Z is letterless

I think I'll wait for a bit before moving onto another alphabet. I've enjoyed it, but sometimes the posts are written around the titles. For the moment, I'll show you a few more photos. They are all fairly random snaps and, as you can see, I'm no photographer.

We hired a car for three days. Wink and the Bod had seen a fair bit of the Algarve last year, but they wanted to fill in the gaps and also show me some of the scenery. So, on the Tuesday, we took a taxi up the hill to the car hire place (they considered walking it, but when they realised how far and how uphill it was, they were glad they hadn't. I wouldn't have tried in any case; they'd have returned to the hotel for me) and fetched it. I read while they filled in forms and sorted everything out. I had not taken on any responsibilities for any organisation of this holiday and was enjoying complete relaxation.

Bod drove, which he found a bit difficult. Actually, I've only ever driven my own car on the Continent - I'd have thought it would be easier to drive a left-hand drive car on the right, but I hadn't considered changing gear with my right hand which I think would be very awkward. Bod certainly found it so, especially as we headed for the mountains and he had to negotiate hill starts at junctions as well. I quietly decided, if I hire a car abroad, to choose an automatic - but then I've often driven one, which the Bod never has. Anyway, we climbed to the highest part of the Algarve, which turned out to be a bit disappointing. There were masts and industrial buildings and nothing else and it was jolly windy, so we drove back down the hill a bit and stopped for a picnic.

The view was lovely. There were a few small farms but few other buildings in sight.
We heard bells before we saw the cows wander over the road.

Afterwards, we headed over a mountain pass.

I didn't have a chance to take photos because the roads wound so and we couldn't stop, but there were a lot of cork oak trees and olive trees. I find the plants, and especially the crops, extremely interesting when I visit a place. I like to know what local people live on and what makes a place tick.

The area close to the coast is very built-up, and I didn't take photos of the numerous apartment blocks and ex-pats' villas, but once you're slightly inland, it completely changes and there's little sign of tourist activity.

Later, I relaxed again.

Omega v you a few photos instead of a proper post today

I've just realised the time - a bit late to start writing much. So here are a few photos of the Algarve.

A view from Wink's balcony

A dog

Another dog

A fishing boat being pulled onto the beach

Z relaxes

A cat in a tree

Another view from Wink's balcony, showing the terrace where we had breakfast


I have more photos. Or maybe you prefer me to talk more. Your call.

Psi d the point, but Z has been remembering again.

Sorry. You try finding something that starts p-si. It made me psi heavily. Psi what I mean?

Right, that's all the possible pronunciations I was given by google.

I wanted to tell you about Cobie and Joepie. They were - well, still are I suppose - sisters. They, with their younger brother and parents, lived in The Hague and a friend of my parents taught them English. Cobie, the older, passed her *GCSE equivalent* exams in English, German and French with the highest marks of anyone in Holland. The French and German governments sent congratulations, maybe an award. Britain did nothing. So the friend asked my parents if they would invite her to stay and show her something of English life in the summer holidays.

Johann speaks perfect English, but with a Dutch accent. Remarkably, Cobie, a girl who had never visited Britain, had virtually no accent at all. On the first day with us, someone knocked a glass over and it broke. "Whoops," she remarked, "that's gone for a Burton." This was the late 1950s, it was a current slang expression then and typical of her, that she knew the language through and through.

We all got on so well that she was invited to come for a year as an au pair. I was 5 when she spent her year with us. She was tall and blonde. She adjusted effortlessly to life with us and really did become part of the family. My mother used to speak of her as "my Dutch daughter". There were other Dutch girls working as au pairs and they all got to know each other - they went to evening classes at the local college. One of them, Petronella, eventually married a local farmer - Weeza and Al went to school with her children, although they were older.

It must have been a rather different life from hers at home. The atmosphere was very relaxed. Cobie's father and mother had not had an easy life when she was a child during the war. It was very tough in Holland and people were sometimes close to starvation. Her father was, with Johann, an active member of the Resistance. If caught, they would have been executed. He was a man with high and exacting standards for himself and his children. We had a lavish (seen in retrospect) lifestyle, with a gardener, three cars and regular visits to London for the shops and theatre.

At the end of the next summer, her sister Joepie came in her place. She was not so tall, with brown hair and a pretty face with a pointed chin; Cobie had a rounded chin. Her English was also fluent but more accented. She was delightful too and, shy as I was, I was as relaxed with them both as with any member of my own family. My parents went on holiday without me and Wink and we went to stay with Cobie and Joepie's family - I remember their shower, which was downstairs and a small concrete room. Although the water was not cold, I stood and shivered while I was soaped. I also remember being dressed up as a pirate and having my picture taken swigging from an empty rum bottle, walking along the pavements skipping over the lines, going to the zoo once, and falling against the french window, which broke. Scared, I ran from the room and into Cobie's arms to be comforted. I wasn't scolded by her parents though, it was an accident. Oh, and I remember coming into the room and finding Cobie wearing a white dress decorated with strawberries, a new one. "I like that," I said. "Do you? I don't, I think I'll send it back," she remarked. I was embarrassed, I so rarely expressed any opinion and it seemed I had the wrong one!

That's the extent of my memories of three weeks' stay.

Every year, we used to receive St Nicholas Day presents from them, in a big box. It was terribly exciting. I particularly loved the chocolate, in the shape of letters of the alphabet or wrapped to look like miniature Delft tiles. Then there was the gingerbread in the shape of Santa Claus (you see, I'll say it in context). It was spicy and delicious and my benchmark of the tastiest gingerbread.

Afterwards, we had a third au pair girl. My mother told me she was a Finnish girl. I took this to mean that she was the last, as we were getting too old for them, and asked what country she was from. Her name was Malle. She used to bring gifts of smoked reindeer meat, which was delicious. She gave me a pair of reindeer fur slippers with pointed toes for Christmas. I had to be careful running across our polished floors.

She was a finish girl in fact, as we didn't have another au pair. I suppose I was eight or so and my sister was entering her teens and we didn't need one any more.

By the way - it seems to be the thing at present for bloggers to look up their address on Google Images. I was quite surprised, since we're 100 yards or more from the road and there are two hedges in the way, one by the roadside, to find it. I was amused and more surprised to find it described as an "old manor house." It isn't.

They must have come on to our front field (not the cows' field, this is the one that Dave is eyeing up for a cricket pitch) as there's no possibility of getting this clear a shot through the hedge.

Chi ding myself for having googled "pronounce Greek letters"

I wish I hadn't. I found myself observing an entertaining discussion forum on the subject of "fee" versus "fie" The English tend to say fie, whilst it's fee in Greece. But then someone mentioned that it depends on the next letter. I looked further. As soon as one person assured me that chi was pronounced "see", another said it was "kee" or, ideally, "khee", with the kh pronounced as a Scottish loch.

I give up. I'll do what I want and I'd already, many years ago when Al was 15, discovered it was too late for me to learn ancient Greek as I'd spent a geeky childhood wanting.

So, today I looked after Squiffany and Pugsley again, as their mother was doing tattooing at the village school Christmas fair. Tattoo transfers, obv. It was very busy and everyone was having fun. For the first time in my life, I entered Father Christmas's grotto (I don't say Santa Claus because I'm English. I don't shorten it to Santa because once in a while I prove to be a crashing snob). We think it might have been the real Father Christmas, which was quite unexpected, because he had a real weather-beaten red nose and chin that were, undoubtedly, natural and not painted on. Squiffany had told me that he has stand-ins at this time of the year, which seems entirely reasonable.

For the last ten years, at least, there have been silent auctions at school fairs. One year, someone did sterling work in getting gifts and vouchers from local businesses, and it seemed a pity to put them all into the raffle, which had lots of prizes anyway. The Sage suggested a table-top auction, with written bids and a time limit and the then Head was doubtful that it would work, but it brought in a lot of money and they've done it ever since. I spent £50 on my three winning bids (a day for two at a Norwich hotel's swimming pool, sauna and jacuzzi, a pair of children's shoes of your choice from excellent Norwich manufacturer and a £20 voucher from the clothes shop in town that I often shop at anyway). I gave Dilly the spa voucher and she plans to invite Weeza I think. She also wants me to give the shoes voucher to Weeza as Zerlina grows out of her shoes so quickly.

We came home with a basketful of other goodies, including whole lots of homemade cakes. I'm afraid that the Sage and I, and Dilly when she arrived back, overindulged rather. I could hardly walk by then and was glad of comfort food. I'd been on my feet for several hours, without a stick, and although it doesn't hurt now, and I may well walk fine tomorrow, I'm glad I phoned for that appointment on Monday. I'm going to get operated on as soon as I can.

My mind is, of course, already toying with what music to listen to, if I do have an epidural. I shall be asking for suggestions. I'm quite sure that Dinu Lipatti will be included but I haven't thought further yet.

Phi ding children

It's not always easy when grandchildren come for a meal. To start with it's fine - Zerlina, at 15 months, tucks into whatever she's given. But Pugsley has reached the cautious age when he's reluctant to put anything in his mouth unless he already knows he'll like it. Squiffany is willing to try anything, but still tends not to like it if it tastes slightly different from what her parents cook for her. This can be frustrating.

I don't remember ever being fussy over food when I was a child. I ate very little, but that was a matter of appetite. My mother was tolerant about it, knowing that I couldn't help it and would eat until I was full, then stop. When food was being served, I might be carved a single slice of chicken, for instance, a small roast potato was added to the plate by the carver (my father) and then my mother asked what vegetables I'd like. I distinctly remember asking for "five peas and half a sprout, please" and being given them without comment. When I was out and given more food than I could manage, my mother advised me to try to eat the meat "it's protein and good for you, and it's expensive so it's a waste to leave it" and I dutifully did my best. I observe, at this distance, that she didn't need to persuade me to eat vegetables, I liked them, including sprouts, spinach, turnips and other things thought of as difficult foods for children.

I liked almost everything in fact, and if I didn't, I assumed it was my childishness - after all, if I saw grown-ups eating something with enjoyment, it must be good and I just couldn't appreciate it yet. My parents were very interested in food and very good cooks, though my mother did nearly all the cooking. She preferred it that way as my father used dozens of different utensils and never washed anything up.

I think of myself as having a very small appetite, and yet I must have packed away a reasonable amount of food, because so much was provided. When I was a small child, we always had a cooked breakfast, then we'd have a meal, not a snack, for lunch, and a cooked dinner in the evening. No afternoon tea, usually, as I mentioned the other day. Tea was usually tea. There was always fruit, however, and a biscuit, cheese or whatever if it was wanted. Sweets were rarely seen and snacks such as crisps (potato chips) were even rarer. I remember when I was about 11 and very ill with flu - my mother brought me a tray with little dishes containing treats, including a few crisps. I looked at it, dismayed, unable to touch a mouthful. When I was getting better it didn't occur to her to give me the treats again (some of you have read this snippet before, it's hard not to repeat oneself occasionally after a few years when readers have come and gone, so my apologies). We never had puddings, as my parents didn't eat them. We had ice cream sometimes, I suspect my mother reckoned that was reasonably nutritious, so okay. There was often cheese as well as a well-stocked fruit bowl instead of puddings.

Apart from ice cream and bread, and the occasional tinned soup, everything possible was made from scratch. I was 16 when I first had fish and chips from a chippie. The rare occasion when it occurred on the Z family menu, it started with whole fish, which were filleted, battered and fried, and with whole potatoes to be washed, peeled, cut up, washed and dried, fried until pale and cooked and then fried again until browned. We might have had frozen peas with it though. And I seem to remember ketchup. That was a meal my father would have cooked, my mother would have thought it a waste of time, chips being fattening anyway. She'd have been landed with a devastated kitchen to clear up though.

Today, Pugsley had been invited to a lunchtime party, so I picked up Squiffany from school. I'd been out at meetings all morning so hadn't bought anything for lunch, and she's very hungry when she comes out at noon (she will go to school all day after Christmas, but she's still nowhere near 5 years old). Knowing what little I had, I asked her what she would like for lunch. I was very relieved when she asked for boiled eggs and toast soldiers. No problem in it tasting different from Mummy's cooking. I checked how she'd like them done (firm white, runny yolk) and she managed to pack away most of three good-sized bantam eggs (that is, good size for a bantam egg is still small, so they equalled two large eggs) and three slices of toast from a small loaf.

We were playing when Dilly and Pugsley arrived back, so we had a cup of tea and then Dilly went home, leaving the children here. I took them back at half past four. It's very quiet here now and the Sage and I are a bit lonely.

Upsilon Gway means a limping Z

I met my match in Portugal. I managed the uphill walks to the forts and then to the battlements (I'll download the pictures sooner or later and might show you one or two) but by Friday I just wanted to rest. It wasn't that it hurt so very much, but that I didn't want to go home in poorer condition than I'd left. Actually, two lovely sunny days and a gentle stroll or two was fine.

Nevertheless, I've finally admitted to myself that I don't want to wait another year. And I'm usually busy, and the start of the year is the least busy. The clincher was reading, last night, the itinerary of the visit to Glasgow I've signed up for in May and dreading it, although I want to go.

So I'm phoning the surgery for an appointment tomorrow and am setting things in motion. I hope I'm offered an epidural - isn't the thought of hearing your thigh being sawn through a weirdly thrilling one? No, don't say it's just me. Actually, I suspect they'll suggest I bring in my iPod and drown out the whirr.

Anyway, I peered out at the dismal weather this morning and asked the Sage if it was going to rain again. He said it was clearing up. So, with my usual trusting innocence, I got my bike out, looked for gloves, couldn't find a matching pair except for fingerless gloves and set off. It was a cheerless journey - it wasn't exactly raining but there was a liquidity about the air that hung about. I fished a bag out of my pannier to put over the saddle while I was shopping.

When I came out of the first shop, it was raining. I cycled down the road, reparked and went into another shop. It started to rain harder. I engaged the shopkeeper in conversation so that I could stay indoors.

When it cleared up (relatively, it was still damp) I went home. The Sage was out. I hadn't taken a key. I remembered those happy childhood days when we never locked our house, even when we went on holiday. My father always said that, with our huge windows, a locked door was more inconvenience to us than a potential burglar. I went to ask Dilly for the key and was met in the hall by Squiffany. "Hello, Zerlina" I said, to my embarrassment, especially when she laughed and went to tell her mother.

Weeza and Zerlina were spending the afternoon with Dilly and family, in fact, so I had the chance to give them the presents I'd brought from Portugal, which did indeed include port. Zerlina has grown so much in a couple of weeks - she's not at all a baby now. Pugsley came running over to kiss me, which delighted me.

Weeza noticed my limp and a discussion began. I allowed her and Dilly to advise me. They encouraged me to go and spend a lot of money on myself to cheer myself up. I told them I'm going to buy the Sage a laptop for Christmas, on Tuesday, and give it to Ro to set it up. I hope he'll do it before The Day though, as otherwise we'll spend the whole time clustered around it being helpful and frustrating its new owner. Better if he has a week's playtime first.

Tau tured glimpse into the brain of Z

I've started transferring next year's appointments from the back of my diary to the new one. I considered taking them both on holiday and doing it one night when I'd gone back to my bedroom but decided the discipline (I have to choose to be relaxed, do you? It doesn't come of its own accord) of being diary-free for ten days was too good for me to forego. It's terribly boring, this transcription, so I'm glad I didn't take them. Last year I couldn't be bothered to write in regular things so I kept being taken by surprise for the first couple of months, by when I'd learnt the error of my ways and did the job properly.

Oh. That reminds me, I mustn't forget to do next year's Meals on Wheels rota.

I dislike the tyranny of a diary as much as I rely on it. I've tried using a desktop diary or an online one, but I have to have a paper diary with me too. I do know people who are careful not to carry one, so that they can't be pushed into making a commitment they don't want to, but you only have to make notes on a bit of paper and phone up to confirm afterwards, so I can't be bothered with that. In the event of it being something I really didn't want to do, I could always extricate myself by saying that the Sage has arranged something for us both without telling me. Not that I'd lie about it or anything, oh no, as if. Anyway, the home-based diary was meant to be for both of us to fill in, so that we'd know what was going on, but in practice it was only me who wrote in it, and I had to check with the Sage and write his appointments too, so that didn't last longer than a year. The most useful thing about the one on the computer was that it would fill in the regular events automatically. I make notes against appointments - another thing I learned from my mother's imprecision - she was always saying to me - "who's *JL* and why would I be meeting him or her in Norwich next Tuesday. And where in Norwich?" One always thinks one will remember.

It's the same with the garden. You think you'll remember where you planted bulbs and what variety of bean is which, but it's not so easy once they've grown*. One year, I'd not had enough labels (no, BW, I don't buy them, I cut up yoghurt pots and suchlike) and devised a method to remember which tomato plants were which, and then Al kindly potted them on and wasn't quite sure of my method. We rather took pot luck that year with some varieties. We had an awful lot of tomatoes too, as Al could only sell the labelled ones. We probably made as many soups and sauces as Dave.

That reminds me, I must clear out the plants from the greenhouses. And start on the list of seeds for next year. I've got a couple of weeks to go for that - the gardening club gets a sizeable discount so it's worth my while. I can't remember if I told you, I'm going to have a new asparagus bed next year. Mine has been there over 20 years and is well past its best. It's also full of perennial weeds which can't be dug out. I think I'll chuck carpet on top and leave it for a year to kill off the lot.

We went out for lunch with friends today. D and her brother F, who was up for the day. The Sage and his siblings grew up with them. Theirs is an extremely posh family, and when the Sage's sister was asked at tea if she would like butter or jam and she innocently asked for both, it went down quite badly. In those days, the posher the family, the simpler food the children lived on. We didn't have bread and jam at teatime, with or without butter, so I don't know how posh we were. We had a cup of Earl Grey without milk.

By happy coincidence, the Sage has just brought me a cup of tea. He is eating a jam sandwich. I wonder if it's buttered.

*I observe belatedly that this makes no sense. I mean, of course, that I don't remember the bulbs the next autumn when they're not visible or the beans when they're sprouted but not yet fruited. As you realised and kindly didn't mention. Lucky Dave is away. Though not for any other reason, don't we miss him terribly?

A sidestep

Not a real post, and I can't remember the Greek alphabet at present. Normal (ho ho) service will be resumed later or tomorrow.

I developed a migraine within a minute or two of waking up this morning. I didn't have any pills upstairs and I'm reluctant to walk unshod as I walk funny, so I dressed, so it was 10 minutes or so before I took Migraleve. Sadly, that meant it didn't work. Now, I'm just starting my 3rd migraine of the day. I'm working through it though, it doesn't help to give in. If I did, I'd have to go to bed for at least 2 hours and I'd still feel fragile all evening.

Still, lucky it didn't happen yesterday. I couldn't have driven like this. Fortunately, I touchtype so not seeing properly isn't a problem.

Sigma self to sleep

It's always the same when you know you have to get up in good time. Couldn't sleep at all the last night of the hols. Silly thing was that I hadn't set my alarm for any earlier than I usually woke naturally. Anyway, having dozed occasionally, I was awake for good at 4. I lay for a bit, humming sotto voce - obviously, I wouldn't wake my next-door neighbour, who had had no such scruples a couple of nights earlier, when the bathroom was visited at 2.30 and 3.30 and the bedside drawers were loudly opened and shut at 6 o'clock, several times. At 7.30, he or she had a shower. I felt highly miffed. Nevertheless, I didn't retaliate, not turning on the bathroom light (which started the fan) or flushing or turning on the tv. I didn't even shower until 7.30.

Anyway, after a rather unnerving drive on a wet and blustery M3 (not a large section of the journey but the least pleasant), I arrived home in good time. The Sage had missed me so much that he'd turned out the larder and washed the kitchen floor. The chickens had kindly laid me some eggs for lunch.

It was a lovely holiday and the temperature was just right really - low 20s/70s, depending on which scale you use, so not so hot I had to cover my tender pale skin but warm enough to be very pleasant, although the shock of coming back to icy rain was not so nice.

And now I'm going to have an early night and cuddle my lovely husband in my own lovely bed. Won't need much rocking tonight, I think.

Rho Ving still

This is the last full day in Portugal, I'll be back in England tomorrow afternoon and home on Monday afternoon. Wink asked me if I could stay an extra day and go with her to Bath on Monday as she's taken an extra day off but I have a meeting on Monday evening I shouldnºt miss. Dutiful to the end, you see.

Sorry I can't get all the accents right. Different keyboard and all, can't always be bothered to go back and change.

All very enjoyable here and it's warm and sunny. Wink and the Bod were going for a long walk this morning along the beach to the next village and I cried off. I've walked rather more than enough this week and Iºm resting a bit for the last couple of days. Some people hardly leave the poolside I think (It's a bit late in the season to spend the day on the beach). It seems a mildly odd thing to me, what creatures of habit most of us are. Many of them anxiously bag their favourite sun lounger early in the day rather than risk having to move a few yards. I like to ring the changes in most instances. I fear the rut.

Anyway, I hope all's well with you. I did briefly visit Dave, to make sure heºs alive as I emailed him on Saturday and he wasn't at all well then. I was slightly frustrated on Saturday. I visted my sisterºs splendid local library, only to discover that one can no longer blog from their computers. I wasnºt even allowed to leave a comment. I can only assume that there has been Abuse of the Internet in the last few months, as I could last time I was there at the end of the summer.

I must read some emails. I'm afraid there are several hundred of them - we email because we can, don't we? Mind you, so do we blog.

See you next week, darlings. I miss you frightfully.

xxx

Another significant birthday, another present - 50

My forties were not quite what I had hoped for. Let's not go there, hey. My mother died in the March and all her affairs were sorted out during the course of the summer. There was some left-over money at the end which my sister and I shared, and I decided to buy a piece of jewellery for myself, in memory of my mother and for my birthday. The Sage wanted to be part of this, so in the end we chose a nice ring and went halves.

Didn't do a lot for the day, I think we had a family dinner here.

Fifties have been pretty good so far. Great, in fact.

Z throws a party for her 40th

It's the only time I ever have decided to have a party for myself. I was looking forward to being 40. The 30s had been good and I was very happy, with lots of friends and a social life (gosh). I planned it all and invited lots of people and it was all very jolly. Weeza was working in Greece at the time and I spent half the evening on the phone trying to get through to her.

I decided on a present for the Sage to give me this time. He had made me a wonderful oak box, a scale model of a 17th century coffer, which sits on the mantlepiece Even Now. It's all pegged together and the panels slot in and the only nails are ones he made for the hinges, also hand-made by him. To age the oak, he got hold of some pure ammonia (not self-made) and - this needed great care because of the fumes - the oak was put in a tin with the ammonia and it darkened it naturally. It was such a labour of love. I asked him, this time, to make me a music stand, having recently started to learn to play the clarinet. It's made of walnut with a brass adjustable rod which, of course, he'd devised himself. Before taking up the auctioneering trade, he was an engineer and still has his lathe and stuff.

My clarinet, by the way, was my grandfather's and is a Boosey and Hawkes Regent, made in the early 1950s, and so about as old as I am.

30, and Z is on holiday again

We didn't really do family holidays very much, but we'd booked a fortnight in Jersey at the end of August and beginning of September. Weeza was 9 and Al was 7. We decided to fly from Norwich for the convenience. Sad to say, the Sage's father, Pa, had become ill as a result of a respiratory condition brought on by the field of rape growing behind the house. He died in the middle of August. However, Ma insisted that we go away as planned and she had her daughter and Hilda (I'll tell you about Hilda one day) to look after her.

While we were away, the Sage wanted to know what to buy me for my birthday. I'm rubbish at this sort of thing as I never know what to ask for, but I had the good idea of a gold chain. We looked at all the chains in the shop but none was exactly right until the man brought out a tray of second-hand jewellery. One was just right. It was slender enough to put a pendant on but wide enough to wear on its own and it was the right length and colour.

The other shop we loved was one selling stones and fossils. Weeza and Al were fascinated and we went back there several times. We did like Jersey - I'd always lived by the sea but East Anglia has sandy shores and I really like rock pools and caves. I spent happy hours watching the sea anemones and hermit crabs on Jersey.

From the rock shop, the Sage bought a huge piece of bluejohn. This is a stone mined only in Derbyshire. Therefore, as a re-import, no tax was due on its arrival in England. This had been arranged in advance but we had to go through the "something to declare" channel. The Sage and the customs men got on very well and chatted for ages. I was in a dilemma, knowing that my mother and stepfather were waiting for us, but unable to go until we'd actually been let go. So I joined in the conversation, laughing loudly so that my mother would hear and know that, at any rate, we hadn't been arrested.

I liked being 30. I felt grown up at last. Back when I was at school, my lovely Latin teacher Mr Lamb mused once that he believed he had been born middle-aged and it gave me a shock of self-knowledge. I realised that I had not yet grown into the age I was meant to be and this was the reason I felt awkward.

Once we arrived home, Ma told us that she had decided to move from the house she'd spent nearly all her married life in and where her three surviving children had been born. The Sage told me this as we were sharing a plate of sandwiches at the Yacht Club in Lowestoft. It was one of the times I spoke and listened with interest to know what I was going to say. It was as a result of this that we moved to this house. And Ro was born, though that was the Sage's suggestion, received very well by me.

I remember being 20

The Sprouting Sage and I were on our honeymoon in the Seychelles at the time. We'd been married several months, but that was because a six-month engagement was far too long for those of short attention spans and we became impatient.

It was before the revolution there and Jimmy Mancham was the President. One day, we saw his Rolls Royce parked by a restaurant at a beach, but we didn't see him. It was an idyllic place - haven't been back since so can't say what it's like now. We stayed on the main island, Mahé and visited some others; Cousin, which was a bird sanctuary, La Digue, where there were no cars and we travelled by ox cart and Praslin, where coco de mer palms grow. We flew to La Digue in a pre-war biplane with 9 seats, including the pilot's. Rain came in through the canvas. Someone asked about a finny shape in the water below and we were casually told that it was a shark.

The Sage bought me a ring for my birthday, locally made. It is gold with blue enamel, red coral and either pinkish garnets or rubies, can't remember which. It fits on the middle finger of my left hand.

I was shocked to be no longer a teenager. Leaving my teens seemed to me to be a bigger rite of passage than getting married.

Double figures - 10

I don't remember my tenth birthday either. I might have had a party, but we were all growing out of them by that time. I found them an ordeal, I must say. I was an unsociable child and very shy. You may find that hard to believe now but, at least until I was sixteen or so, I was the shyest person I have ever met and even after that it took me many years of effort to become not shy.

However, that's not relevant to my tenth birthday. If I didn't have a party, we had a family day in London. Family days in London were normally spent mostly shopping with my mother, who loved London shops (there weren't the good provincial shops in those days) plus a visit to a museum or some such place.

At this time, I was about to enter Junior 5 at my school. I was a year young for the final year of junior school but Junior 4 was the Remove, and the older pupils in the year were, if deemed academically able, skipped past it. I know that three of us, all with birthdays between September and December, did this (we were Z, Lynn and Julia) but I remember nothing else about it. I must have been taken from classmates going back five years and put with bigger boys and girls, and I went from being the oldest in the class to one of the youngest but I can't remember a damn thing about it. I was an accepting sort of child, I didn't understand what was happening so it was simplest to just take it and run, or amble slowly, with it.

My main achievements in the year were passing the 11 Plus and being the Walrus in the school play. I never took the 11 Plus, but I was deemed fit to enter Grammar School. My mother thought Grammar School was unsuitable however. She also thought that a half-decent school was unsuitable, so I continued my half-arsed education in Lowestoft. One of the regrets of my life was, when I went to the no-longer-Grammar School, it having been overtaken by comprehensive education, discovering that I could have learned Ancient Greek there. I couldn't help wondering why I'd been obliged to spend all those years in a pretty inferior private school when I could have gone to an excellent state one. Many years later, I mentioned to my mother that, as I was a girl, my education didn't matter - she was furious and denied it, but it was true. All the same, being as I say an accepting child, I just got on with things and was happy enough.

The Walrus - ah yes, as I've mentioned, I was the shyest person anywhere, evah. In the past (each year did a play for the end of term concert) I'd always been given non-speaking parts as it was assumed I'd have stage fright. In fact, as many actors will testify, they are not shy on stage, because they are not having to be themselves. One teacher got this, and proposed me, not as Alice (she wasn't quite that brave) but as the Walrus. Actually, I was the very image of Alice, with long blonde hair and an - wait for it - Alice band. So that would have been boring.

It was fine. The only person who lost his nerve was Vincent, the Bart Simpson of the class, as we might say nowadays, who played the Mock Turtle. I wore a handlebar moustache, baggy trousers with braces and a red and white striped teeshirt.

First, I was born - 0

If anyone can identify that quotation (minus the zero) from a published book I will be mightily impressed. If it's the same book I'm thinking of, of course.

I know, darlings, that you will miss me terribly while I'm away. So here are a few posts of Memories of Z's significant dates.

Obviously, I have no memory of the day I was born. But I can tell you a little about it. To start with, I was a much wanted second baby, born more than five years after my big sister. My parents had rather given up hope, which is part of the reason I was given a name meaning 'Life". Mind you, I should have been a boy, for family reasons (whole family name has died out now, apparently). I was a great big baby, weighing 9 lbs or 9 1/2 or 10 lbs, I can't remember what I was told, and I was very long. My parents expected me to grow into a six-footer. I don't think I grew much past the age of six months or so, however and was tiny for many years. Now I'm just short.

At the time of my birth, my parents owned and ran a hotel in Weymouth, on Bowleaze Cove. It's a rather splendid Art Deco building - if you've seen the Poirot series with David Suchet, the white-painted buildings featured in that were from the same era. They were reluctant hoteliers; it was force of circumstance. We moved to Oulton Broad, now part of Lowestoft in Suffolk, when I was four years old.

My mother looked after me when she was free, but I had a nursemaid called Alice (I think, I don't remember her) as she had to work long hours at the hotel during the summer season.

Pi Napples

Have you noticed, in the last few years, that pineapples are much sweeter than they used to be? Time was you had to sugar them unless you had a particularly robust tastebud, but now you really couldn't. They're easy to grow from the crown of the fruit of course, but not easy to get ripe fruit from. Back in the long ago, my father grew a pineapple in the greenhouse but I don't think it ever ripened. A pleasant memory I have from my childhood was when the Head Gardener of Lowestoft corporation nurseries took me all around the greenhouses. He was immensely kind. He was a shortish Scot called Mr Campbell and he told me about all sorts of things and gave me plants and picked me a lemon from a huge tree that grew on the end brick wall of the biggest greenhouses. I wonder if that lemon tree exists now. Mr Campbell had a reputation of being quite abrupt, but he was obviously dedicated to his job and extremely kind to a shy little girl. I remember him with affection.

I've done most jobs and only have a letter to write (a pleasant one but formal. which will take some care) and some practical things such as putting petrol in the car. Oh, and packing. Pfft. It'll be fine. I mean, the worst that happens is that I forget something and have to buy it. It's not as if I'm off to the back of beyond. I've got insurance, with medical issue duly declared, and the Sage is checking such things as tyres, oil and water for my initial journey. I find it almost impossible to get anxious as I just assume it'll all work out and I have a quite unwarranted confidence in my ability to catch up. I'm slower than I used to be - that is, no I'm not, I can still go into scarily efficient speed, but only when I have to, and I find it hard to carry on doing practical work in the evenings.

Following a conversation yesterday, I've decided that my shorthand for relationships is this -

1 (to husband and family) You come first.
2 I respect your right to make your own decisions. I may proffer advice but don't expect you to take it.
3 Thank you for your advice. I will take it into account.
4 (to husband and family) You are right unless I overrule you. Then, as it's rare, I am right.

I think that's about it, in addition to my three Golden Rules of Life, the first two of which are Be Polite and Be Kind and the third is between me and my husband. Ahem.

'Course, one falls short, does one not? But one continues to try.

Omicron ic inability to keep my mouth shut

Life could be so easy and pleasant. However, is that what life is meant to be about? Well, I don't know, but I do have a fairly developed sense of social responsibility and I think that giving until it hurts, whether in terms of time, money, effort or whatever one is able to do, is a Good Thing. Not, mind you, until it hurts those you have responsibilities for. And one is responsible for oneself, so getting the balance right is a matter of consideration.

All the same, my policy is to help if I can and to push myself if I can without my family being *too* unhappy. I've not always got the balance right, I know. I remember once when I was whining to the Sage (some of you will already have heard this, sorry) about all I had to do, and I itemised them and it included work for him. And I added, fortunately, "of course, you come first". And his shoulders, which I hadn't realised were tense, relaxed. Taught me a lesson, it did. But at any rate I said the right thing without him having to ask.

Anyway, upshot of all this is that (no need to congratulate me) I'm now chairman of governors, and very aware of the difference between a 70 pupil primary school and a 1000 pupil secondary school. I've been stepping up the action in the past year, but there's still a lot more to learn and do. I also don't want to drop my other involvements in languages, music and learning support, though it would be sensible to do so. However, it's been for good reasons that I've been cutting back, by coming off the Nadfas committee and giving notice that I'm standing down as churchwarden and from the PCC in the spring. Of course, now the Sage's business is bigger, having increased by 50% this year alone, but as long as Weeza and I can override his inclination to let things slide and do it all in one go at the last, we should be all right.

I've been asked to join another committee, by the way. The Sage is advising against and he's right, but I may do it anyway. I'm not very good at not multi-tasking. I think it's a chronic inability to concentrate on just one thing and do it well. I rely on doing just well enough in several. I'm a born amateur.

Xi gn language

Have I mentioned that I'm getting a bit hard of hearing since I've been helping in music lessons? Or it could just be that I've realised it because when pupils speak to me and there's music going on, I can't always make out what they're saying. I've always been quite careful of my hearing and don't tend to go to loud concerts and the like very much and I live in a relatively quiet place, but I suppose that life takes its toll. The Sage has pretty good hearing however, if he uses it.

I went to a meeting at the school the other day - oh, it's only Tuesday - it must have been yesterday then. It was about disabilities and ensuring equality, lack of discrimination and access in the school - it's an interesting subject. Our high school was built on a sloping site and there are steps all over the place. A member of staff with a disability (which I was unaware of) has taken on the project and I'll be involved too as I'm one of those people who volunteers.

As an aside, I can't help wondering when that happened. In my younger days I was the sort of person who hid behind a taller person, who was anyone else, when a volunteer was needed.

Anyway, I'll no doubt get to know more about the definition of it - for a start, someone who wears glasses will not, just for that, be counted as having a disability but someone who wears a hearing aid probably will. I suppose that glasses correct a sight problem while a hearing aid helps but doesn't correct deafness? I suppose also that, in a school, a child who wears glasses is hardly unusual, but one who can't hear properly is.

At the village school they've done after-school classes in sign language, I've been told. I think that it is supposed to help with language development for visual learners, as well as being a generally Good Thing. I'd be absolutely useless at it I'm afraid. If I go deaf, I'll have to live in a little world of my own because, while I might learn to use sign language, I'd never be able to read it. That is, I probably could read it in a book but not understand the actual hand signals. When Ro was at the village school, there were two children there with profoundly deaf parents, although the children weren't. It was dreadfully embarrassing trying to hold a conversation with the mother as I had no idea what she meant. She'd patiently use gestures several times until I caught on, then my face lit up with recognition and I enthusiastically replied, only to be bemused again the next minute.

On the other hand, I'm absolutely not an auditory learner either. I can remember what someone tells me, one-to-one, but I completely switch off from an information talk unless I have it written down in front of me too. If I do, not only will I remember it but I'll remember where on a page a particular sentence is. I've got better over the years at listening, but only because I try really hard.

I must do some more work. See you tomorrow.

Nu dles

Delicious stir-fry and slippery noodles, all slurped up for an early dinner as I had to go out to a very long meeting this evening. The Sage came to look for me just as the last three of us left, having put away the tables and chairs afterwards. Everyone had been very appreciative of the jelly babies, Minstrels, grapes, satsuma segments and drinks which eased our way through a productive and harmonious session, so we didn't begrudge the time it all took.

I was really tired last night and unwisely went to bed early. You'd think I'd have learned by now but I never do. After an hour's sound sleep I was wide awake by quarter to midnight, eventually got up, went back to bed, finally fell asleep sometime after four o'clock and was woken by Tilly barking at the newspaper delivery man at 7.15. I feel that I've had a long day.

There's lots to do this week, which is quite jolly actually. I've been coasting rather, recently, which is pleasant in itself but gives rise to uncomfortable feelings that life isn't meant to be this relaxed and there must be an awful lot of things I've forgotten. What's good is that I've done some paperwork for the Sage today that I'd earmarked Thursday for, so I feel a bit ahead of myself. Just as well, as that means I can do the washing and buying and packing for my holiday on Thursday instead. And I sorted out my papers for the Sage to take to the accountant tomorrow - thank goodness, he takes my stuff along with his so I don't have to. But when he asked for it, I went to the designated folder and just got everything out, and then went to another box file and got the other category of stuff out and it was all there, in perfect order, which makes me feel mighty pleased. I've never had such a big income as this year before (don't get too excited, it basically means that I can pay for my own holiday and credit card bill if the Sage doesn't get there first, and I'll actually pay income tax which is a first for me) and I'm glad that there wasn't a last-minute panic because I hadn't kept the paperwork up.

Tomorrow, Nadfas in the morning, computer work (yes, work, not blog reading) in the afternoon and gardening club in the evening. Wednesday, haircut, then a funeral, then a governors' meeting which - well, I rather think my fate will be sealed there. Thursday, getting ready to go away *memo to self: travel insurance and euros to buy* and Friday, high school music, Founder's Day ceremony, then drive to Wiltshire to my sister. Saturday afternoon, drive with Wink and the Bod to Bournemouth, Sunday morning at larkfart get on a plane to Portugal.

Yup, that's my week. If all goes to plan, that is. And, apart from tomorrow, I'll have every evening with my Sage, so that he'll miss me dreadfully next week. Because if I don't go away, how is he to remember how much he loves me? And it's a bit lowering to have to remind him.

Heh. D'you see him forgetting?