There's a deathly hush in the close tonight...well, all this week

It's going to be awfully quiet round here in the blogosphere for a few days, with Dave away visiting his mother. He suggested we all take a week off from posting, but let's face it - if we did that, we'd find again what we used to do with our lives before we ever started blogging and we'd never have time to come back.

It's all a bit dampening to the spirits round here though. As soon as I've written this (I'm all dressed and ready and tidy, which is why the best thing to do is sit quietly like a good girl and not get muddy and disheveled) I'm going to a funeral - not my friend Felicité's whose funeral is tomorrow, but Bob's, who used to be a pillar of the high school governors for many years. I didn't know him outside the governors' meetings actually, but I'm doing the very grown-up thing of being a representative: though I don't expect I'll be the only one of us, most of the governors have joined since he left.

And yesterday, Sybil came and asked me if I knew how Mike was - he's organist at another church and helps out once a month here for me. He was due to have a hip replacement and I had it in mind to phone in the next week or two and enquire how things were going. But Sybil had heard that he's just had a stroke. I've phoned his wife this morning; he's starting to rally in that he can now move his arm and leg, but he can't speak yet although he can make sounds and laugh at his son-in-law's jokes. He had his hip op a couple of weeks ago - not the side that's affected by the stroke.

My mum had a stroke when she was young - late 30s. It's one of the reasons I am careful to not let things bother me. I keep as unstressed as possible and, without bottling things up, don't mind about minor annoyances. I relax a lot.

Z spends £7

I went shopping yesterday. The usual weekend stuff, and I also went to the discount place, where the old Co-op used to be before the new one was built. I was looking for plastic shoes to wear in the swimming pool - this is not so odd. I'm short, wobbly and one leg is slightly shorter than the other, which doesn't make for good balance in an aquacise class. I couldn't find what I thought would suit, so ambled round a bit and ended up with a small assortment of items. It gave me great pleasure to buy a set of screwdrivers, a retractable tape measure, five retractable ballpoint pens, thirty-five pencils with rubbers on the ends and a pack of five tubes of extra-strong mints. All the pens work and I have sharpened one fifth of the pencils so far. I have eaten some of the peppermints and measured various bits of me.

Today was supposed to be spent in the greenhouse - this afternoon, rather; I was busy in the morning. But a friend invited me out for lunch. Seeds will be sown another day.

Of course, it's a waning moon and there is a school of thought which declares that seeds germinate better when sown with a waxing moon (whoops, I typed 'moob' first, which gives a strange mental picture). I've never found any particular difference myself; it has always seemed to me that the temperature and other physical conditions matter more, but I've never done a careful trial and there are always other things that could get in the way. I think one would have to test it over several years with a wide range of seeds. I suppose the obvious way to start is with weekly sowings of mung beans or mustard and cress, but I somehow don't think I'd ever bother to record the results carefully.

Z slept

In fact, I spent a couple of hours drifting in and out of sleep. I read for a bit, slept, woke, listened to the music I'd left on, slept again and finally surfaced properly a few minutes before 4 o'clock. I have no idea why I was so tired.

A couple of nights ago, there was a meeting at my house. It's an offshoot of the PCC (which is the committee that runs the church) and its purpose is to get things done. In the PCC meetings, held every couple of months, things get talked about but it's not unusual for a decision to be held over and this can take months while research is done, reports are made or sometimes forgotten - you can imagine the frustration for more decisive people. So, a few of us thought an Action Group, not a committee, would be useful - anyone would be welcome, it would be quite fluid, those who were interested in a particular subject - such as, some of our fabrics are getting perished because of 100 years of exposure to light and need to be replaced and the originals conserved, we need some more tables and chairs, what can we do about draughts?, how shall a legacy be spent? - can come to a meeting or do the research and put in a report. Apart from the Rector starting by saying that people with axes to grind should not be starting up a power base *sigh and explain carefully* (she's lovely but worries) it went well for a bit, but then didn't make any progress as Christmas approached because we were all busy. So, as we got near March, I sent out emails with suggested dates and a consensus was reached.

One person turned up.

Several sent apologies, several didn't, but there were only two of us. Still, it was nice to see him, we went solemnly through all the matters to discuss and we have a report for the PCC.

Since, I've sent out notes from the meeting with a choice of 13 evenings I can manage between Easter and the next PCC meeting in late May. I've had replies to say the notes have been received, but no one has mentioned any dates. I'm not sure that, in practice, people want to be consulted. I suspect that really they want *someone else* to do the work and just tell them in time for them to raise objections.

But if a couple of us just do that, will be be told we're setting up a 'power base'? And does it matter? Not to me, frankly, I have neither ego nor prestige set into this and I'll equally happily do the work or let it go. I'd rather people say simply if they haven't time to take it on and what they'd like to happen instead.

One more year. Then I won't be churchwarden any more and it'll be someone else's responsibility. I don't think anyone knows how much I look forward to handing it on.

Z is going to sleep

I'm tired today. I suspect that the afternoon will not be complete without a little cuddle on the sofa with Tilly - something bound to send me to sleep. I've been out on my bike today, so need have no guilt about it. Not that I would anyway of course. I only feel guilty, normally, if I've got a reason to be and if laziness doesn't worry me then there's no reason for tiredness to.

I've just realised that I'm playing the organ, being sidesman and doing coffee tomorrow. That'll be interesting. It wasn't planned that way of course, I'm helping out friends. Fortunately, I took several packets of biscuits down last week so all I'll need is a pint of milk.

I went to the physiotherapist this morning and we agreed that I probably don't need to go again. He's given me some tips on how to relieve sciatica if it occurs again, which I suspect it will. Mind you, I've forgotten one of the exercises already. I can probably look it up on the internet. I learn by reading or doing, not by hearing or seeing.

Altogether ooky

"I wonder if hearses have a special gear for driving very slowly?" mused Ro. "Hm, I don't know if I'll get an opportunity to ask". "Well, I don't know anyone who drives a hearse." "I do." "Do you?...yes, I suppose you would."

Neat. Sweet. Petite.

Felicitous friendship

I wanted to tell you about my friend Felicité, whose death I saw in the local paper today. She was a member of the arty society I belong to, and she usually came on visits with us. She arrived by taxi, usually at the last minute, and she was generally the last back on the coach at the end of the day too. She was a small, rather dumpy woman in her 80s. About three years ago, she sat next to me on the coach and we passed the time of day politely, but I was tired - it was an early start - and slept a bit and read the paper, so we didn't have much to say. On the way home, we fell into a long conversation during our three hour trip back to Norwich and by the end of the day we were firm friends. We kissed each other goodbye, and sat together several times after that (though we didn't lunch together).

She had been an only daughter and her parents were approaching middle age when she was born. She lived with them, latterly looking after them until the end of their lives. She was well in her forties by then and never expected to marry, but several years later fell in love with a man and he asked her to marry him. She told me that her father would not have approved as he was not from the same social class as she and did a manual, if skilled, job - he was a landscape gardener - but of course that didn't matter at all to her or to him. His health was poor and he told her that he didn't expect to live long. They married and were very happy, and he lived a lot longer than he'd thought he would.

Eventually, he did die, and since then she had carried on with life, as one does. What I loved about her was her appreciation of her life, which might have been thought to be one of missed potential. Yes, she'd have liked to have had children, but she'd had the great privilege of caring for her beloved parents, and then been lucky enough to marry a man who had made her immensely happy, and who had grown-up children who had been friendly to her. He had lived far longer than he thought he would, so she was lucky to have been a wife so long, rather than unlucky to now be a widow. Her health wasn't good, but she could do the things she enjoyed if she took care.

I can't at all remember all we spoke of, but I found myself admiring this unpretentious, brave, stoical little woman who counted her blessings and accepted her hardships without complaint or grudge.

I hadn't seen her for a while - we never met outside our lectures or visits - and she hadn''t been on a coach trip for a year or so. I can't go to her funeral, as I'll be looking after the children that day, and there will be no one there whom I'd know. But I miss her.

Cosi fan (potentially) tutte?

I know several people who have ended their marriages, to the complete shock and bewilderment of their spouses. In several of these cases, the ender turned on the endee, blaming him for it all (not all the enders were women, but the blamers happened to be). Marriages do end of course, and sometimes that's for the best, and I'm not going into all that - and, before I go further, this is a judgment-free zone as far as I'm concerned and I'm meaning no more than I'm actually saying. It's just sad, that's all.

A few years ago, I changed hairdressers. The previous one was a nice girl, married young, with two children, and she used to chatter about family life. One visit, she did nothing but grumble about her husband. 'Hm,' I thought. 'She's having an affair or she reckons he is.' The next visit, she said she had turned him out of the house. The next visit, she told me the whole story. A bloke had stopped to let her across the road, with her pushchair and little boys and later saw her again and gave her his phone number. She was flattered and sent a text and it followed from there in the usual pattern. I heard the latest edition every few weeks and it got more cringeworthy every time.

I didn't stop going to the hairdresser from moral indignation, but because the whole thing was such a car-crash. It was obvious that the bloke had targeted her because she was obviously in a relationship, with little children and he thought she might be a. up for it and b. committed, in the long run, to her family - that is, he was safe from any demand for a long-term monogamous relationship. He then spent the next six months trying to get her to chuck him by being generally unreliable. It was embarrassing to listen to, because she didn't realise how much she was giving away in what she insisted on telling me, and her hair-cutting skills went right out of the window. It was half an hour's drive away, so in the end I found a local hairdresser, whom I like very much and who isn't nearly so chatty.

Other family break-ups seemed to follow much the same pattern. Either one of the pair started seeing someone else or, for whatever reason, decreed that the marriage was at an end, without any real explanation, and within a short time started seeing someone else (usually known to them already).

I came to the conclusion that their pattern of thought went something like this

1 I fancy someone else!
2 Goodness, I'm having an affair! (this may come later, in which case all the other numbers shuffle up and this turns into 5)
3 But bad people have affairs. But I am not a bad person. I have high moral standards and I always vowed I would be faithful within marriage.
4 Therefore, for me to do a bad thing, not being a bad person, there must be something seriously wrong with my marriage, or otherwise I would not even be tempted.
5 It's my spouse's fault, because I have already reasoned that I am not a bad person, and yet it appears that I have been made unhappy and discontented. The marriage is at an end, but I am entitled to make demands that might seem quite unreasonable were anyone else to make them, because it is all my spouse's fault that I have been driven to this.

Maybe a little more self-knowlege and cynicism might not come amiss. Perhaps for the sake of the children, at least? In every recent situation I'm referring to, the children were between 6 months and 7 years old.

In case there is any doubt I am not having, and am not planning to have, an affair. Indeed, I haven't even been propositioned recently. I mention the subject only because of a conversation I had with a friend this morning.

If you've come in search of Mozart, my sincere apologies, there's nothing for you here. But isn't soave sia il vento the most sublime aria ever written?

Huzzah!

Cheers, Ally.

Zolonius

The best news of the day is that my tenant has paid up for March too, and I haven't even finished spending January's rent yet - I was making it last in case I needed to. So I insisted - positively insisted, darlings - on paying the Sage's car insurance when the credit card bill came in.

I should add that whenever my bank account looks a bit lean I tell him and he bungs money my way. Such is the life of a kept woman.

With the bill was a brochure (couldn't think of the word for a minute, nearly wrote brochet - I'm the woman who thinks of little but food) with new terms and conditions. You know that the interest rate has been brought down by the Bank of England to 0.5%? Of course, it's entirely logical for Nashunwide to raise their interest rate on credit cards by 2% to 19.9%. Don't we love that .9? Not quite 20, you see. So it's hardly anything at all.

It doesn't affect me. I live within my means, whatever they are. Even when I was still at school, my father had died and my mother had very little to live on and all I had for spending money was a Saturday job, I never ran out of money. When I received my monthly pay cheque (I worked at the local library and got 3 weeks paid holiday a year, how lucky was I?) I first bought a contribution to the housekeeping, a small treat, usually steak or grapes, and then only spent money according to my self-imposed rules. 1 - only buy what you need, not what you want. 2 - only buy it if it takes no more than half your money. If it takes over half, wait until next month.

Usually, by the next month, I didn't really need it any more, as if I'd managed without for a month the moment of neediness had passed. Of course, there were real necessities, so I never actually saved money, but that didn't matter at that stage of my life. Not that I went to university because I got married pretty well straight out of school, but if I had I'd have had a grant which was enough to live on. That's what made the difference to my generation - no access to credit. If you couldn't borrow money you lived on what you had.

I'm not exactly G0rd0n B's dream girl. I don't borrow money. I'd live on bread and potatoes in an unheated house first. Mind you, I can't see him as a borrower either.

Satisfaction

A windy day. Someone remarked this afternoon that it hasn't been a very windy winter, and I think that's been so. It was sunny today though, and I thought I'd cycle into town until I went outside. I changed my mind. I know, very wimpish.

Al was going to do a Health & Safety check round the village school, so I went into the shop for a couple of hours or so. The price of bananas has rocketed since I was last serving there. I suppose it's the dollar/pound rate. Cucumbers and cauliflowers have come well down though and are back to the price they cost at the beginning of the year.

The Sage gave me a lift in, and this was the first time I'd been in his new van. I asked more about it - I knew that he'd taken it on to help Mike out, as he'd got it for his wife to take the dogs out in, but she hadn't liked it. There is slightly more to it than that though as I discovered today - Mike took the Sage's old car in exchange, and no money changed hands. Both were extremely satisfied with the deal - indeed, the Sage insisted on giving Dilly, whose car his had originally been, an extra £100 as he felt that, three or four years ago, he hadn't really given her enough. She didn't want to take it but the Sage wouldn't take a refusal, so she and Al bought a lot of plants for their garden. So everybody was happy.

Oh, and Al found a fire door that had been painted over. So that was useful. Mind you, the school has loads of doors and if one painted over hadn't been noticed for a while, it just showed it wasn't ever used. But he has displayed Keen Observation. A new school is being built at present, which will be ready by the end of the year, so it's not worth spending any money on the present building, unless for anything absolutely vital, but I suspect that unsticking doors comes in that category. Maybe a school governor with a Stanley knife?

Ssh

I'm the only person awake. Zerlina needed a nap but the bedroom where her cot is is a bit cold, so Weeza is cuddling her down here. A slumbering baby sent Weeza to sleep. The Sage is napping in the armchair. Tilly is snoring gently in another armchair.

Dave, you should come and join them. Sleep is almost impossible to resist.

A short post for a lazy Sunday

It was a lovely sunny morning, but colder than it looked. The wind cut right through my wool jacket as I cycled into town, and on the way home my skirt blew up to my thighs. Not the best look for an old woman. Nor even for one wallowing deep in middle age.

I did a flower arrangement for the church yesterday for today's service (there was a particular reason for this, as we don't usually have flowers in Lent) and brought it home again afterwards., It's pink, purple and white and looks very fresh and pretty. It's giving me a good deal of pleasure.

I don't plan to do anything much this afternoon. I'm going to lounge on the sofa and cuddle my dog, and read the papers and listen to music, unless Ro puts the television on. I've got loads of washing to do, but I don't care. It can wait. The Sage has just told me it's starting to rain, so I've got a valid reason to wait until tomorrow because washing can't go on the line and if it can't tomorrow either it would have to go in the drier, as I have nowhere indoors to hang washing to dry. Socks on the Aga, that is, but not a lot more.

Z knows her limits

The Sage approached me, bearing a tilted bottle of wine and raising his eyebrows. I said I'd had enough to drink.

Remarkable. Yes, I know.

Actually, I had a particularly stubborn migraine this morning. When it started, with the jagged sparkling circle at the side of my vision, I took pills at once, which usually deal with it almost in time to stop the headache. They did, but the aura recurred for several more hours, which was a vast nuisance. As a result, Weeza did all the photography for the catalogue and website. Later, she and the Sage did the condition report, a responsibility I found it harder to relinquish. It's good for me to do so though. Let go, that is.

I took £200 out of the bank, but I've only bought food, wine and stuff for the church. I somehow think my saved money is destined not to be spent on me. Actually, quite a lot of it is to be spent on the flat. Unheralded, a new regulation was brought in at the end of last year that rented accommodation has to have a check on its energy rating. This is no use at all, but has to be done, at a cost of £115+VAT. I'm all in favour of checks on electricity and gas, because too many tenants have died because of unsafe electrical wiring or fume leakage, but this is pointless nonsense. However, it has to be done.

The reason for the migraine is probably a phone call I had this morning. I was relaxing in bed, having worked out my plan of action for the day, and having decided I could stay there and read until 9 o'clock. My 91-year-old friend phoned to thank me for having done some typing for her, and wanting me to check some details on the computer. "You're not too busy?" she enquired politely. 'No, I was just having a lie-in because it's Saturday and therefore the only day of the week I can, and it's only 8.45' I thought, but could hardly say. It's not good for me though, dashing around first thing. I'm better getting up slowly and pottering for a bit.

Ro was talking to Phil about televisions - he's been to a couple of showrooms to have a look. I'm so glad he's doing it for me. It would bore me stiff.

Z has a productive evening

I have bought my car insurance, a whole two days and two hours before the current insurance runs out.

I have paid almost exactly half (35p less would be exactly half, to be exact) the quote I was sent in the post by my present insurance company.

This means I have saved £200 and I see no reason not to spend it. I probably won't of course (I don't often go shopping), but I can if I want to, because I had £400 in reserve for car insurance and I've only spent £200.

My tenant has paid last month's rent (he may have paid this month's too, but I haven't been notified of that yet). This means that I have told Ro that he may select a new television for my approval. He asked how much I was willing to spend and I hazarded a sum, having little idea what to say, and he said that was quite a lot. I said he didn't have to spend it all.

Anyway (do you ever notice how often I write 'anyway'? Frequently, I'm well aware, which doesn't stop me) thank you for reminding me about the insurance. I feel all calm and cheerful now.

Z resolves to be a Stoic

I'll explain why I'm stubbornly reluctant to go to the doctor again at present, just so you'll know I'm not simply being silly.

What do you go for?

1 Diagnosis
2 Advice
3 Treatment/drugs
4 Cure

1 I know what the problem is. Arthritis. The sciatica is a by-effect of it.

2 To slow down the onset of arthritis, lose weight, take exercise. I've taken and am taking this advice.

3 Take painkillers as required. Don't try to be too brave about this, they have an anti-inflammatory effect so will help relieve the symptoms as well as alleviate the pain. This I am doing. I don't care to take them all the time, but I am at present (just swigged one down with a gulp of wine).
Go to the physiotherapist for specific advice and exercises. I have been for the last few weeks and have another appointment next week.
Use a walking pole for rough terrain or walking any distance. Thanks to Badgerdaddy, I do.

4 It can't be cured, but the affected joint can, in due course, be replaced. It's better not to have that done yet if possible as it will wear out in a decade or two and the second operation will be more complicated. The operations are continuing to improve and it could well be that in a few years time a considerable advance will have been made in techniques, giving a better result and long-term prognosis.

He can say nothing more, so there's no point in going. What I can go for is to say it's more than I feel able to bear and I'd like to be referred to a consultant. But I'm not ready to say that, because it wouldn't be true. I know that the consultant would not operate yet, and I don't want an operation at this time. Like a filled, capped or veneered tooth, a replacement isn't as strong or good as the original used to be. It's not something to enter into lightly.

If I keep getting recurrent attacks of sciatica, and especially if they come on so painfully as it did the other evening, I'll go to the doctor. But there's no point right now (actually, there won't be anyway unless it's to ask to talk to a specialist). He can't help and he'd think I was making a fuss. I'm willing to make a fuss if I'm right, but I know I would be asking for something he's not able to do and I couldn't look him in the eye and deny I know that. Right now, I'm better asking the physiotherapist for advice, because he'll be better placed to give it to me.

Z has Accreditation

A long training session today - safer recruitment, it's the post-Bichard enquiry school training for teachers and governors*. Since I take part in staff interviews and the governors are responsible anyway for ensuring that the school does everything correctly, I thought I should do it, but it was 6 hours, all afternoon and half the evening. There was a test at the end and I'll get a graded accreditation - sustificate and all!!(!) A = 100%, D = 75% and I think I'll be somewhere in between, no lower. Anyway, it was quite demanding of attention. Fortunately, the chairs were the right height and comfortable, so I didn't suffer in that respect.

Tomorrow, Squiffany and Pugsley in the morning and then to Bury for a meeting, then the children again for an hour, and that's another week gone.

The insurance company didn't ring back, so evidently they can't come up with a better quote and reckoned they wouldn't bother to tell me. Okay, I'll go elsewhere. I must do it by the weekend though, as my insurance runs out on Sunday night. Remind me darlings, won't you?

It's Thursday, so it must be Dexter. Jolly good. Time to finish my wine and read the paper first.

See you tomorrow. Well, if you're not too busy.


*You'll remember the young girls who were murdered by the school caretaker who, it transpired, had been suspected of dodgy behaviour which hadn't been proved so didn't show up on police files, it's the enquiry which followed that which has given rise to extra safeguards in staff recruitment. Of course, there is always a first time for any abusive person, but it's not only about careful recruitment but also ongoing good practice.

Z hurt and sort of wanted to tell someone :-(

I looked after the children for a bit this evening, while Dilly was out maths tutoring. They were adorable and all went fine. They were both cuddled on my lap watching Nanny McPhee when their mother came home, and she said that she had seen Al's van parked outside the Chinese takeaway, so dinner would be served as soon as he came home. The Sage was cooking our dinner.

Al arrived and Squiffany went to help lay the table. I'm not sure what happened after that, but I reached for something, Pugsley still on my right knee, and suddenly I had the most excruciating pain just where the thigh bone's connected to the ... hip bone. At the front, not at the side where the hip actually is. I waited for a second for it to ease but it didn't and it was unbearable. I lurched to the right, and Pugsley and I fell sideways on to the sofa, and I said "sorry darling, I had to roll over". Pugsley wasn't at all hurt and laughed - "Granny fell over, we both fell over!" He got off the sofa and I lay there, the pain diminishing but I didn't quite feel able to move.

I really rather wanted to cry with the pain, although the time for that was past. Dilly asked if I needed a hand up, but I just wanted to rest for a minute. I didn't want to make a *thing* of it, and I didn't know what I would be making a thing of anyway. Eventually, I cautiously got up, and then I went home. My leg still hurts; at the front top of my thigh, my knee and my shin all the way down to my foot, but I'm used to that. The specific pain has diminished although its effect is still there. I don't know what I did to cause it and so I don't know how not to have it happen again. I'm sorry to go on about it, but darlings, you are the ones who get to hear what I have to tell someone but don't want to make a fuss here - I have described it to the Sage, as far as I can ... how do you describe something that has never happened before, that once the experience is over it's hard to explain? It hurt immensely, but not as a sharp pain, a dull pain or an ache. It was acute, agonising, but not exactly sharp, more overwhelming. Anyway, he was very sympathetic and immediately opened a bottle of wine, but he can't feel it, so can't know, which made him get all worried and he wanted to help but didn't quite know how.

Half a bottle didn't do a thing, by the way, and painkillers have been taken.

It hailed surprisingly hard this afternoon. I took a brolly against the hail when I went through to the children, but a few minutes later it hammered down. I took a dish to the door and held it out and it was half an inch deep in seconds. The children were fascinated and held the little balls of ice. "Frozen rain!" they said. When it was going to melt, I tipped it into a pot of hyacinths.

Favourite smells

I have blithely stolen this idea from the lovely Earthenwitch. They come in no particular order, and I've referred to some of them before.

1 Wet earth when it's been raining after a long dry spell. Indeed, after a long dry spell everything smells lovely, including tarmac. And new-mown grass of course.

2 The inside of a Morris Minor. Any leather-seated car smells good, but an old Morris is the best.

3 The toasty smell of a maltings. I know I've said this before - there was a maltings a couple of roads away when I was a child and it's one of those childhood smells. Other ones are of flowering currant - people say it smells of cat pee, but not to me. Norwich used to smell of chocolate before the chocolate factory was closed (the Chapelfield shopping mall was built on the site).

4 Smoky things - Laphroaig whisky, Lapsang Souchong tea, kippers, wood fires.

5 Dog's feet. It has to be a dog I love though or it's too personal to do and doesn't smell right. It's only been since I had a blog that I've admitted to the outside world that I cuddle up with my dog and sniff her feet. Mind you, if you really love a dog then it smells good generally. Ears and ... um, actually ... armpits. Sorry. And then there's puppy-breath, which is wonderful.

6 The smell of a ripe melon when you go into the greenhouse, and you have to sniff your way round until you find the one that has ripened overnight. The roots of a young cucumber plant smell of cucumber and when you tip it out of its pot to put it in a bigger one, the smell is an anticipation of what's to come. However, the roots of Mimosa pudica, the Sensitive Plant smell weird and unpleasant, in a way that makes you want to keep checking it to see if it's still as odd as you thought it was.

7 Horses. You know the Barbara Woodhouse thing, when they breathe at each other? Horses and I do that to each other. I love the smell of stables. Cowsheds are also good.

8 Broad bean flowers. Many flower scents of course (I've got a pot of hyacinths in here right now, which is wonderful), but that sudden and elusive scent in the spring has me winding the car windows down, sniffing the air to find the field of beans. My daughter thinks I'm annoying when I do this.

9 A baby, of course. I know I'm not the only woman who surreptitiously sniffs babies when given one to hold. They don't always smell good of course. Sometimes they pong mightily. But the smell of the clean baby is wonderful.

I may add a tenth. Of course, I've cheated and put a lot more than nine down already.

Z haggles

So, today I'm hanging around waiting for the phone to ring. I had my car insurance renewal come through a few weeks ago. I can't remember if I mentioned it here, but it seemed a bit high. As you'll remember (though come to that, why should you?) I changed my car last autumn and bought an older, cheaper one, though it was much the same size. I was a bit hmm about being asked to pay over £400 for insurance on a 10-year-old car that is only worth £2,000 - though of course there's more to it than that, after all I may crash into something rather more valuable. Mind you, I never have. I've claimed on breakdown insurance, but never for an accident.

Anyway, I spent an extremely boring time looking through price comparisons and the lowest quote I came up with was just over £200. However, that had a big excess and finally the two best all-round offers were in the £260 mark, including NCB protection and all that sort of thing. I also looked at my own company, and got £360 offered there. So I rang and told them. After some discussion, it was suggested I start again, buying it online at £360. I told them again about the other company's cheaper price. "So, you're really wanting us to look at another £100 less?" he said. Well yes, that's about the sum of it.

So their customer retention department is going to phone back. I wonder what I'll be offered. In fact, I'll pay more than the lower price to stay with them, I know they're good and prompt if you have a claim and I've had good service in the past. But I don't think much of having to bargain, frankly. I would prefer to be offered their best price, as a customer of long standing, from the start. I'd been very satisfied with my premiums until I got a bigger car 4 years ago, when they took a sudden hike.

The Sage has also changed his car. He now has a small red van, rather like Postman Pat's although, unlike Al's, it isn't ex-Post Office. When I was looking for insurance for myself, I looked for him too. I found that insurance for a van is much higher than a comparable car. "Why do you want it?" I asked. "You don't need a van, you could just get another small car." After a while tacking around the subject, the reason became apparent. Our good friend Mike had bought it for his wife, as she takes the dogs around in it. He'd done a lot of work on it and then she hated it. So he wanted to get rid of it in a hurry, and the Sage took pity! I think that's sweet.

Too much togetherness

Oh gosh, it's probably not a good idea to put this down because it's about someone else, and it'll look as if I'm making fun which I'm not and assuredly you'll make fun of me, but there we go. These things happen. I may remove it once you've had your opportunity to laugh at me. Or possibly tell me I'm a hussy. Or something.

I generally go on our *society I'm chairman of* visits, because they're well organised, they get me to places and exhibitions I wouldn't get around to visiting, I do something sociable as well as informative and interesting, often for less money than I could do it by myself, I meet members and make new friends, I see old friends. The Sage rarely comes but usually someone sits beside me on the coach and that's good. I realise that I'm fairly high-profile and so I've made the effort to get to know people which doesn't come naturally (you may find that not likely, but I assure you, I'm not as outgoing in person as in print. Even when I meet bloggers, I'm in my Z persona so it's easier to be relaxed), especially if they come by themselves.

A year or so ago, a nice chap sat with me and we chatted, and that was fine. Since then, he's made a point of sitting with me, and at last month's lecture he booked his place there, as it were. Which was still fine. When we arrived in London, I went off with other friends for coffee and then we met again in the foyer and he asked me what I was doing for lunch and I said, deliberately casually, that I hadn't thought about it and I'd see what I felt like doing. Silly, I should have said I was going with another couple. Anyway, later on while we were going round the first exhibition he suggested we have lunch together. I felt a bit twitchy by this point - I'm a loner really. I like being sociable, but I don't like being obliged. However, okay, I agreed.

When I came out of the exhibition I pottered around the RA shop for a bit and then went down to the entrance hall, where he was waiting for me. We went over the road to the *Queen's Grocer* as he put it and had lunch. He insisted on paying, to my embarrassment, and as I didn't have a lot of cash on me and had meant to pay by card, I couldn't insist on him taking the money so all I could do was thank him and say lunch would be on me next time *sigh*.

We went back, met my friends and had coffee together and then went to the second exhibition. Fortunately, for I like doing things like this alone, I'd booked an audio guide so we didn't stay together. However, and I stayed a longer time in the exhibition than he did, he was waiting for me again and wanted to take me for tea. Fortunately, we met other friends and all sat together, but I found at the end he'd paid for my tea too. No really, I don't care for this. I don't like being under obligations and I like to pay my way. I was so edgy during tea that I chatted to my (female) friend and left her husband to talk to him, and then another couple turned up so the conversation became general. I slept part of the way home, so chatted only intermittently.

As you can imagine, at today's committee meeting I was ribbed considerably. I was completely rueful and good-humoured about it, and admitted that I obviously have a not-at-all secret admirer - this is okay, I want to have friends of course and appreciate the fact that I've reached the age that no one is going to look sidelong at me if some of them are men, because it all gets easier as you get older. I'm not suggesting for one moment that he's going to make any inappropriate move nor even that there's a sexual thing to it (in fact it's that I'm 'safe' that is a lot of my appeal, I recognise). It's just that he is being possessive. I'm embarrassed for his sake more than mine. He's a nice chap and his wife doesn't want to go on day visits, so if he's alone and doesn't know anyone else very well, I'm perfectly happy to have him sit with me. I don't think anyone except committee members would have noticed he was being too attentive.

But I've had to say we'll have lunch together next time, and I don't mind - indeed, I have to buy him lunch. Fortunately, since my friends, for all their teasing, are sympathetic, I know they'll back me up if I ask them to join us for lunch. But it did mar the day somewhat.

No really, it's not always easy being completely adorable.

P.S. - Oh lord, I'm up to 168 unread posts again. I'm sorry if some of them are yours. I'll catch up. I do read you all, as long as I know who you are (that is, all commenters and followers, a lot of others, if I've ever commented the odds are I still read everything you write).

Say cheese

The story of Simon and the Stilton. Simon was our dog. He was named after the Oulton Broad mongrel puppy who came to us, because his previous owners couldn't cope with him, when I was five years old and who founded a dynasty. Simon II was one of the many dogs my mother had after I left home, when things got a bit out of control and she ended up with 11 of them. It was all a bit much and in the end my sister took Sam and we took Simon II. At this time we lived in Lowestoft, in a very big former Rectory and had two children.

It was Christmas Eve and we were expected at my mother's house for dinner. I went over with the children and the Sage was going to join us. However, he was late. It got to the stage of him being really late and I was fed-up. I was sure he'd called on friends in a Christmas-cheery sort of way and lost track of time, and that he was taking us all for granted.

Finally, the door opened and in he came. Fortunately, I didn't greet him with fury but asked reasonably politely what had happened.

He'd gone home to let the dog out before coming on over and opened the front door to discover that Simon had found and opened the Christmas Stilton. It was half of an entire cheese and Simon had scoffed the lot, rather untidily. A good deal was spread over the rug in the hall. The Sage had taken an hour to clean up. He'd then shut Simon in the kitchen, got washed and changed and come on over.

When we went home I found that he'd done rather a good job. There was no smell or sign of mature blue cheese in the hall and the carpet was clean. Simon appeared very happy. We shut him in the back scullery that night, thinking of possible effects on his digestion. And the next night. However, the only effect was on his coat which, over the next few weeks, became thicker and especially glossy.

Two lessons learned - when someone is late, don't start by complaining. First, say something nice and let them tell you the reason. And cheese is good for dogs. They can hardly have enough of it, even three or four pounds at a time.

A third thing. The Sage was wonderful. He didn't even grumble about all the clearing up.

Today Z has a bad memory. Tomorrow Z will still have a bad memory, but that's by the bye

I thought of a splendid idea for a post a few minutes ago, then wrote an unaccustomedly sincere comment to Dave and now I've forgotten what I was going to say. Oh dear. Sorry.

Anyway, I went to the Royal Academy today, visited two splendid exhibitions, went to Fortnum and Mason for lunch (my friend A insisted on paying for my lunch, and my cream tea later, I owe him big time and have said I'll pay next visit which he was quite happy with - this is likely to be Hampton Court in the summer) and arrived home to sausages, bacon, baked potatoes and carrots cooked by the lovely Sage who will be rewarded by a specially affectionate kiss later. He's out just now. I can't remember what he said he was going to do.

I asked Derek if he'd like to be our next Treasurer, but he's pleading age at present. He's a mere (and very good-looking) 78, which hardly precludes him. However, if he turns me down (not many men have as yet, but it could be I'm losing my touch), I think Dave would be ideal. I'm saying this in all truth. Indeed, if he joined the committee (he'd have to be suddenly - ooh, bad grammar alert - interested in Fine Arts, but he would enjoy it) I'd try to wangle my way back on for another year. This has nothing to do with having or losing touch, I'm actually Telling The Truth.

Oh, the Sage went to see Al, who owed him money for strawberries, mushrooms et al (that's not the same as Al) and has Paid Up handsomely. I've been emailed the contract for my new tenant, which is very encouraging. I have had not information that Alexander, the present tenant, has yet stumped up. He's a bit of a twat, if you'll excuse the language or even if you won't, because the agents will charge for irritated letters and I will sue if he doesn't pay. I am tough and uninterested in excuses, for his income is at least four times mine (probably five times) and far more than our joint incomes. He's using a residential flat for business purposes which he has no permission to do and saying he can't manage personal affairs and his girlfriend did it before they split up, since when he hasn't opened anything but personal mail won't cut the mustard. If necessary, I'll go down and be maternal again. I'm hard to resist when being maternal.

I wonder what I was going to write about? Maybe tomorrow. Mañana, siempre mañana. As they say.

Z speaks Dog

I arrived in church to find it cold. The boiler had not come on. We've been in the meeting room for the last few weeks while the weather was cold and this was the first Sunday back. I'd set the timer for the Ash Wednesday service last week, which I didn't attend as I was in London and I assumed all was well or else someone would have told me.

I supposed that the pilot light had gone out and that I'd have to wobble down the steps in the boiler house to put it right, but when I checked the time clock, it was set to 'off' rather than 'auto'. I altered it and the boiler lit up. It was less than an hour until the service and the church wouldn't heat up in that time. It would take me all the time available to move everything back into the meeting room. I shrugged, turned on the organist's heater, and decided the congregation would be chilly.

Eventually, it transpired that the Rector's husband had helpfully come down at 4 o'clock on Wednesday, found the heating wasn't on, turned it to 'all day' and then to 'off' after the service. I showed him Wednesday's time clock, set to 4.30. He was abashed, poor dear man, and I hugged him sympathetically. It was agreed that only one person really needs to take responsibility for the heating and that the control freak of the parish should be it. So I suppose I have a job for life. I mean, I'd be happy to relinquish it, but that means someone keeping a note of every time it needs altering, doing it and then putting it back afterwards. It's a 7 day clock, so we can set it differently every day, up to three periods of use a day, and only change it once a week. Obviously, some weeks it doesn't need doing at all. But I don't see anyone else remembering when school assemblies etc are happening.

Anyway, it wasn't that cold and no one complained, least of all me with my electric heater.

Ro, Zain and Claire have gone for a hearty and scenic walk around Bath Hills. I have been getting on with some work - yes, really. Al and family have been gardening and the Sage is talking lovingly to his chickens. They are being very free-range at present (their run needs to be moved as they've eaten all the grass and in the meantime they're frolicking all over the garden) so it takes ages to make sure they're all in the run at the end of the day. Tilly looked at me, quite clearly asking for her dinner early. I looked back, asking with my eyebrows if she was sure? She said she was. My eyes said she could. She looked hopeful, but didn't jump up until I took my keyboard off my knees - maybe it's my accent. Chester used to understand every unspoken word. When I got to the kitchen, I found I hadn't got any tinned dogfood. A little goes on her dried food, which is dull otherwise. I couldn't disappoint her of course, so I grated some cheese for her. She didn't mind at all.

Al and family are coming in for dinner this evening. Roast pork and chocolate cake.

Balance

I had quite a bit to do this morning, so of course I've spent most of it faffing about. I did a bit of casual tidying in the drawing room, which consisted simply of chucking out a build-up of several days' papers. Naturally, ten minutes later the Sage came in asking for yesterday's paper. I directed him towards the bin. Fortunately, I'd been too lazy to go out to the green wheelie bin, so it was still in the kitchen bin. One of the four kitchen bins, that is.

Next, I'll have to go shopping for food, since all I have is unacceptable meat. This is, of course, a Good Thing as it'll get me on my bike. This morning, unsure as to whether the lifts in my shoes are quite right, I stood with my back to the Sage, first with my weight equally on both feet, then slightly to my left, then to the right and asked him when my spine was straightest. He had little notion but suggested the right. I did the same with Ro, who also didn't know but said the same. I took out one millimetre strip and tried again. They both became uncertain. I wasn't though, it was right. I'd known it wasn't, but by so little that I couldn't even tell whether to go up or down. So now I know, I've lost 8mm-worth of right leg length - which is the 0.3" that the physiotherapist had originally measured with the improvised 'stand on appointment book and telephone directory' method.

Anyway, shopping. Would you consider that work or play? The ever fine and splendid Diamond Geezer divides his life into Work, Play, Rest or Travel, and he counts Play as anything that doesn't come into the other categories. He points out that, as a single childless man, he doesn't have obligations, and I agree with him that that's what makes the difference. After all, when shopping for food I buy things I'm not going to eat, I cook meals I probably wouldn't bother to for myself, I'm the only one who cleans the bath and I tidy up after other people, so I think of all those as part of my job. I don't have a paid job - that is, I do in the sense that I'm the Sage's business partner, but I don't receive a pay slip and my income from it is a line on my tax return - so to me, housework, gardening, shopping, voluntary activities, all count as more-or-less work. On the other hand, I enjoy a lot of it, as I do working on our business with the Sage. I don't think I could possibly separate my life into categories, however general, without making notes as I go along.

Though come to that, how many of us can? A lot of people blog from work (not DG of course) or at least read blogs or surf the net. I do myself; when I've spent an hour typing I relax (and reward myself) by reading the paper, a book, or online. If I were in an office where this was permitted, could I still call it work as it's in office hours? I don't need to make this distinction of course, because if I waste time it's my own, I'm not being paid for it.

So there's the difference and the similarity between DG and me. He is happily unencumbered by family, so once he's finished work his time is his own. Whether he buys his food and other necessities, cleans the loo, goes to the pub, reads or does anything else, he does it, at any given moment, by choice, so he counts it as Play. I am happily encumbered by family and don't have an employer so, whereas I have various obligations and a pretty full diary, I can juggle my days pretty well as I wish. However, since much of what I do in those days does involve obligations, willingly taken on for no pay, I call them Work.

I think I'm tailing away without a proper conclusion here. I should be one of those fine bloggers who works out what they're going to say in advance, and does drafts and all that. Instead, I waffle on and then have the cheek to say I'm being spontaneous. Still, Dave says that no one reads blogs on a Saturday, so maybe I'll get away with it.

Quid pro quo

Excuse me going on a bit here, but this equates to more than half of my income and so it rather matters to me - the agent rang today with an offer from a potential tenant; a bit less than I am receiving (oh, strike that, should be receiving if ever the dear chap pays his rent, which I trust I'll have good news about shortly *sigh*) but that would mean I have no period of vacancy at all, so it's worth a small concession in this period of "negative growth". So I've said yes, and if all goes well I'll get an agreement to sign by email tomorrow.

Weeza has taken over my job with the Sage rather, which is lovely as she's enjoying it and they get on so well together, so it's great to see them having a good time with planning the next sale. She's finding out how much she didn't realise she knew about the china and that's good too, so I'm happy to stay in the background. I like working with the china too, but it's not that much of a sacrifice when I see them working so well together. I'll probably still take the photos, unless she wants to, and we'll do the condition report together as I'm pretty good at spotting flaws (being hardened and cynical and all that) and, well, she'll become so good at it that she can take over from me altogether next time, unless she gets a proper job or something. She's not wanting to go back to her old one; not that she didn't like it, but Norfolk and Mayfair don't make for simple daily commuting, not if you want to see your baby awake. Still, that's a decision to be made.

I was seen cycling up the High School hill the other day which is good, because I walked most of it today.

The Sage asked me if I'd got a drink. "I had one" I said, "my glass and the bottle are in the other room." A few minutes later, he appeared with the refilled glass. "I wouldn't want you to be without a drink," he said, lovingly kissing me. "This is because I'm cooking steak, right?" I asked. He agreed. That's fine with me. Expressions of love - steak for me to him, wine for him to me.

And I bought pork for the weekend before remembering that Zain, who is Muslim, is coming over. Whoops. Mind you, he prefers to stick to Halal meat, so I usually cook veggie when he's here, so it doesn't matter as long as the pork is well wrapped. Ro has already amusedly told him that I bought it, so I don't need to worry about being tactless.

"Do you spell your name with a Z or an S?" asked Weeza of Squiffany, knowing the answer. Squiffany explained how to spell her name, saying the letters she knows and describing the ones she couldn't name with a pointing finger. It's quite good, she knows them all in order. And it's with a Z, as she knew.

Z asks pertinent questions

I hadn't given my tenant notice that I was calling - I should have, and I would have normally but the rent was unpaid for this month and I felt that if he'd broken the tenancy I wasn't under an obligation to observe all the normal courtesies. I rang the bell and he answered the door as he was working from home. The living room is set up as an office so I wasn't surprised (although he shouldn't really). Anyway, I introduced myself, we shook hands and I asked if it'd be all right to read the meters, which was fine with him. Afterwards, I went upstairs and he told me that three of the lights hadn't worked for the last couple of weeks. That was obviously a switch that had tripped, so I rang Weeza to find out where the fuse box was. Oh right, in plain view. We reset the switch, laughed about it and then I asked when he'd be leaving the flat and what about the unpaid rent?

Well, the explanation he gave was not unfeasible if you're used to young people, some of whom are astonishingly irresponsible, and when he showed me the stack of unopened mail I was inclined to believe him. I explained what I wanted, what could happen and whom he should contact, and we talked about how clean and tidy he'd leave the flat. When I got home last night, I emailed the person he was to contact, this morning I also sent him the additional phone number I'd (this is remarkably sensible for me) thought to ask for, and apparently he will send payment for two months quam celerrime, or tout de suite if you prefer.

Feeling things had gone well, I toddled along to the agents' office, had a chat with the chap dealing with finding a new tenant and thought about lunch. I wandered around for a bit, but what I really fancied - a cold glass of chilled white wine and a proper sandwich with crusty bread - wasn't on apparent offer where I looked, and then I remembered that among the unopened mail was a letter for the downstairs tenant and I'd forgotten to deliver it. So I went back to the flats. And then I thought I might as well call in the pub next door, so I had a pint and a packet of Twiglets for my lunch, as it was a bit late to be reasonable to ask for real food; it being about 20 to 3. I told them the tenant would be leaving in a month but obviously I didn't mention the rest.

Then I caught the bus to Trafalgar Square - well, actually, I walked from Shaftesbury Avenue. I must say, I got on well with the walking pole. It was a real help some of the time to have some extra support.

The exhibition was reasonably busy without being crowded, and it was brilliant. I really enjoyed it. One might think that £12 entry was enough without £3.50 for an audio guide, but unless you know a lot about Picasso, I'd recommend forking out the extra. Anyway, what's the value of the paintings there? How many millions or hundreds of millions? All in six rooms with you being close enough to touch - not that you would of course. I finally toddled out not long before closing time of 6 o'clock, took a bus from Charing Cross and had time to kill at the station. I bought food and drink at M&S - a salmon and cucumber sandwich, some parsnip crisps and a bottle of water (it was heavily discounted, all for £2, which shows how keen they all are to get our custom now), a small bottle of wine and a large pack of carrot sticks. I read my book and the paper and ate the carrot, crisps and drank the water while waiting and ate the sandwiches and drank the wine on the train. I didn't tell the Sage how little I'd eaten all day as he'd wanted me to have a lovely meal out, but it's not the same on your own, is it?

The Sage was waiting on the platform and drove me home, I made coffee, read and wrote emails and comments and was in bed soon after midnight. Today, I took Squiffany to nursery school, looked after Pugsley and entertained Zerlina (her mother is entertaining enough in her own right).

This morning, my new heel lifts arrived in the post. You can adjust them from 1mm to 12mm by degrees of 1 mm. I've got in 9mm at present. When I first put the lift in and walked across the room, Weeza said "you're walking straight and not limping for the first time in ages." I'm going back for more lovely ultrasound tomorrow, I'll see if he thinks I've got it right or whether I need to go up or down a bit.

Our television, which we can't remember how long we've had but must be at least 12 years, is starting to go on the blink a bit. I've said to Ro that if the promised rent comes through I'll buy the new one of his choice. He is very happy.

She's off!

I haven't forgotten the film but I haven't put it on the computer yet and it's late and I'm tired. But I've got a picture for you, which Phil just sent me. Hot off the hotmail, as it were.


The title of the post is the title of his email, which he sent to me and his mum, tactful boy.

A very good day in London and I'll tell you about it tomorrow. I've just got to write a couple of emails now and after that I'm going to bed. Night night darlings.

Weeza and Zerlina visit the old folk

Weeza and Zerlina are here today. I've got a little film to put up later, don't let me forget...

In the end, I decided to go to London a bit later in the day and come home later, so I'll arrive about 1 pm and leave at 8. After I've been to the flat I'll get a bus to Trafalgar Square and, if the queue isn't too awful (or tickets sold out), I'll go to the Picasso exhibition which starts tomorrow, fortuitously. I'm going to the Byzantium and Palladio exhibitions at the Royal Academy next week (which have had lacklustre reviews but let's see; I've booked, anyway) so I may be a bit cultured-out after that for a while.

I strode around a bit with both poles, to demonstrate to Weeza, and it has to be admitted that that's the way to use them. They were very comfortable, even if I did feel like a complete tit. Not for town, I'm afraid.

I've also ordered some inserts for shoes - these ones - which just lift the heel so shouldn't interfere with the fit of most shoes. I hope, anyway. I've been most awfully good today, cycled to the pool and back, floundered ungracefully in it for three-quarters of an hour and will bike in to the high school for a meeting again in half an hour. I will be knackered by the end of it. I had an extra banana mid-morning to keep up my spirits. I don't know what we're having for dinner tonight, I have a fairly empty fridge. Hm. I think the freezer will be investigated, unless I make risotto. Hm.

Anyway, I won't labour the point as I don't want to sound entirely pathetic, but I will be about, free and thirsty, in the early evening tomorrow, somewhere between Trafalgar Square and Liverpool Street Station. I'll be the one with the walking pole, trying not to look as if I feel really stupid.

I've lent Weeza my copy of my favourite Madhur Jaffrey Indian cookery book. And her childhood memoirs, which are delightful. I bought the cook book, some time ago, because I loved the memoirs so much.

Z has odd legs

Which I don't suppose you're surprised to learn. Nor was I, actually. I was going to ask if my walking could be improved. He measured me - there's the length of the bones and then the apparent length, which is influenced by such things as curvature of the spine, the ligaments, worn cartilage and such things. My bones are the same but my right leg is about a centimetre shorter than my left, which is not enough to need one's shoe built up but he recommends an insole. Great. Now none of my shoes will fit.

I can see that for when I'm going to walk far, I'll have to wear highly suitable (can't help equating that with 'unflattering') footwear, but when I want to wear something pretty, I think I might get away with a thin insole and getting an extra sole and heel put on each right shoe when I buy a new pair. That should help, shouldn't it? I asked if the arthritis has caused the imbalance or the odd legs has given rise to the arthritis, and he says it's likely to be the former, and that dealing with the effects early should help slow down the deterioration. So it's been highly sensible of me (how unusual is that?) to do something about it.

Anyway, I'm going back on Friday for more ultrasound. And I have picked up a leaflet with times of the aquacise sessions. There is one tomorrow morning. I wonder if I'll go. As last night, with my work/read/bed decision, I'm led by my whims and the decision itself is only part of it.

You're all agog, of course, to know what I did last night. Before I went to bed that is, for none of you would let thoughts stray to such distinctly personal matters as how long I read before turning the light out, for instance. Anyway, the newspaper went unread and I got started on the reports. Quite a lot still to do, but it's starting that's the hardest part, forming the initial phrases. After that, you get into it and the words flow.

Oh, and I cycled all the way up all the hills. Well, both the hills (that's Bridge Street and up to the swimming pool, Badgerdaddy). But I couldn't have done it a week ago when it was cold (and my bike tyres were a bit flat, come to that!). So the spirit of bloody-mindedness is flowing richly through my veins.

Z may get wet and isn't too happy at the prospect

Back to the physiotherapist in the morning. Afterwards, I'm going to - oh dear, now I'm telling you I'll have to - going to go along to the swimming pool to enquire about - ewch - aquacise classes. Apparently they're on Tuesday mornings and one evening and they are either shallow or deep water - with the deep water ones it's more energetic, apparently, and you have to book as the numbers are limited. I can't tell you how much I dislike the idea - both with being out of my depth and doing anything that smacks of a class. Still, as you know I have an iron will and no end of determination *cough, cough, cough*. No, the fact is that I haven't been to the pool for ages and I know it will be good for me and I need something in the nature of an appointment to force myself into it. Fortunately, I'm genuinely and unavoidably busy at least 2 Tuesdays of every month. 3 in March.

Now, it's 10.55pm. I'm going to start doing the report I've been putting off for the last 3 weeks, read the papers or go to bed. At this moment, I'm genuinely unsure which I'm going to do. What do you think?

A out-of-season photo

A picture of my house for Diane in Wyoming - the wisteria is fabulous in May if we don't get a late frost when it's in bud. And yes, there are brambles growing through the shrub in the foreground. We don't keep a tidy garden.

You may have seen this before, but Diane is a relatively new friend so she hasn't.

The two tall chimneys on the right (they are about 6 feet tall) are Victorian, but the joined-together ones to the left of the photo are Tudor.

Springy thoughts continue unabated. Huzzah!

A week or so ago, I had occasion to alter the alarm clock and I changed the hours back but not the minutes, which means it presently goes off (that is, the radio comes on) 15 minutes later than it did. Of course, the Sage and/or I generally wake up at the earlier time, even though the radio often didn't wake us for a while in the past. Anyway, this morning, the Sage got up and I fell asleep again just before the radio came on and woke up after it had gone off again an hour later. So I hope there hasn't been any news that everyone (but Everyone) is talking about, because I haven't heard it.

I went off to Norwich to have coffee with the other people who are going on the visit to Bologna in April. This was a very pleasant hour, but I'm a bit startled to have apparently agreed to book opera tickets online for about 8 of us. I offered for one person who doesn't have a computer and was overheard by another and the next thing was there was an orderly queue. Booking doesn't open until a month before, so I'll have to do an alarm thingy or else I'll forget all about it.

As we were saying 'goodbye' to each other, two people said they were going to the Castle Museum to see a sculpture exhibition - Hepworth, Moore and Nicholson, mostly. Being rather keen on this sort of thing (and having visited both Moore's and Hepworth's gardens, where there are permanent exhibitions of their works, in the last couple of years) I said I must be sure of going to it, so they suggested I join them. And so I did, which was an unexpected little treat. We had lunch afterwards - an excellent home-made quiche and salad for £3.50 and a tumbler of orange juice for 80p which I thought was good value.
Then I went and bought a postcard for Martina in Seattle (xx, Martina) and a jigsaw for Ro, who likes them, as do I, and as I still had a bit of time in hand on the car park, I went to a discount bookshop and bought several books for me and the children, which is all splendid.

So, when the Sage got a phone call from a friend and asked me, afterwards, how far it is to Falmouth in Cornwall (over 400 miles I'm afraid) I was all cheerful and made helpful suggestions, such as couldn't they meet halfway (which is just about where my sister lives) and how about he posts a few of the items from the collection of antiques the Sage is interested in buying, so that he can evaluate them? So he is going to ring back after the rugby. The friend is watching the rugby, not us. I didn't know there was a match on this afternoon. I know Norwich is playing at home though. I drove up Carrow Road just after 2 o'clock and all these cheerily hopeful Canary-watchers in their green and yellow scarves and shirts were converging on the football ground. I don't know who they are playing (actually, it's quarter to five now and the match must be just finishing) as I didn't see anyone wearing a different colour. I spotted two people I know, a father and his 16-year-old daughter. I may see them tomorrow in church (yes, she and her sister are teenagers who choose to come with their parents to church and look remarkably happy about it) so I'll have to find out the result, to know whether to mention it or not.

Ro (who is v pleased with his jigsaw and gave me a hug) has had an appeal for money from his university. "I only joined their alumni thing because the keyring was quite nice", he said. "I bet Zain will give, though, he's remarkably generous."

I put that in in case Zain is reading. Hi, Z.

Great great news

It's all lovely and springlike suddenly. All sorts of flowers in bloom, the sun shining, chickens laying lots of eggs, all that sort of thing. Kenny called round to see the children - he used to be our gardener (he called himself the OJB - Odd Job Boy) for many years, only giving up in his mid-eighties. I think he'll be 89 this June and he doesn't get about too well now because he's got bad back trouble. He's in good health but in constant pain, which he'll only admit to if asked specifically. Ro was a baby when we first knew him. He told us that his great-granddaughter, who's in her early 20s, is expecting her first baby later in the year. Gosh. Isn't that amazing? I only knew one of my grandparents, who lived a long way away and didn't, as a child, realise what I missed. To have so many generations living within a few miles of each other is something to be treasured. Not that it's a huge family; Kenny and Muriel had two children, only one of whom had two children, only one of whom had two children so they're not responsible for a population explosion, even over several decades.

Whoops...

It was an accident. I'm glad to say that I laughed and came up with an alternative dinner plan within ten seconds and the food itself in less than fifteen minutes.

I made a bolognese-type sauce to go with pasta this evening. It was tasty, although it hadn't had the requisite long cooking. I called Ro down and asked him to carry the trayful of food through. I can't carry traysful any longer, not without demonstrating the Quasimodo Lurch. I carried the wine, cheese and glasses and he carried the tray with plates, cutlery, pasta and sauce and the sprouts (what? of course Brussels sprouts go with spag bol). I went first, to open the door.

There was a crash. I went back. The meat sauce covered a surprisingly large area of floor. Tilly shot past me, looking scared and embarrassed for having tripped Ro up.

I laughed. Ro looked stricken. "This will all have to be thrown out! What shall we have for dinner?"

"Put on the grill," I said. "We have bacon." Fortunately, I'd not put the sauce on the pasta and that dishful was still on the tray. "Carbonara sauce," I decided.

We always have ingredients for spaghetti carbonara, don't we? I'd even grated the Parmesan. While the bacon cooked, we scooped up the sauce and then called Tilly back to lick the remnants off the floor (may I make it clear, at this point, that Tilly is a dog? Don't let Dave mislead you, unless it is into naughtiness). I only had greek yoghurt not cream, but I cracked eggs, squeezed a lemon, ground black pepper and it took no time at all.

Ro is abashed. Tilly has got over it. I'll cook the meal again tomorrow, because Ro said it looked and smelled so good. The chickens will be thrilled at their meaty dinner in the morning.

Z plans to visit London

I've got to come up to town next week to take a look at my flat, where my tenant is still ignoring requests to pay the rent. The only day I can clear is Wednesday 25th. Before I book my ticket, which will commit me to times, is anyone free to meet me for a drink or a toddle round an exhibition or something? If I'm meeting someone it'll be worth a longer visit, but otherwise it'll just be a flying one.

Cheers, darlings.

Love is...

I had an email from a friend this evening, apologising in advance if she becomes a bit unreliable in weeks to come, as from now on she'll be looking after her 2-year-old granddaughter. I don't know her son or daughter-in-law but there's obviously something very wrong. I sent a supportive email back of course, aiming to be sympathetic and available but not asking questions she may not feel like answering, but I'm so sorry about the situation. I hope whatever the problem is, it sorts itself out without lasting damage, and at least, by taking the little girl out of the situation, Granny has done all she can to limit distress.

On a different note entirely, dearest Jen is finally off. She, her other half and her third half - their little daughter - are off to make a new life in the jungle in Belize. They've been wanting to do this as long as I've (virtually) known them but, unlike most of us, they've quietly planned their exit (should that be exeunt?) and taken the final step, leaving behind all that passes for life as we live it.

The Sage arrived home safely and has just toddled off to bed, where he'll find I've turned on the blanket already. Love appears to be measured by the warmth of the bed in this house. Pugsley was terribly excited when the Sage arrived home, and shot straight off to the table where he'd put some leftover toasted teacake which his mother had given him for the bantams. He fed Tilly, too. He is very fond of animals, and loves to watch them eat.

Squiffany and I played shoe shops today. I've never got into that sort of imaginative play myself, being singularly lacking in that quality, but she loves it. We took it in turns to be shopkeeper and customer. Both children had a good bounce on my bed, too. Then we went downstairs, read stories and watched The Simpsons. Al has recently bought a DVD of early (original) Star Trek episodes. Squiffany loves them and is looking forward to watching them with Ro. She'll hold his hand if there are any scary moments and explain who all the characters are.

Beeguiled and begulled

This morning I have been making phone calls. Two of the people I rang were out so I'll phone again. The first doesn't have an answerphone, which is quite straightforward (although I only wanted to leave a message) but the second did. "There's no one here, please ring again later," it went. Which is a bit pointless, isn't it? I'd rather not have had a reply than that.

The good news is that Al's hive of bees has survived the winter. When it was sunny on Sunday, thousands of them were flying about. He is very relieved.

When cycling home this afternoon, I heard an angrily screaming seagull. I looked up and a barn owl, misguidedly out during the day (it was about 2.15pm) was being chased by the gull. It was being outpaced too, despite weaving and diving to try to get away. Finally, it reached a small tree and took refuge, just in time because more gulls were appearing in answer to the screaming. I'd rather have owls than gulls on the whole, but I suppose they had right on their side. I wonder how a gull knows that an owl has no business out and about in the afternoon?

The Sage phoned a while ago (just before I went out, luckily) and I'm expecting him home in about an hour. I have looked after the place carefully during his absence and he will be reassured. He said he loves and misses me. Sweet, isn't it? We made a lot of kissy noises down the phone.

Got to love him

So, the Sage has been putting his foot in it with both hands recently. A few weeks ago (can't remember if I told you this already, but if I can't the odds are you can't either) we were invited to have dinner with friends. I took the phone call, which was fortunate, and happily accepted the invitation and then told the Sage. We never do anything on a Saturday night so I knew it would be all right.

"Oh. A bit short notice. I might want to visit A & J". A & J live in Cheltenham. I was a bit surprised. It transpired that he was planning to visit them at some time. Well, I might have implied that already. But I didn't know that hithertofore. Furthermore, he was going to stay overnight. Upon enquiry, it turned out that he might go at any time in the next few months. So, what was the big thing about the coming weekend? I asked.

Long/short - I gave him hell. I explained that we were going to have dinner with friends and have a social life together for once. And, while I was about it, I wondered why he was insouciantly planning a night visiting his friends when he was so staying-away-from-home phobic that he didn't even go to his son's graduation and I was the only parent sitting with an empty place beside me, and he hasn't spent a night away from home for more years than I can remember (at least 8, maybe 10). Poor chap didn't have a leg to prop himself up with.

Two more incidents, this last weekend, that have demonstrated that he doesn't take any notice of what I say, however nicely I say it. "Don't throw that gravy away, it'll go in with the partridge bones to make stock" isn't that hard, is it? Binned it was, although the rest of the post-dinner chaos in the kitchen was untouched. "I've left *this* dishful for the chickens, and *this*, in the colander, is for Tilly" was also straightforward. Naturally, Tilly was disappointed.

I explained that it isn't the wrong move but the not listening. He was abashed. Next time, I'll make him repeat what I said. The simple truth is that most men dismiss what women say. It goes right over their heads. They think it's all 'yakyakyak', however lucid the explanation.

Anyway, today he's gone to visit A&J in Cheltenham. So I've taken the opportunity to cook an Indian meal. Fish in a yoghurt sauce, a mushroom and rice number, a green bean with chilli and mustard seed dish and spicy cauliflower. Later, I will play loud and sweary music. Then I'll go to bed. He phoned at 7 o'clock. "I left the electric blanket on" he said. "I wouldn't want you to be chilly without me."

Oh, and he arranged for Al to feed the chickens. "Didn't he think I'd get it right?" I wondered. "I think he was worried that you'd fall over and get muddy" reassured Al. "It's a bit boggy just inside the gate." It's true. He spares me.

Isn't it a nobby one?

Today has gone very well. Last night, I knitted together, in pairs, the last 16 stitches of my hat. I was, until the last few rows, undecided as to whether to sew it up or to unravel the whole thing and start again. It isn't perfect, to say the least. However, once I'd done, I encouraged myself to finish the job. After a good night's sleep.

And so, this morning, that is what I did. I had a cheery online chat with Badgerdaddy and then I did a bit of work and then I got on with it. I'd had a bit of difficulty in deciding when to start reducing the rows, as it was not easy to count - evidently, I should have used a marker. It seemed about right and, more vitally, I judged that the wool I had left wouldn't stretch much further, so I was glad when I put the unmade-up hat against my head and found it wasn't a bad fit. Once finished, there actually was some wool left over, so I added a few rows to the scarf, which I'd providently (not providentially, it was deliberate) left on the needle against the opportunity to lengthen it and then finished that off too.

Later, I cycled into town wearing both hat and scarf. This means I have resoundingly carried out one of my NY resolutions, which was to knit and wear something. I'm still working on the music one and haven't started on the others, but it's only mid-February so there's plenty of time.

But before that, I discovered that the post had arrived. And in it was a pair of most splendid walking poles, which were a gift from the company, or at any rate its PR people. I'm quite embarrassed about this, as I'm not exactly a target customer, but at the same time my good friend who arranged the gift was entirely truthful, as was I in my letter of thanks. It's only fair to give them a plug - the Vango Walker is what I have and although they haven't yet been used for more than striding around the house, they seem well designed and made (isn't telescopic always a pleasure?) and there's a little compass in the top, which is such a nice touch. I love gadgets and they just might have found themselves a new customer. Next time, a paying one.

Then I had my hair cut, which is always a pleasure.

Ro, who still has a cold, roasted himself by the fire tonight. His arm is quite red. I've been up to find my après sun stuff, which I didn't need at all last summer.

Tonight, Al and Dilly are at the Bee Club meeting, the first of the year. The Sage (who blotted his copybook on consecutive days, oh dear oh dear) is babysitting, but I expect I'll take over from him later.

Oh, there is one thing that has annoyed me. I bought a bar of Green & Black's cherry chocolate a while ago, and we've been eating it in the past week or so. Now, G&B chocolate isn't quite what it was, since it was bought out by a major brand (Cadbury's, I think, but am open to correction) - for one thing, they've added milk to their plain chocolate, and what's all that about? But anyway, what I like about this particular chocolate is the delish sour cherries. So, when I was in the Little Green Shop this afternoon, I bought a small pack of sour cherries, thinking that I could nibble on a few of those and bypass the chocolate. But when I got them home I read the label and found that they have added vegetable oil and sugar. What's the point of that, then? Is it because they are American and everything is high fat/high sugar in America? Surely not. Anyway, I ate a couple. They are too sweet and slightly oily. I'll probably hide them at the back of the cupboard for a couple of years and then throw them out. Not at all nice, and disappointing. Why call them sour if the sourness has been eliminated?

Ro and the Nasal Irritation

"Urgh" groaned Ro again. "Poor you," I said sympathetically. "Is it a cold or is it full-blown man flu?" "I suppose I am making a bit of a fuss," he acknowledged.

I'll miss him when he moves out, you know. Whenever that will be.

"You know when you get something packed in those polystyrene granules and a bit goes up your nose?" he said. "Well, no, but I have inhaled a feather," said I. "Well, it feels like that. As if there's some irritant that you've breathed in and it's right up near your eye." We talked about polystyrene. Apparently, he's inhaled it more than once. Stuff was often packed in it where he used to work and in the end he always got someone else to do the unpacking. Most odd.

Bouncing Baby

Z does very little

I'm absurdly relaxed. I'm gradually catching up on work but not putting much into it. I'm hoping that I'm just following my body, as it were, and that when I need to snap to it, I'll be all keen and ready again.

I was awake for a long time in the night, so I finished the book and started another. Reading books has settled me back into myself I know - but for ages they didn't hold my interest. Actually, yesterday's didn't really as I didn't engage with any of the characters at all, but the writing itself was good enough to keep me going.

Today, after getting up late, I went into town to pick up my contact lenses. The receptionist was just back from 3 months in Australia visiting family and we chatted for a long time. I was in there about 20 minutes. Then I went over to where I'd left my bike and chatted to friends who were buying their fruit and veg from Al and then I went to the bike shop to get my tyres pumped up. This is no sort of euphemism, they were quite spongy. I bought a pump while I was there. £2.50 seems reasonable for a bicycle pump. I went back for some kumquats, rhubarb, blood oranges and a melon and then to the wine shop, then to the deli. I was right out of coffee and couldn't quite face instant. Last night, I thought I made a cup of chamomile tea, left the bag in the mug and it was only when I was taking the first sip that I realised it was actually green tea and already getting bitter. I like it bitter, but not overbrewed. The coffee smelled so gorgeous that I had to make a potful as soon as I got home.

So now I've had a late lunch and have been reading the papers and listening to relaxing music - first Sidney Bechet and now Mara Carlyle. For dinner tonight, we'll have melon, roast partridge and something with rhubarb and kumquats. You need to cook the kumquats first - the skins are edible but tart so I usually simmer them until tender, then add sugar and cook again. Orange flavour goes beautifully with rhubarb and the liquid from the kumquat, reduced until syrupy, gives plenty of sweetness. I'll probably cut them in half as they can be very pippy.

London Particular...

...is what we had for dinner. I think that's brilliant, that pea soup gave its name to a filthy fog and the fog gave its name right back to the soup. I'd boiled a piece of gammon for last night and saved the cooking water, in which I'd put onion, carrot, celery, peppercorns and coriander seeds. So today, all I needed to do was cook the dried split green peas in the (strained) stock, fry more vegetables and cook them all together for another hour. It didn't even need seasoning. The baker had sold, cheap, the last few rolls to the Sage for the chickens, but I heated them up for us. That sounds a bit mean actually, snatching food from under the chickens' beaks, especially since the dear little things have kept us in eggs all winter.

We never did cut back on eating eggs, by the way. Not that we often have them for breakfast, but I simply didn't believe the warnings about their cholesterol-raising properties. Actually, I did have a boiled egg for breakfast a couple of weeks ago. It was lovely. Come to think of it, I had one of the bantam's bread rolls with it then, too. Me bad indeed.

It's interesting, going in to a lesson in school once a week only, to observe how the students change over the months. Back in September, the year 9s (aged 13-14) were unsure in their new school and most of them were still children. A couple of tall boys, gangling and awkward or chunky and - awkward! - and some sophisticated-looking girls, but very young. Now, half a year later, they're much more assured and, some of them, potentially harder to manage. Not in the class I go to, they're fine and they're polite and surprisingly friendly, in a respectful sort of way, with me. I could equally transpose 'friendly' and 'respectful' - indeed, though some older pupils don't accept my authority to tell them what to do as they know I'm not their teacher, they are still polite and just grin at me. But the Year 9s, they do ask me for help - they also know my limitations mind you! - and ... oh crumbs, you know, they treat me kindly as a granny figure I suppose.

The other thing that gets me is how beautiful they are. Gorgeous, almost without exception. Appreciably better groomed than when I was their age, both boys and girls. At that age it comes naturally, too. I bet most of them have no idea and only see what they'd like to change.

At LOM's request, more details of the soup -
I think I could have used the veg I cooked with the gammon to make the stock, but I was afraid they would be salty (it was only one onion, a few slightly wizened carrots and a couple of outside celery stalks so it wasn't much waste. I also cooked swede, carrot and celery together as a vegetable so I saved their cooking water. Altogether it was a couple of litres once strained. I added 12 ounces (I use metric and imperial indiscriminately) of dried green split peas and simmered gently for half an hour. I chopped - actually I did it in the food processor - another big carrot and an onion and a stray shallot and a couple more celery stalks, fried them gently in a little oil for 10 minutes or so. Then I chucked them in with the peas and simmered again for an hour or so, then put through the food processor until small. This still has some pea texture, if you want it completely smooth you'd want to put it through a mouli.

You could use other vegetables, leek for example. I didn't put in so much carrot that it would change the colour.

I wouldn't use ham stock to cook beans that need soaking, as the salt would toughen them. I'd soak them overnight, then cook them (kidney beans, blackeye beans, chickpeas etc) in plain water until tender and then drain them and use stock for the rest of the recipe. Kidney beans need boiling for 10 minutes to destroy toxins or they give you stomach cramps, but are digestible after a preliminary hard boiling. Never think that beans will finish cooking in the recipe, cook them until tender first.

Z is being taken by her fancy

The Sage was in London today on business, so I set the alarm for 6 o'clock. That is, I thought I had, but it seems I made a mistake and set it for 7 instead, so he had to bustle about a bit to be ready to leave in half an hour. The bantams take most of the time available. I settled down in bed with a book and read for two solid hours. I got up, my pleasure increased by the frisson of guilt. On the sheep/lamb principle, I deep-conditioned my hair and strolled down to give a reproachful Tilly a belated breakfast.

Weeza and Zerlina came over later, then Dilly and Pugsley joined us for lunch. We spent the afternoon together, with Squiffany once nursery school was over. Dilly has to decide, before too long, whether to teach next (school) year or choose to be full-time mum. We debated the point with pros and cons - childcare and suchlike being one of the considerations.

I cooked a lovely piece of gammon for dinner, and served it with mixed vegetables (swede, carrot and celery), beetroot in yoghurt sauce and mashed potatoes. It went down well, which is more than can be said for the discovery that the Sage had gone around London - smart areas - in bright green gardening gloves. He was indignant at my protests. It's no wonder that we rarely go out socially together. I expect everyone assumes he's terribly posh, with his ancient tailor-made suit and peculiar accessories. Either that or they think he's a complete down-and-out with a splendid charity shop down the corner.

It was good to spend a two hours reading. I've been puzzled, after a lifetime of obsessive reading, to have almost stopped over the past couple of years. That is, I'll read maybe three or four books in a month rather than in a week, and if one doesn't grab me in the first hundred pages I'll probably abandon it. But I've read two books already this week and have started a third. I'm trying not to analyse it. I want to see where my fancy takes me.

Z is protected

My children are lovely, as I'm sure you've gathered. Since Weeza moved this way from London, we've seen each other pretty well every week and she and I have become very close - not that we weren't, but increasingly. Ro, this evening, unexpectedly hugged me again, which is not that frequent an event. The firm he works for is likely to be moving offices (more people work there and more parking is needed) and if it's to the other side of Norwich, he'll be looking to move that way. I'm supportive of course, and he knows it's genuine, while acknowledging I'll miss him. Maybe he'll miss us a bit too (not to mention the hot dinners that await him every evening, hem hem). And then there's Al, who came over all protective today when a good friend asked him for my address and he wouldn't let it out without my say-so - the point being that the arrival of the post was meant to be a surprise. Over-protective, but better than under-, so what can I say? (well, I've gently pointed out the lack of necessity, but can hardly be cross.) And then there's the Sage, who hasn't made any comment about my limp, my cycling, my weight loss or my occasional 'ouch' (or the fact that my hips aren't quite as flexible as they used to be - veil drawn and all that) but, I have discovered, had been on the phone anxiously to our offspring about me. As they are to each other, which I didn't know at the time.

Of course, the Sage never said a word when I put on weight, so there's no reason for him to remark when it goes again. Even a comment might indicate some sort of judgment, so he doesn't make it. Awfully polite, we are. Well, he is. No, we are. Yes, me too.

Z did her exercises

I've had a relaxed day, which was good. I read a lot and did my exercises. We had a leisurely breakfast with our guest, whose meeting (where he was doing a presentation) didn't start until 11, so he and the Sage, who had made an appointment in Lowestoft to fit in with giving a lift, left a little after 10 o'clock. I've hardly set foot out of the door today and have been lazy (although I did do my exercises). One of the good things about having someone to stay is that afterwards you don't have any housework for a bit as you've done it all.

We finished the fish pie for dinner, which didn't thrill Ro as he'd taken some of it for lunch today and he felt like a change. He said he'd prepare himself something, but I offered to make him an omelette. I suggested, rather randomly, shallot and cheese in it and then, as he was very hungry, offered croutons too. This somewhat combined two of my favourite omelettes; shallot and chilli, and cheese and croutons. I didn't have any fresh chillies.

The first is particularly fabulous if you've got a cold or feel cold - just chop and fry a shallot or small red onion in butter, then chuck in the green chilli, sliced into rings, then bung in the eggs beaten with salt and pepper. The chilli pieces can be hot enough to bring tears, if you're lucky, but because it's so quickly cooked the hotness doesn't permeate the eggs.

The latter is too fattening and I don't make it any more for myself, but my mum, sister and I used to cheer ourselves up with it sometimes after my father died. Fry some cubes of bread in mixed butter and oil, put on one side, dice some cheese to the same size as the croutons, wipe the pan and put in fresh butter, beat eggs with salt and pepper, tip into the butter when it's stopped sizzling but not started to burn (obv), when the omelette is half cooked add the cheese, then the croutons. Tip onto a plate while still runny in the middle but the cheese has heated enough to start to melt. Fold it over and the middle will continue to cook a bit so that it's not so runny and the cheese, eggs and croutons meld rather deliciously. God knows how many calories - you could do cubes of toast instead of croutons and do just a little cheese which would help but not be quite so gorgeous.

Anyway, I have knitted a bit more of my hat. I went for one with straight needles which is sewn up at the end. Embarrassingly, I discovered that my brain couldn't cope with going straight into ribbing - you know how the first row or two winds itself round the needle? - I got muddled and kept forgetting whether I'd knitted or purled 2 stitches, as I was supposed to, or 1 or 3, and I couldn't tell as it was too early and obviously if I got it wrong it wouldn't work at all. So I pulled it out and am just doing stocking stitch. Amazingly, I remembered how to purl. If it isn't quite right I'll pull the whole lot out again and make my scarf longer - I've taken the precaution of leaving it on the needle rather than casting off. It's a bit lowering to be so rubbish, I must say, but I daresay I'll get better at it. At the knitting, that is, I'm already proficient at being rubbish. But at least I did the exercises.

Z delegates

I've got a sheet of exercises from the physiotherapist. Some of them are to do standing, a couple standing on a step and a few more lying on the bed. Two or three times a day, I should do them. I've managed one of them once today, I was busy. I feel guilty already, especially as I assured the nice man that I was highly motivated and would do whatever would help. Anyway, he gave me some lovely ultrasound and another appointment for a fortnight hence.

This afternoon, I got the Sage to do the hoovering. I just kept pointing him at another room and he politely kept going. He's not superb at it, admittedly - if there's a magazine lying on the floor, for example, he'll hoover round it and when it's picked up there's a pile of gubbins underneath, but this is a small fault and easy to overlook. I don't believe in being critical when someone is helping me. It's discouraging and ungrateful. Better to give total praise and then, next time, remember to mention in advance that it's a help in doing a really good job if you move stuff about a bit.

Ro helped me with dinner. We've got a friend staying and so I chatted over a glass of wine and was a bit late starting on a slightly complicated dinner - not elaborate, a simple fish pie, but there were a lot of separate parts to it. I asked Ro to mash potatoes and he didn't know where the potato ricer is kept. Evidently, he doesn't do quite enough in the kitchen normally. However, he did a lot to help and I was, again, grateful and appreciative. For a pudding, I meant to poach pears but Squiffany went to sleep so I had to babysit next door instead of getting on with some cooking while the children were here, so I made them into a crumble instead with a jar of quince preserve, which worked well.

I've been told again that swimming would do me more good than anything. I don't quite like to explain that I'm too timorous to take both feet off the bottom unless I'm holding on with at least one hand. I am very capable of floundering helplessly at the bottom of the pool, even when I'm not out of my depth. I hardly ever even lie back in the bath as when I relax I have been known to slip under the water and panic.

Ooh, the dinner must have been all right. I thanked Ro for his help, again, and he kissed me goodnight. This doesn't often happen. The Sage always kisses me when I make him a pudding, too. Isn't that splendid?