The banks had to close and Clays the printers came to a complete halt. The amount of electricity they use means an emergency generator would not cut the mustard. We called at the local garage - obviously, the petrol pumps were not operational, but Jonathan said that cars were stuck up on ramps and couldn't be got down. Not good for anyone who'd sent their car in for a service and wanted it back later in the day.

There is a wedding at the church today. Not knowing if there would be any electricity, I had to explain that there could be a problem with the music - an organ is powered by air, provided by a pump. One local church is in the middle of a field and has no electricity supply, so it is still hand-pumped, but nearly all church organs were converted to an electric pump years ago. The groom, a resourceful young man, arranged to get a generator and I said I'd meet him this morning and help set it up - I was glad to be able to ring him and say that the power was back on after all.

At least I defrosted the fridge.

I have a little list of things to do before I go away on Monday. One of them is to buy more credit for my phone, which is down to £2.30. I remember there was about £25-worth at the end of October last year and I haven't bought any since. Those of you who have met me will remember how reticent and taciturn I am, as that will demonstrate.

It's raining. It's a good think that I, bored, went out for a half-hour bike ride last night, because I probably won't be getting my healthful exercise today. You know how moths and things fly at the car in the dark in the summer? - they do the same at bikes. I had to blink constantly not to get eyefuls of insects.

Z is powerless

Have you missed me? Hm. I see. You hadn't noticed I was missing. Okay. Fine.
This is what happened. And a picture! Our electricity was off for 13 hours. Actually, that's pretty impressive work, considering the damage that was done. The roof of the building housing the transformer was blown off - they say it was found on the marshland some distance away, in which case it was jolly lucky it didn't go any other way and hit any part of the town.

The Sage needed my car today, so Weeza drove over and spent the morning here and afterwards we went off to inspect cars at various showrooms. She lived in London for 9 years and didn't need one there. She took the pram, to make sure it would fit in the boot of any vehicle she was interested in. Phil cycled to the station today. This was fine, I expect, as it's pretty much downhill all the way, except the last mile which is by the river on the flat. Of course, you'll spot the disadvantage in the home journey. He also has another 3 mile each way journey at the end of his train journey. He'll become remarkably fit and healthy, if he survives the next few weeks.

Z is supplanted in the Sage's Affections!!!! !

There is nothing to be done. My husband has transferred his loving attentions to Another.

Big Pinkie is an elderly cow. She has reached the age when she would not normally be bred or milked. Normally, such a cow would be sent to the abattoir. However, Jonathan loves her - as do all of us. He wants her to live out her days in peaceful retirement. So she's come to live with us.

Also living with us are quite a lot of pheasants. There have been several nests this year.

The Owl Trust chap visited again this morning. He found a lot of barn own pellets around the box, but no sign of youngsters having been reared. Maybe it's a young bird that has taken over the box and there will be a nest next year.

Welcome, Big Pinkie!!(!)

Martin's comment reminded me of the time when my father, as a very young man in the 1920s (he was born in 1910) was had up in front of the magistrate for speeding. The magistrate was his own father. He was found guilty, fined half a crown and the Major, before leaving at the end of the session, paid the fine himself.

He was a pretty hair-raising driver himself, was the Major. He thought that allowing more than half an hour to get from Lowestoft to Ipswich was very dull. He had a chauffeur, Eddie, but often used to drive himself. Eddie would have looked after the cars, driven my grandmother and driven them both to more formal engagements.

Anyhow. Back to here and now; or rather to yesterday evening. Squiffany prepared dinner last night, a splendid salad with lettuce, cucumber and tomatoes, celery, spring onions and peppers, hot-smoked salmon, cheddar and feta cheeses and ham. She then helped her mother with a rice salad. It's all very convivial, having dinner on the lawn together, and good for the children who enjoy an occasion being made of a meal. They always do eat properly - although Dilly has recently found that putting their lunchtime sandwiches into a lunchbox is more tempting than a plate on a hot day, when appetites are low. They both are adept at using a fork and spoon and Squiffany is reasonably skilled with a knife too. We mostly ignore the occasional help given by fingers.

After getting the food ready, there was a short time to wait until Al arrived home, so I sat down and replied to a couple of emails and got on with the minutes of a meeting. Ro's voice wafted through from the passageway. "Dad, a chicken's just walked in through the door. Oh. She's just done a poo." The chicken was picked up and taken outside again, and fed a morsel of cheese. I saw no sign of guano when I went through, so evidently the Sage had already disposed of the evidence.

Earlier in the day, I'd looked after Pugsley when his mother and sister were out. He'd had lunch but not a sleep. He was playing with some Lego. He bustled about the room looking purposeful while I read the papers. He didn't say a word, although he looked at me once in a while. His expression was pleasant but unsmiling. After some time, I started to address a few remarks to him. He didn't reply. I asked if I could eat the piece of cucumber left over from his lunch. He came over and took it, but didn't really want it. I put it back in the box, assuring him I'd leave it for him later.

I put him on his bed. He immediately curled up ready to go to sleep. He was still asleep an hour and a half later, when Dilly and Squiffany came home.

The Sage has just come in. Big Pinkie has come to live with us!

Didn't touch a drop, honest

Friends called round yesterday afternoon, for tea. I'm afraid I hadn't made scones, as the Sage only told me they were going to come ten minutes before they arrived; mind you, that wasn't his fault as they turned up half an hour earlier than we thought they were going to. After they left, I sped into town for my shopping before the shops shut. On the way back, as I turned into the road where I live, I saw Peter standing in his drive. He stepped forward and waved, so I stopped to speak to him.

He wanted to tell me that his wife had gone into hospital the day before - he has cared for her for some years through increasingly poor health, which has become harder in the last few years because of her gradually increasing dementia. At the weekend she found it very difficult to walk with her frame. She weighs a lot more than he does and, if she were to fall, he couldn't pick her up. In the end, he asked the doctor to call and she found a place in a local cottage for her temporarily while she is assessed and, I suppose, so is he.

In some ways, it must be a relief to him to have some respite, little though he'd ever wanted this to happen. We chatted of this and that for a while and then he asked, delicately, if the reason I'm always cycling around town nowadays is that I've been banned from driving?

Can you imagine the look on my face? Dear oh dear. My goodness. Dangerous driving? Drink driving? Z? Health and fitness and the saving of petrol, I assured him and added, with perfect truth, that I've never had so much as a point on my licence in my life.

I wonder, now, how many other people have made the same assumption.

Z listens

I vastly appreciate it when someone recommends music to me. It takes some confidence, I think, as music is so personal. A couple of years ago, it took much persuasion for Ro to agree to let me listen to some of his music. Finally, he asked why I was so insistent. I explained that he came with me to classical and jazz concerts, enjoyed and discussed them with me and was open-minded about what he listened to, even if it was not something that he would buy himself. I respected his taste and would like to repay his courtesy by being introduced to the music he liked. Finally, he got it and agreed, asking only that I listen to whole albums, not single tracks. Thus, I was introduced to Neutral Milk Hotel, Grandaddy, Lali Puna and, most appreciatively, The Mountain Goats, amongst others.

When someone lends me a CD, I always make a point of buying another album by the same band (or at least one of the bands on the CD) if I like it as I think that's only fair. I rarely if ever buy anything by someone particularly well-known (that is, so thoroughly in the charts that they even pierce my lack of interest), so they should have my financial support.

Since then, and I don't understand it at all, it's not that my taste has changed exactly, but it's expanded to a degree I can't explain. What I'd have dismissed as a noise, a few years ago, I now listen to with pleasure and interest. I gave up on popular music back in the early 1970s. In fact, it was the Osmonds that I blame. And Gary Bleeding Gl1tter. Suddenly, music was performed for or by children (Teenyboppers gave way to Weenyboppers, rather like CBBC and CBeebies now), or else it was T Rex or Slade, neither of which did it for me. I stopped listening for 33 years and reserved my affections for classical music. Later, I turned to jazz as well, but three decades of current music passed me by almost entirely, exceot for sometimes dips into John Peel for the man himself, didn't make head or tail of what he played. I have a depth and breadth of ignorance that would surprise you. This is fine with me, it means that I have heard of hardly anyone and come to it with a genuinely open mind, and I don't even know enough to be embarrassed by what I don't know.

Several of you have kindly suggested albums or artists I should try, and what I've written so far is a preamble to my thanks to Mike (Troubled Diva, that is - or do you want a link?). I have become a bit obsessed with Shearwater's album, Rook, which he suggested I try, a couple of weeks ago and which, of course, I promptly bought. In the way of good music, it took me a few listens to thoroughly like it - sometimes, what I like to start with can grate after the fourth time of playing ( a mark of my tentative taste) - but now I play it most days. Jonathan Meiburg has the most stunningly assured counter tenor voice and the band are excellent instrumentalists.

I was playing it when I started to write, but now I've moved on to the Old 97's. I like contrast. It'll be some Britten next (Benjy Brit, as the eponymous high school is called in the town of his birth).

Oh and, listening again, I forgot to mention how beautifully he phrases the lyrics. Commas and all, although not intrusively.

Coo, that funny rained*

I've been toddling around gently this morning, having been kept awake for a long time in the night by a rather splendid storm. Ro and I watched the weather forecast at 11.30 last night and the midnight forecast picture was heavy rain over most of the country, with East Angular in the thick of it. We peered out at the sky. "So, where is it?" wondered Ro. It was still dry an hour later when I went to bed, and an hour after that when I went to sleep. An hour later, however, it was quite spectactliar. I trotted downstairs to make sure rain wasn't pouring down the walls (this sort of thing can happen in an old house) and unplugged the computer while I was there.

All is calm, all is bright this morning. Tilly is gently snoring on the sofa next to me. I am hungry, being too lazy to go and find any breakfast - the French plums and greengages are delicious at present. I have a bowl next to me that contained cherries last night, but I scoffed the lot. Tut.

Ro and I debated the advisability of paying up front, at a discount, for a year's DVD hire. "It means I'd have to stay living here for another year if I wanted to watch the films," he said. "After all, you'd take weeks to get around to watching one, it isn't worth it just for you". It seems that his mind's been dwelling on this living at home thing. It's hardly a time to buy, with the prospect of house prices dropping, but otherwise he has the choice between renting and saving and he likes to watch his bank balance going up.

*When I was a child and moved to Lowestoft, I found it very odd that 'funny' was used to give emphasis - "Do that hurt?" "That funny hurt". I haven't heard it for a while though, I wonder if it quietly died out?

Z lazes and does as she is used to

I'm on holiday this week, I've decided. Other than the five days I spent in Madrid in April, I haven't made any plans to go away this year and so I shall holiday at home for a few days. I took breakfast - plain yoghurt, a banana, a nectarine and some apple juice - onto the lawn with the papers and I only came in a while ago because the phone was ringing.

The phone rings only six times before the answerphone cuts in, so I ran. I ran yesterday too - just down the aisle of the church, because I was both playing the clarinet and making the coffee (this was my own fault because I cocked up the rota) and I needed to get into the kitchen before a queue of coffee-seekers formed. A twenty-yard run may sound unimpressive, but it's more than I've been able to manage for a year. It isn't just that it hurts, but I can't physically do it as, by the second step, I'm lurching so awkwardly that it's quicker to walk. So I'm very cheered by this improvement. I know it doesn't mean anything; that is, it's not going to get spontaneously 'better'. But, while I like walking in the 'going for a walk' sense, I've always run when I'm on my way somewhere. Plodding down the garden to pick some vegetables is boring. So I feel splendidly normal, in an ordinary sense, at present. I think I'll go and start on the Times crossword to celebrate.

Carless an' grassier

We went out for lunch today; Al and Dilly's birthday treat for Ro, in which they kindly included the rest of us. I ate no breakfast in preparation and tucked into a full plateful, only passing on a roast potato to the Sage and a piece of Yorkshire pudding to Ro. It was very hot. We sat outside in the shade of big parasols, and when we arrived home some of us went to sleep. A couple of pints of Adnams aided my own happy slumber.

I've lent my car to Weeza. They're intending to buy one, but to get about and look they really need a car in the first place. I checked my diary and I don't need it until Thursday week, as long as the Sage gives Ro and me a lift to and from the station for our London visit. I must book somewhere for dinner for Monday week. Being a canny sort of a girl, my daughter always books among the special offers (usually half price food) on Top Table. We've found some excellent restaurants that way.

I have hardly anything in my diary for the next week. I have no excuse at all for not catching up on paperwork, housework and gardening. On the other hand, I don't need an excuse for doing nothing, except relaxing on the lawn with a long, cool drink and a book. If the weather remains hot, that's what I'll be doing, mostly.

Z needs a little lie down

I feel a little queasy. I tasted everything, every entry in each class*. Some of them had to be tasted more than once, especially the cheese and onion quiches. By the time I got to the eighth, I'd rather forgotten which was which. The dozen or so chutneys was the same, and not so easy to eat by the spoonful. There were ten bread and butter puddings, two of them chocolate. Fortunately, there were only two entrants for the chocolate truffles but, as it was, I could hardly bring myself to taste the rows of pots of jellies and jams. The standard was really high though - fortunately, as I had to taste it whether it was nice or not. I had a helper, who fetched and carried and wrote down the winners, and she tasted her way round the table too. When it came to the elderflower cordial, she said she couldn't say anything about them, as one of them was hers. There were five and all were good - I decided on the two fourth prizewinners (well...) and the third and then said it was between the other two. I was tasting again when my phone rang. It was the Sage.

I can't remember whether I've mentioned our friend who has recently had a cochlear implant, but she found the whole thing a bit of an ordeal, not helped by having to be driven to Cambridge every week for weeks on end. But today, she telephoned and the Sage was so excited he had to tell me about it. For years we've had to email or phone a message service, where a clerk types out your message and it's printed out by the phone (I am hazy here, as I haven't actually seen it). Finally, she can hear well enough to have a telephone conversation.

After I put the phone down I had one last taste of the two yummiest cordials and made my decision. D didn't say anything for a while, but when we were tasting the truffles, she told me that I'd given her drink first prize.

After all the judging, we had lunch - yes, I know, how could we indeed? I had some green salad and a piece of bread to remove the jamminess from my mouth. Then we took a stroll round the whole show.

As I was gazing at the potatoes, I realised that I was standing next to a celebrity. Not JonnyB, nor Dave, not even Murph. It was 'im off The Archers. Neil Carter's real self, who lives in the village. His potatoes had won second prize.

*except the raw eggs

A Z come to judgment! yea, a Z!*

Well, I don't know. I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep for all of an hour, lay for another expecting to doze off again, spent yet another hour doing, by torchlight, the foolishly frippery puzzles on the back two pages of Times2 and then got up. I'm slightly disappointed as I will be busy later in the day and won't have time for a lovely little nap.

Yesterday evening was amusing, though. Dilly and Al had had one of Those Days, which started when the children both woke up and went along to their bedroom at 5.30. It took some time for threats of awful doom if they didn't go straight back to bed to work and the day went somewhat downhill after that. Al dropped a 3lb box of button mushrooms on the shop floor, a whole tray of raspberries, freshly delivered, was not fit for sale (he'd ordered 5, but he could have easily sold them all) and things were generally slightly out of kilter. Back at home, the children were fractious and Dilly was running late - though her day improved as they all went out with Weeza and did enjoyable things in the just north of Norwich Broadland sort of area. When she arrived home and I invited them all round to dinner, she was pleased.

The Sage went out to light the barbecue, I went to take washing off the line and put more on and at that moment a light rain started to fall. 'Won't last' we agreed, and I pegged out the washing, pleased that I'd rescued the dry stuff. The rain stopped. The Sage lit up. I took stuff out to the table. Rain started again. "That's all right, look at those broken clouds" the Sage assured me as he left to fetch Al home - Friday is his late opening night and he doesn't close until 7.

All was well when I started cooking and it was not until we were seated at the table in the garden that a fine but steady rain came down. We huddled under the parasol and giggled. Pugsley wanted to sing 'Happy Birthday' to Ro again - it wasn't his birthday and he wasn't there, but we obliged; well the females did. The Sage and Al raised a couple of eyebrows. The parasol proved it wasn't a parapluie by allowing a thin mist through. Dilly lent Squiffany her cardigan, which she draped over her head and shoulders. A gathered pool of water on my side of the parasol overflowed onto my chair and I squeaked. We observed how very English we must look, all doggedly eating our dinner in the rain - though we'd have got wetter as we ran for cover.

By the time we'd finished, the rain had cleared and some of us chatted and others frolicked.

Today, I am going to judge the Domestic (ie cooking) classes at Lovely Next Village's Gardening Club Show. I am prepared to enjoy breaking my diet for it, as of course I have to taste everything. This is what I will judge:-

33 Coffee Sandwich Cake, not iced
34 Plate of 6 Meringues
35 6 Chocolate Chip Cookies
36 Cheese and Onion Quiche
37 Loaf of White Bread
38 6 Chocolate Truffles
39 1 Jar of Jam
40 1 Jar of Jelly
41 1 Jar of Chutney
42 l Jar of Pickles
43 6 Eggs
44 1 bottle of Homemade Elderflower Cordial
45 Men’s Class Bread and Butter Pudding

Last year, there were four entries in the pickle class, which were all so different but all excellent, that I gave four first prizes. No one minded, it's that sort of village. There is no such thing as Not As Scheduled, each entry is judged on its taste first and foremost and such matters as size of baking dish is left to the entrant. The men's class is usually wonderful. Last year, it was lemon cake. It was hard to choose, especially between the first two, which were the best lemon cakes I'd ever tasted.
The eggs will be still in the shell and uncooked. I will crack one from each plate and inspect the contents, but not eat them.

* An pat on the back for the first to give me the next line.

Family bonding

Before I left for Norwich, I put some monkfish in to marinate in a hastily concocted mixture of lime juice, olive oil, ground cumin and turmeric, a mixture chosen almost at random but not quite. Weeza took little persuasion to come home for the evening and we called in at the supermarket at Riverside on the way home. To my surprise, I liked M0rr1son, maybe because I had taken a rare trip to Tesc0 the other day and not liked that at all; it was enormous and confusing with a poor layout. I was slightly less pleased when we left, as the traffic lights further on held up the traffic on the road so that there was never any room for cars leaving the car park to join the queue. I finagled my way in, in the end, with a ditzy blonde routine.

Dilly had made salads, so I just made a quick tomato salsa and we took plates and cutlery out, and glasses and wine of course, and the Sage cooked dinner. Ro didn't know his sister would be joining us so he was pleased. Later he went in to Yagnub to meet friends.

Today, it being Friday, his bosses will take him out to lunch. Yes, that's their Friday thing. They then all finish up the week's work, so may finish late or early, in which case they all play a computer game. Ro is happy in his place of work. He's going to spend the weekend with his sister and then they'll come back on Sunday and we're all going out for lunch.

Late last night, we spent a bit of time looking at websites - villages, small businesses etc. and Ro gave his professional opinion on them, which was highly entertaining. He was a bit scathing about those who quote relatively high prices and whose programming didn't meet his standards. One firm boasted 25 years' experience "Sure," he said "and it shows, a lot of that experience is 25 years old."

And so, after half an hour's cheerful carping, to bed.

Today, Weeza is having a day out with Dilly and the children. Splendid.

Happy Birthday, dear Ro-Ro

This week, I've had to catch up with looming deadlines, most of which involved things that people had rather thought I'd done weeks ago. For one of them, I visited the local printer. I had given them forewarning, ages ago, but not taken in the item for printing. "That time of the year again?" said John, jovially. "Rather imminently, I'm afraid," I apologised. "It's my fault for not coming in sooner, but now we're a bit close to the deadline." "You want it back yesterday, then" he said in his taking-it-in-his stride voice. Actually, by the end of next week will do, but I didn't mention that. They've just taken a proof copy to the shop and the Sage has given it to me (so useful, doing things locally, no special trips needed). I have a feeling I'll have the completed order back by the end of the week, so it'll look as if I was in time all along.

This morning's meeting was the Festival Committee. Yes, the festival was two weekends ago; this was the - well, post mortem is hardly the phrase. Debrief? Hm. Post-festival meeting, shall we say. I took notes of things to bear in mind next year and we've set the date of the next meeting in January 09.

Anyway, no matter about all that. The important matter of the day is that it's my little boy's birthday. Ro is 24 today. Happy Birthday, Ro!!(!)

The Sage learns how to argue, but still is wrong

Last night, or this morning, I was in bed soon after midnight and the Sage (having already had a little zizz) joined me, freshly bathed, soon after. A hug and kiss and I was ready to fall asleep, when he started a business discussion.

Now, a brief exchange of interesting news is one thing, but this was a quite big change of business policy with which I radically disagreed. I said so. He replied. We weren't quarrelling, you understand, but there was a need for a major discussion here.

"Darling, it's quarter past midnight and I was nearly asleep. I really don't want to talk about it now, you can't land something like that on me at this hour of the night". Fortunately, he agreed. However, he was not at all sleepy. It was after one o'clock, the last time I looked at the clock.

We discussed it again this morning. It was a splendid discussion, all respectful and forceful without any lack of respect for the other's view and a clear allowance of space for hearing one viewpoint before coming up with the other's.

He seems to have agreed with me. Good man. Maybe it was a good thing, explaining my tactics in an argument. We kept very focused and itemised all pros and cons - and then he realised I was right all along.

If he'd been, I'd have said so. I'd have said he was wonderful too. Actually, I might have said that at some time anyway.

The Lord don't like you as you ain't

There was a lack of cynicism in the 60s and early 70s. A fair bit of complacency of course, but also real optimism. Pat reminds me of all the falsies. Now we (well, some of us) have implants, veneers, injections and lifts, but then, towards the end of the decade, we (well, some of us) just cheerily added bits on. Padded bras if we were not quite well enough endowed, hairpieces if not all-out wigs, false eyelashes, the lot. They used to fall off sometimes, which struck everyone more as hilarious than embarrassing.

I remember when I worked at the library. Not quite the 60s in fact; I started there with a Saturday job in 1970. One girl came in with long, purple-painted nails one day. At some point in the morning, she issued a squeal. "I've shut my nail in someone's book!" A pale stump was left. She rushed to get the pack of new nails, stuck one on and started to paint it. Customers were still coming in and had to be served. We were all laughing so much we could hardly stand up.

Some women had so many artificial additions that it caused some anxiety once they were married. Their husbands had never seen them without full makeup on, so they had to choose between coming clean and showing their true unadorned selves or getting up early every morning, adding the eyelashes, the hair, doing the backcombing, putting on the face, all before he was awake.

I tried false eyelashes myself, once. I know, imagine how absurd I looked. I was only about 17. I remember the Sprout came round to pick us up (we were friends long before we looked upon each other with sentimental eyes) and he struggled manfully to mask his horror. I suspect I took them off again before we went out for dinner, as I don't remember making a complete idiot of myself all around town.

My mother and my sister had hairpieces. They both had short brown hair and they pinned the switch underneath their own at the crown and then backcombed to hide the join. It seemed to look fine then.

On the whole, except for the short-lived eyelash experiment, I didn't do any of this. I knew it wouldn't suit me. I was small and pale with long blonde hair which I either wore loose or twisted up into a knot. I didn't care much what I looked like though I was, simultaneously, very self-conscious. Certainly the black-eyed pale-lipped look wasn't me, but neither was the vivid and intense one. I was no hippy, thinking they were naive and unrealistic (I'm more tolerant now; I still think they were but I rather like that now). I remember when a girl of my age - about 14 - came up to me in the playground and intoned, passionately, "Make love not war 'cause love is lovely and war is ugly" - honestly, I'm not kidding, she said every word and she was all intense and starry-eyed - I gazed at her in bemusement.

Weeza's Freeza

Dave's comment on the last post reminds me of the time, about 40 years ago, when my sister attended a rather posh cookery school called W1nkf1eld Pl@ce. A girl's contact lens dropped in the cucumber soup that was being made for dinner. No amount of fishing around could find it, so each girl was instructed to suck the soup through her teeth. Her own teeth, that is - thank you, Gordie, for noting the ambiguity. There was no sign of the lens, however. This was in the days of hard lenses, of course.

I took my daughter (who has no car yet) down to the doctor's to register; she'd already made an appointment with the midwife for later in the day. Then we went food shopping and spend the rest of the day cooking (me) and putting things away and washing up (Weeza). I did lots of basic minced beef sauce, to be turned into Bolognese, chilli, whatever, coq au vin, a chicken casserole with peppers, onion and tomato, chicken, mushroom and sweetcorn soup and minestrone soup. Apart from some roast chicken which she can eat over the next day or two, it will all go into the freezer, to be hauled out in the next few weeks.

When we were at the surgery again waiting for her appointment, a cheerful doctor came out for her next patient. "Ooh, I can smell some lovely cooking going on! Where's that coming from?" "Er, that might be me. I've been cooking all afternoon." "Onions," she said, coming over to me and sniffing; "yes, it's you. It smells delicious." I didn't quite know where to put myself.

All is fine with Weeza and she still feels very well. I must say, the surgery is lovely. All the staff seem very cheerful and friendly, including the receptionist (!) and she's quite happy about everything.

Ro arrived home during the afternoon and went straight up for a hot bath. He had a good time. "How was Okkervil River?" I asked. "Really good," he assured me. "Have you come across Shearwater?" I enquired casually. "Oh yes, that's the singer from OR's band and someone else, isn't it? I've got one of their albums - Rook, it's called I think". "Can't catch you out on anything, can I?" Thanks, Mike, at least I asked a half-decent question for once. I'm immersing myself in Rook (as it were) and becoming increasingly hooked. A fabulous voice, although a couple of octaves higher than I had expected.

Another thing Ro has mentioned were the snacks. Not those he bought, but those passed around the camp fire. "The advantage of pitching your tent next to older people, you know, in their 30s and 40s." He met a number of friends his own age too, including one of the Bens he was at school with - there were 3 Bens he used to bring home, with the result that the Sage used to call all his friends Ben. One of the 'older people' gave him a lift each way - he had posted the offer of a lift on a car-sharing website.

The other culinary fact was that people kept offering him cups of tea. "What is it with making tea?" he wondered. "I mean, I like tea, but I wouldn't bother with lugging around a camp stove and a kettle and a bottle of gas, just so I wouldn't have to go without tea for 3 days." "Was that your friends?" I asked, wondering if he's quiz me on my imperfect grammar. "Oh no, old people," he said, obviously not meaning those as old as I.

He's got a birthday coming up this week. He's aging too.

Z has an eye in the back of her head

Not tipsy at all any more, and after a brief nap I've been doing the Sage's typing because I'll be out all day tomorrow. However, I thought I'd take my contact lens out and I can't find it anywhere. I mean, it must be in my eye, but I've poked and prodded and I can't feel it. You wouldn't think that this would happen and I'd be completely unaware of it, but I don't feel as if I've got a foreign body in the wrong place either. My fault for going to sleep without taking it out, but I usually get away with it. I hope it sorts itself out soon as I'll have a sore eye tomorrow otherwise.

It's raining again. It was fine this afternoon - in fact, we had a cheery barbecue in the garden. Good to see Phil's parents, we don't get together very often.

Ooh, it's tipping down. Poor old Ro.

Z is smashed

Really. It is taking the last of my concentration to type this. I will sit down and read the paper, probably laughing helplessly at all the government ballsups as if they don't affect me at all, and i'll return later.

Not bad though. Just one capital missing, as long as you're not fussy about the odd hyphen.

The Shearwater singer sings falsetto, you know. Very well, but it's still falsetto. At what stage do you call it counter-tenor? Hm.

It's raining

The friend I mentioned the other day came here after all. I was looking after Squiffany and Pugsley at the time as their mother had gone to sort out details of the teaching post she's taking up in September (a year's part-time contract). The children went to meet Chris, who said hello. Squiffany gazed at him solemnly, sizing him up, and then she waved and smiled and returned his greeting. Later, they both danced for him, all around the dining room table, so I think he make a good impression.

Today, is Weeza's moving day. Her in-laws are helping them move and they will all arrive with a vanload of furniture and boxes sometime during the early afternoon. The bigger items of furniture are arriving next weekend, when Phil will move too - he has one more week's notice to serve out at his current job. Weeza was supposed to start maternity leave on Friday but, having done a handover to her replacement on Tuesday, she decided to call it a day. She'd finished everything she was supposed to do and she'd had enough, with only three weeks to go before her due date. They've been doing all the Londoners' things for the last time in the last couple of weeks. There'll be a lot to miss, but also a good many things they won't miss at all. I suspect that public transport in the suburbs will be hard to adjust to. In the countryside, of course, it's pretty well ignored. It's clearly intended for pensioners and students, and the council think that they don't much matter, so it's not necessary to make it convenient and comfortable, let alone reasonably priced for the non-frequent user.

Although I'd have liked to spend a day at the festival, I'm not hardy enough nowadays for camping in the rain. The third heavy shower in the last couple of hours has started. Fortunately, Ro was well equipped with waterproofs, but I suspect he won't venture out of his tent for a while this morning. I don't imagine he'll find it easy to sleep in late in this weather - or is it just that I couldn't?

I'm on duty at the new house this morning, awaiting deliveries. Having woken up early, four hours ago and not slept since, I've cleaned the kitchen beautifully, but now must get ready to go. Have a good Saturday, one and all.

Z suddenly comes over nostalgic, thanks to Martin

Martin was rhapsodising on the moon* today and it reminded me of my visit to the Taj Mahal - and then that reminded me of my honeymoon. Sadly, I'm not going to get all smoochy and sentimental on you. It's made me wonder just how we ever got through that first aeroplane flight.

The Sage isn't the best traveller. It all started when he and his brother were coming back across the North Sea on a car ferry, many years ago (I suspect it was back in the 50s, when I was a mere slip of a child). There was a storm, the captain of the English ferry refused to sail, the Dutch captain said "Pfft" and sailed - and the Sage and his brother went off for a full English**. They were dreadfully seasick on the way back, the ship nearly sank and the Sage has not travelled without anxiety ever since.

So, 1973. The Sage went to the doctor for some strong (and sedative) anti-sickness pills, for use on the journey from Heathrow to Mahé***.

We flew to Italy and stopped to pick up dinner and some more passengers. I tucked into the food, the Sage dozed. As we flew over North Africa, I was dreadfully excited. There was the Nile!!(!) I could see it, though I could make out nothing else, snaking across the landscape (I'd always rather be by the window than in the sensible aisle seat). I poked the Sage. "Look, look, there's the Nile!" He grunted and went back to sleep...

I stuck with him. I'm a saint. He really is a bad traveller though, I can't deny that.

Oh, by the way, we refuelled at Addis Ababa and we all got out and stretched our legs on the runway; the only time I've set foot in mainland Africa. There was a crashed plane at the end of the runway. It had been there a few weeks, apparently, although it wasn't a rare occurrence.

We stopped again in South Africa to pick up more passengers. I'll never forget**** landing on Mahé. The airport had been built by the shore, out into the water - I'm a gung-ho traveller and it didn't strike me that it wouldn't require much overshoot or cross-wind to land in the sea (I'm sure it's less intimidating now). When we got out, it was instant tropical island. It was fabulous. Steamy, humid, heat with the tang of the sea. No, it'll be one of the last memories to go.



*for pedants - on the subject of the moon

**that means a cooked breakfast, other-than-British darlings

***Main island of the Seychelles

****well, there's always Alzheimer's. Perhaps I shouldn't say that I'll never forget anything.

Z canoodles with a Man!!(!)

I went to the Sage and gave him a lingering kiss. "Thank you!" he said. "You don't say thank you for a snog," I reminded him. "Ah" he remembered, "Ro is away." "Yup. That's why I'm snogging you in the kitchen" I explained.

Ro has gone to the latitude festival. That means it'll probably rain most of the weekend. I had a chat with him last night. "You will go and watch Okkervil River, won't you?" I reminded him (that's them, right next to Blondie on the right side of the line up page - on the link, darlings, not this page. "Yes, I will, if I can" he replied patiently. "If there's a signing tent, you've got to queue up," I insisted. "Er" he said. "No, you must. Tell them your mother is a fan. They'll be mortified, but it'll be worth it to see their faces."

The Aga is to be serviced tomorrow, so we'll turn it off tonight. "Will you be in?" asked the Sage. I said I would. Noon is about the time he'll be going to see our Antiques Roadshow chum, who will be on his way back to Stansted. They've been filming this week at Oxburgh Hall. Chris, our chum, was a bit put out today. Someone brought in a rather impressive L'toft egg cup which is pretty valuable, but he didn't know that. He thought it was Caughley (another factory of the same period, but not as good) and so was very pleased to hear the news. What annoyed Chris, however, was that he was unwilling to be filmed. Apparently, he's an antique dealer and he'd bought the egg cup for £1 from someone living in the same village. Since he must have known it was worth considerably more, he came along to the Roadshow for a free valuation without the trade-off of being filmed if it was interesting. Anyway, I'm sorry to miss seeing Chris, who is a good chum, but it'll save him three quarters of an hour's driving if the Sage goes and meets him in a village by the main road rather than making him call here - though, being a polite and friendly sort of chappie, he would do that for the pleasure of seeing one or both of us. He lives several hundred miles away, so we don't meet often.

Weighing pigs

Regarding the total titsup that's happening this year about the school SATs - the thing that's upsetting me is not the complete hash that has been made of the marking, it's that the children concerned are being made to think that it matters to them. It absolutely doesn't. It's the league tables that it affects; the ranking of the school, for those who think that sort of thing matters (some parents, Ofsted, headteachers etc). It should not matter one brass farthing to the children themselves.

When SATs came to these shores, they were portrayed as being a measuring tool. The idea was that they would show the level each child was at by asking them questions at a rate that gradually became more difficult, but helped to show what they could do. It was said that most exams tested what a child didn't know, but SATs showed what (s)he did. But before long, they became more and more important, and this anxiety of the schools (and the parents) was transmitted to the child. Now, in the spring, primary schools coach to pass the SATs, not to further the education of the child. This is absolutely not what was intended at the start.

My younger son was in the guinea pig year, those born in 1983/84. They were the first to take the Key Stage 1 tests and the Key Stage 3 tests. They were also the first to take the AS levels in the lower sixth form, followed by A2s in the upper 6th. This means he was tested in year 2, year 6, year 9, year 11, year 12 and year 13. Official government tests, that is, national ones, not the usual end of term or year exams that we were used to. And all children are subjected to that now - though now, of course, the poor little creatures get Baseline Assessment (if that's what it's still called, I've been out of primary education for a couple of years) within the first few weeks of term, so that the Contextual Value Added scores can be taken into account at every stage. I'm not against testing, exams, and certainly not against rigour and high expectations, but the reliance on strictly regimented data at the top level is working against good education, not in favour of it, and is causing increasing anxiety for teachers and pupils.

In my naivety, I wasn't agin SATs when they started. I thought they would be useful. It was worrying, how many seven-year-olds couldn't read or write (not in our village school) and I thought it would help to target where improvement was most needed so that appropriate help could be given. But all that has happened is that children's lives have been made a misery. Never have they suffered such stress. It's a tribute to their resilience that, in spite of this, and the breakdown of family life and the pressure and anxiety of life, particularly in the cities, so many children still cope as well as they do.

And in the most recent instructions for Ofsted inspectors, it's the statistics that matter above all else. Look at the CVA scores, the SATs, the KS4 results, the RAISEonline data, the PANDA scores - oh no, scrub that last, that's been superseded. If we don't have a new acronym every couple of years, what are the mouse-pushers at the DfES to do with their time?

Curiouser and curiouser

Before I put in my contact lens today, I could read the screen at either distance equally well. I've tried with one eye, the other eye and both. Isn't that splendid? My brain simply adjusts patiently and makes the best of things. And, after experimentation with a lens in (which I wear in my right eye), I find that my left eye does the reading, but the right eye helps out with focus as I get further away and gradually takes over as necessary. I still can't tell as it's happening though, it's all quite automatic.

I know that this would not work for me with glasses. Once, I took my glasses out of my bag to put them on to drive home after dinner with friends. As I put them on, my sight blurred and I thought I was getting a migraine. One of the lenses had dropped out into my bag - fortunately, I had a knife with a very small screwdriver and I was able to repair it, but I simply couldn't see normally with one lens of my glasses.

My in-laws had an elderly live-in housekeeper - she'd originally come as a general help, and nursemaid to the year-old Sprout and she stayed on for the best part of 50 years before retiring on the death of Ma. She had lost the sight in one eye, by the time I knew her, from a cataract. In those days you had to wait until it was thick and opaque before it could be operated on. By the time Hilda reached that level of sight loss, she said that she had got used to it and chose not to have an operation. She had one lens of her glasses obscured and managed with one eye. However, years later, when she was about 70, I suppose, she suffered a detached retina and lost the sight in her good eye. She took it in her stride, had the cataract removed from the other eye and simply switched useful eyes. I have no idea how she managed to do that, but she never even mentioned any problems.

Z spreads a little happiness

Yes, well, you don't get three posts every day. Just lucky St Swithin's day, I suppose. It hasn't rained, by the way, which I think means nothing at all. It's if it rains that it means 40 days of rain. Not that this happens, literally.

Um. Oh, I remember. I was leaning forward a bit on one elbow, reading blogs and I shut my left eye and the right was all blurred, though when I shut it and opened the left again, it was fine. Then I sat upright and put out my arm, so that I was reading the screen at the correct arm's length distance, and the left eye was blurry and the right eye was clear. I slowly moved in, with both eyes open, and I couldn't tell at which point the left eye took over the reading. Isn't that interesting?

Oh. Well, I'm interested.

Anyway, I spread good cheer all round the village this afternoon. There were 7 prizes for the hanging basket and tub (of flowers/vegetables, not bath tubs) competitions and another 6 lucky draws (no not lucky drawers) for the voting slips. One of them was my grandchildren's (I didn't draw them, I got a Respected Local Personage to come round) but I thought they'd prefer a toy and some beads to the £15 voucher for the local haberdashery.

Afterwards, I biked round distributing prizes. I made a monumental cock-up at one point when I put a £20 voucher (aren't local businesses kind?) for the lovely local place to eat through the door of the neighbour of the person it was intended for. I had to go to a friend's house (I hadn't taken my bag so had no pen or paper) to write explanatory notes for both. What a little plonker I am. When I got back to the houses, Donna was in, so I was able to explain and advise her to await the return of the prize from her neighbour.

Everyone was happy of course and a couple of prizes, it turned out, were going to relations of village people who live Elsewhere, so I was able to pass all of them on. I sent in a lovely spreadsheet with all the voting figures, added up and averaged (as some people had occasionally got missed off the voting by someone who hadn't got round all the village), and the names of the winners, to the editor of the village magazine, and all I have to do now is give the entrance money to the treasurer.

Right. No more tonight. I'm going to bed. Goodnight.

Z wants to build a Power Base!!(!) (no she doesn't)

A few evenings ago I received a slightly unfortunately phrased email, which I didn't reply to as I suspected that the writer didn't quite mean to say what she said. The next day I had an apology. She didn't mean to say that she thought I (and a few others) were trying to build an exclusive group etc, it's others who think that.

Didn't quite cut the mustard as apologies go, really. It raised more questions than it answered and now I'm wondering who on earth doesn't think I'm perfect just as I am.

So I left it another day, as I was a bit tired and it was approaching midnight, and I wrote back the next morning and explained rather more fully the nature of this proposed group and that in fact the wish is not to keep people out but to get more in - those who don't join in already because the more formal committee can put people off contributing. I assured her that no apology was needed, I hadn't taken offence, da-di-da, you know - which is true; frankly I don't care. I can be offended, but you have to put a degree of effort into it.

Anyway, then I got another long email of explanation, and oh Lord, it's fine, really. I'm just glad it isn't my bother.

Emailing is just too easy, you know. I said much the same thing when I was exchanging emails with that lady who got worked up because I decided not to join her Latin class - you will dash off an emailed note saying things you would not say if you had typed and printed or hand-written it. Emailing doesn't feel like writing a letter, but it is - and to make matters worse, its recipient can snap back and exacerbate the whole thing. You can get a bit carried away with the cleverness of your prose, or your feelings of irritation or indignation can make you give a snappy answer, because emailing is an odd sort of communication, between writing and speaking. If you say something, your tone of voice or the reaction of the person you're speaking to colours and can smooth the message you're giving.

It's not the first time I've had such an experience from that particular person, and if she does it to me she will have to others. She explains and tries to put things right afterwards, but her initial reaction is often inappropriately strong and I wish she could realise that and not press the send button until she's thought about it a bit.

The Sage speaks to the Police!!(!)

The telephone rang at ten past eight. I had only just got up so I left it to the Sage, who had been up for ages, to answer. When I came downstairs, he was on the phone again, to a neighbour.

You remember that I told you, the other day, about a young bullock that got out into the lane and then broke into our field with the cows? Its owner came and fetched it back, but this time a whole lot - 14 or something - broke out and ended up in the road, so someone rang the police and they rang us to ask who the cattle belong to. The Sage told them, but said that the farmer won't be home at this time of day, so gave directions to the farm as well.

Then he rang Ermintrude, the neighbour, and they had an enjoyable grumble together.

The farmer is a very pleasant chap and everyone likes him personally, but this sort of thing happens regularly and he is very casual about it. A couple of years ago, his cows kept breaking down our fence to get in with our cows, which had more grass - they waded through the river, which was not fenced in as it's where they drink, and across the footpath. The fence has needed regular repairs ever since. These very young bullocks are fenced in, but they're like any gang of little boys and will get up to mischief and it needs a good fence to hold them. The farmer - shall we call him Bartleby? - won't give out his mobile phone number and says "that's for me to use, not you" so you can't tell him quickly when there's a problem.

Anyway, the Sage, being a sensible sort of fellow and not wanting the cattle to cause an accident, has been down to keep them safe in the lane until Bartleby arrived. They put them back in the field - but Bartleby hadn't brought a hammer or staples to mend the fence. So it's held together with baler twine for the time being.

Z bangs a Drum

A day at the high school, interviewing in the morning - we had a real difficulty in choosing between the top two candidates as they were so very, very good and our final deliberations took an extra half hour; not because we disagreed but because we all had the same level of difficulty and for the same reasons, so no one was trying to persuade the others. In the afternoon, I went to a music lesson and played the Djembe drums, which was jolly. I then had an end-of-year chat with the music teacher, which was useful and governor-appropriate, and ended in my offering to continue to go in weekly next year two, not because I feel obliged but because I enjoy it.

Nothing in the diary for tomorrow, which is just as well as I've things to catch up on.

There's a bit of a quagmire on the field because there's a leak in the water pipe where it connects to the house supply. It was only renewed last year - I'm not sure that it's the new bit that's leaking, but it's in the same area. Nearby, there's a tank which provides drinking water to cattle, with a ballcock so that it automatically fills up. The bogginess is all around that. Several weeks ago, a chappie from the water board came out, agreed it was their problem and it would go on the schedule for repair. After a reminder, they came, but by that time it was all so wet and muddy that they couldn't be bothered to investigate properly and sent in a report that the problem was with the tank. Someone else came out today and fortunately the Sage happened to see him, and went out to lift the manhole cover and prove that it was their side of the supply. So he agreed that they have to do it. It's not an awful leak, but there's a real mess around there now and, even if it's only 3 or 4 gallons an hour (let's say, I've no real idea), that's a lot over 6 weeks or more. Fortunately, the field being sandy soil on gravel, it will drain quite quickly once the pipe is mended.

Z relaxes, almost

The festival is finished, the church has been undecorated, except for the flowers and the treasurer is counting the takings (well, if I were she, I'd leave it until after dinner). I have the tub and hanging basket competition to count the votes for of (sort out the grammar yourselves, darlings, will you?) and then there will be the prize draw of the voting slips, because we have such generous sponsors that we can give a prize for everything.

Dinner is cooking - I wrapped a pork fillet (tenderloin, if that's how you know it) in bacon and shoved it in the oven, scrubbed some spuds and put them on to boil, cut up an out-of-season (Lord knows what country it came from) butternut squash and rubbed it with olive oil and bunged that in the oven, rejected the idea of picking veggies out of the garden and got some sweetcorn out of the freezer instead (total convenience food tonight, you see). Then, and only then ... 0:-) ... I opened a chilled bottle of wine and poured myself a glassful.

Ooh, and I arrived home to find a verbal invitation to a wedding next month. I'd known it was happening ages ago and knew we were to be invited, and that sort of relaxed attitude is fine by me. It's the sister of the girl whose wedding I went to in Madras three and a half years ago. This time, it won't be in India - booo!!(!) - although 6 weeks notice might be pushing it for that I suppose, possibly, especially as I will have a very small new grandbaby by then - just as well, I'd be so sorely tempted, however hot it is out there in August. Anyway, I rang back, gave Auntie my address and we'll have a written invitation next week.

Right. I expect dinner's about cooked. You see how much I care? I write to you before I eat. Greater love hath no Z than this.

The Fêteful Day

went fine. A mild and brief shower, just when the high school's wind band was entertaining us, but they played on as their sheet music started to curl and it was over in a couple of minutes - the rain that is. From then onwards, it was a fine day.

I showed Norfolk village granny credentials by strolling along, burger in one hand, pint of beer in the other, pushing Pugsley in his pushchair with a couple of leftover fingers.

Dilly and Al went to the local theatre this evening and Ro was babysitting, so we took our dinner through to keep him company and then the Sage went to do whatever Sages do on a Saturday evening while Ro and I watched a film. We took the Mac with us, as it enjoys the company. Besides, Al and Dil have been having a major springclean and their television is temporarily in their bedroom and the Mac is much bigger than a laptop, almost as easy to transport (I exaggerate) and better for two people to watch films on. Hot Fuzz. Haven't seen it before. Chortled happily.

When we came back, Ro carrying the computer (screen and comp are all-in-one), I with the keyboard, mouse, tray of dinner plates etc, newspaper and bits and pieces, we discovered that the Sage had gone out without telling us or leaving us a key. I went and asked for the spare key. Al had it on his keyring. Al was in the bathroom. Then he couldn't find his keys. He searched, with no useful result. Dilly glanced and found the keys. "Not her fault" I explained. "It's what women do and men don't."

Being small-minded and of a teasing frame of mind, I have left the key in the locked door, so that the Sage will have to knock when he gets home. I hope that's soon actually, as I'm quite tired. Unusual for me to think about going to bed before midnight; I don't like to miss the best bit of the day - well, one of them - but I was up early. And will be tomorrow.

Fete nearly accompli

Of course, when the village has a fete (no point in putting in the accent unless you're using Safari as your browser, which probably none of you is) it doesn't just have a fete. It has a Beer Festival. It's no wonder that it goes down such a storm. From morning until night and on into the small hours (midnight at any rate), we Party On with the best of them.

Today, I played the organ for David's funeral and then went back to the church in the afternoon to decorate it. I bought all Al's flowers yesterday, cut swathes of greenery from the garden and did lots of flower arrangements. The church exhibition's theme this year is 'Childhood Memories'. I took a liquid theme as I grew up by Oulton Broad and wrote about (with a photo of mini-me) messing about in boats, my early fascination with newts and the winter of 1963, which was incredibly cold, with ice so thick on the Broad that cars could drive on it.

The Sage's earliest memories were of the war. So that's what his display is about.

I finally lurched home, limping on both feet, at about 6 o'clock, or possibly later. We'd planned to have a barbecue but the weather had turned showery, so Dilly cooked dinner for us all, which was lovely. She had come to help me in the church and the children were angelic, until Pugsley started to become uncharacteristically fretful at about 5ish, at which point it dawned on us that he'd missed his afternoon nap. He kept his patience, with an effort, until she was ready to take him home. He then went straight to bed and to sleep and missed his dinner. We wonder if he'll wake up hungry in the middle of the night.

A registered envelope arrived this morning, addressed to me. The Sage signed for it, and was highly curious to know what it was. It's Ro's ticket to the Latitude festival - I'm so annoyed with myself that I didn't buy a ticket for myself too, when I was getting his as a present, because I thought he'd hate to have to go with his old mother. Since, of course, they have sold out.

I also received four free light bulbs from British Gas.

I also had a dividend cheque for £19.55.

Dilly has been offered a part-time teaching job next year, and has accepted it.

Auctions and bidding

Gordie wondered if it was quite ethical for an auctioneer to run the bidding up to the reserve, rather than let it finish at the point where there is only one bidder left.

Right - well, first of all, most items have a reserve; that is, a price below which the lot will not be sold. Put it this way - if you went to a car dealer, wanting to sell your car for £2,000 and he only offered you £500, you'd probably not sell, would you? Especially if you still owed £1,000 on it. You would have a figure in your mind for negotiation, but there would be a point at which you could not sell it unless you were completely desperate - and if you knew it was worth the money and he'd be selling it on at a profit, you'd keep bargaining for a realistic offer, or take it home again.

When you send a picture to an auction, you own it until the fall of the hammer and you are under no obligation to sell it for less than the sum that you and the auctioneer have agreed it's worth. You will also agree with the auctioneer if there's any flexibility on that. For example, let's say there's £100 reserve, but someone bids £95. If the auctioneer takes it to £100, another bid actually pushes it past the reserve, so he probably would let it go at £95.

For an auction to work, there needs to be at least two people bidding. But let's say you are willing to pay £100, but no one else is bidding. It is acceptable for the auctioneer to point down and take bids 'off the book' until the reserve is reached - but not after. This is up to the ethics of the auctioneer - if he knows that there is someone in the room who might pay more than the reserve, he must not take advantage of that, but let the piece find its own level in the bidding. Nor may he use a commission bid (that is, someone who has left a maximum bid with him) to bump up the bidding past the reserve. The Sage is always cautious about leaving bids unless he trusts the auctioneer because not all of them are completely scrupulous about not using commission bids.

So far, you think that as a buyer you are being manipulated. But look at it from the other side.

Gordie and Z are friends with an interest in pictures in common and they go to an auction together. Gordie really likes the Seago and says so. Z likes it too, but she wouldn't dream of running the price up high for her friend, so she says she won't bid until he drops out. Fair enough, but it would not be fair on the owner of the picture that the price is artificially low because two friends have done some private negotiation.

Between friends or colleagues this is one thing, but among dealers it's a different matter. And this is where you need a skillful auctioneer who knows what things should be worth and has valued them correctly with a realistic reserve. An auction ring is illegal, but regularly used.

A group of dealers gets together and agrees how to bid to get lots for the lowest possible price. The designated bidder buys the items and pays for them and afterwards, they all get together and have a private auction amongst themselves. The pieces are resold, the buyer is reimbursed and everyone shares the profit - except the former owner who didn't get the value of his pieces, and the auctioneer who earns a reduced commission - and, arguably, deserves to, you might say. Well yes, if he only takes live bids in the room and then lets it go, but if he's allowed to bid an item up to its sensible reserve, it won't happen; or at any rate, to a much lesser extent.

Of course, at the sort of auction we went to yesterday, this sort of thing would not happen. There was no question of any dodgy dealership at all and, although the room was full, there was also a whole tableful of people taking telephone bids. No question of collusion and quite a few private buyers, because I saw them. The sale went well because it deserved to; it was, genuinely, a private collection put together over many years, of very attractive and appealing local pictures. It was very professionally conducted in a relaxed atmosphere. I thought it was lovely that the vendors had chosen to sell in Norwich rather than send the pictures to London and I think that paid off, in that there were so many private collectors as well as dealers.

I think I may have given you the impression that there is only ever one person bidding - that's not so and it's all the more fun when there's spirited bidding in the room. Some people are willing to come in at the start and others prefer to wait and see how it's going (if the auctioneer gave up as soon as no one bid, these people would never come in, but they might bid strongly once they get going). If I want a piece I bid promptly (if I can get a bid in edgeways) and remain determined, bidding again as soon as I'm taken out. I know perfectly well that I'm not going to get it for more than a bid less than the guide price or estimate (unless I'm very lucky and the reserve is well under that; an unlikely circumstance) so I don't mind if there's not another bidder - though there may well be and it's more fun that way as there's an extra element of competition. I fix in my mind the price I want to pay and the price I will go up to if I must - though if there's really spirited bidding, I might think 'hm, maybe I've undervalued it a bit' and go a bit further if I can afford to. Always remember to add on the auctioneer's commission and VAT on the hammer price, and check if there's any extra tax on the item itself. There may be if it's being sold by a dealer, if it's been imported for sale or if the painter is still alive he's paid commission every time his piece is auctioned.

If you go to a general auction sale and there isn't a catalogue or it's just a printed sheet, there may be no reserves and everything is just sold as seen.

I've not been clear enough - let's go through it carefully.

I go to an auction and see a tea cup and saucer that is just what I want. And the estimate is only £200-£220 - what a bargain that would be! The bidding starts at £80 and goes up steadily until it reaches £160, but then the other bidder shakes his head. He doesn't appreciate fine china, it seems. The auctioneer looks around for another bidder, but he doesn't see one. There am I, all hopeful and keen and ready to continue bidding, but the reserve (the price the seller has said that the bidding must reach) is higher than £160. It is normal practice in any auction house for an auctioneer to continue as if there is another bidder (this is called 'taking bids off the wall'). So, he says "£170", I bid £180, he says "£190", I put my hand up again for £200 and then the auctioneer continues to look around - but if there is no other bidder and the reserve price has been reached (that is, he has bid up to the reserve), he will bang down his gavel, and the cup and saucer becomes mine.

Sometimes, it works the other way. No one wants to start the bidding and then the auctioneer will probably offer a lower starting price. Then, when I've put in my bid, he will point at his book to indicate that he is bidding against the reserve (that is, running up the price because my bid is still lower than the price he can sell at) until someone else is encouraged to start bidding; then he'll take my bid alternately from the other person's in the usual way. I'll probably be overcome with excitement and end up bidding more than I meant to for the cup and saucer.

Of course, more often there are at least two bidders and it isn't necessary to do any of this. But if the auctioneer waits ages, anxiously, for bids, it absolutely kills the atmosphere and there's a good chance that hardly anything will sell. That's why a good auctioneer is worth his weight in teacups.

Anything more you would like to know, Gordie and Dandelion? Or TMI already? Query anything I've said, by all means.

Cow's that? Out!!(!)

It's always when you've been pottering round for a bit and not putting your face on that things happen. At least I was dressed. I rarely come downstairs before I'm dressed as it's the sure prompt for a small and orderly queue of people to come to the door and embarrass me.

Anyway, I did this and that and was just thinking of putting the eye in and the face on when the phone rang. It was Daphne. A cow had just walked past her door going towards the road. I thanked her, said I'd go and see what I could do - I was just putting in the contact lens when Dilly rang. She gave the same unwelcome news, but added that she didn't think it was one of ours as it was very small and she thought it was a boy. I started to cuss the neighbouring farmer - a charming man but an annoying stockman - who is really quite careless about keeping his cattle in his fields. Then I got on my bike, clutching a stout walking stick in one hand and whizzed off towards the church. There was no sign of a cow or bullock. I went up the road some way, in case it had gone into someone's garden, but couldn't see it. I went to look down the footpath alongside our field and there were two large cows talking to their cousins which were still in the field. They were well down the path and I went home to get some rope to close off the path.

I also spent three minutes slapping on some make-up. Vain? Merely considerate of other people.

The Sage came home. I suggested that he might try to remember taking his phone with him in case I needed him and told him the situation. We agreed that he'd go across the field and I'd go back to the path in case they went the wrong way.

No more drama, those good girls were peacefully grazing, the Sage found where the fence was broken down and I walked them back to the opening, and they returned home. I'd noticed the cause of all the trouble though; a small bullock which was nuzzling the cows hopefully in a "will you be my new mum?" sort of way. He really was quite small and I feel sorry for him. Evidently, he'd got out of his field, got lost, nearly went on the road, then saw the cows and pushed his way through the fence. Then they went through the gap. We left him there with the cows - the farmers can sort it out.

It was 10.45. I went home and had a substantial breakfast, as I'd not eaten yet, of black coffee, plain yoghurt, dry toast and (this was what made it more substantial than usual) a banana. If it weren't for the quantity of wine I drink (though not normally for breakfast) I'd be tiny already.