GMT

Wake at six thirty GMT, it is just getting light and it is damp and cold outside when I let the dog into the garden. The organic bacon, black pudding and sausages I bought from the farm shop on Beverley Market were worth the extra money, there is hardly any fat and none of the excess water that sometimes accompanies supermarket produce. It also tastes very nice, which, for me is the main thing. After breakfast I browse the Observer over coffee and then shower, dress and walk Norman as far as the stables, before setting off for nine o'clock Mass at Saint John's. I arrive with ten minutes to spare and phone Leslie to make sure he has put his clock back and isn't expecting me imminently. He has, but there is a change of plan, he doesn't want to go to Caffe Nero, as he is visiting a friend this afternoon and wants to preserve energy. I agree to pick up coffee and croissants and convey them to his house at Cedar Grove instead. Our trainee organist must be away on half term holiday, because we have to sing our hymns unaccompanied today. Everyone makes the extra effort and it is fine, well almost everyone, some shy souls always sit out the singing. Today is the anniversary of the consecration of our church and Father Roy's sermon is about the relationship between the physical church, the spiritual church and the community. As always his sermons are well thought out, interesting and thought provoking. His point is that the church is neither the building, nor the community, but the community called to the spiritual presence of God. As I am sure I have mentioned before, the feeling that I experience sometimes, when in deep meditation, is of the world being eternal and utterly unproblematic, and this sensation is always accompanied by the sense of a warm and loving presence. In Zen this is called Satori, or temporary enlightenment. I choose to interpret it this experience as the love of God but to each their own.
After communion, I park in Saturday Market, outside Caffe Nero. I order our Americano's and the last two Apricot croissants, but the lady ahead of me has a late change of heart and orders one as well. Divine intervention saving me from temptation or perhaps there is nothing else that tempts my taste buds? Leslie is waiting for me when I arrive and seems much better than when I last saw him, he tells me about his trip to Waitrose and his daughter's visit yesterday, which seems to have lifted his spirits. He doesn't say anything about me phoning Margaret, (his daughter), so perhaps she didn't mention it, so neither do I. I notice that Leslie's hair needs cutting and offer to take him with me when I go on Thursday, we both use the same hairdresser, Tim's down Windmill Walk. This is provisionally agreed and I promise to ring and set a time. I leave after an hour, taking his bin from the garage and putting it out for the men to collect in the morning and then calling at the supermarket on the way home to buy some stir fry vegetable to go with the left over pork and a pumpkin to make into a "Jack O' Lantern" for Louis when I look after him on Monday and Tuesday while his Mum is at work. When I arrive home, Norman is ready for lunch, I slice some of yesterday's roast pork, make myself a sandwich and feed him some crackling and scraps, before changing into my boots and walking gear for his trip round the fields. The weather is milder today, with a lot of low cloud coming out of the southwest carrying spits of rain. Walking down the lane, towards the little wooden bridge, it is obvious that winter is starting to encroach, as the weeds and foliage alongside the path are dying back and it is possible to see the rabbits hopping about by the ditch. Across the bridge we turn west and proceed alongside "almost straight wood", for about fifty metres. A black tailed stoat is in hot pursuit of a large rabbit, which is running for its life, and the stoat is keeping up with it's prey. I don't hear any screams, so the bunny probably got away. We turn into the plantation, once we have got past the boggy section, and walk amongst the pines and birch. The rain is falling steadily now and the wind carries the smell of pine and soil from the freshly ploughed and harrowed field adjacent to us. We enter the path to the next plantation and turn south, emerging about a quarter of a mile further along onto the farm track that runs round the field. As I mentioned on Thursday when I ran round here, it is pretty churned up, mainly by tractors, but also by the horses from the farm and stables down Carr Lane, who hack round here several times a day. On our way back, we pause on the bridge and watch the raindrops making circles in the water, further on the red hawthorn berries on the bare bushes seem to glow in the dull light of this rainy afternoon. Past the farm, the smell of horses, their manure and urine mingling with the sweeter smell of hay, drifts across the path. It is slightly after two o'clock and it will be dark by five this evening. When we get to the bungalow, I retrieve Norman's towel from the boot of my Chrysler and dry him off before going indoors. After making a pot of tea I tackle my ironing, there isn't a lot, just the seven shirts worn during the week. As a matter of habit, my ironing is normally done while listening to the football on radio Humberside, but yesterday the match was delayed until 5:30 PM, as it was televised on Sky sports and clashed with Otello from the Met. I don't actually mind ironing, as long as it is broken into bite size chunks and there is something on my radio or ipad to listen to. Today there is a program about the war poets of El Alamein, which interests me as a career soldier and the writer of some really bad verse. Despite the logical expectation of dusk coming early today, it is still a little shocking and somewhat depressing when it is almost dark by four thirty. Norman's atomic clock hasn't been put back and he is ready for dinner from four, but I make him wait for an hour and then use up half the remaining pork for my stir fry and his dinner. I heat some sesame oil in the wok, add puréed ginger, garlic and chilly then fry thinly sliced pork for about 20 seconds a side before adding the vegetables, bean sprouts and noodles. It is ready in less than five minutes and I serve it with a nicely chilled Argentinian Chardonnay, Norman wolfs down his helping of pork and crackling while I eat my dinner in a more leisurely manner. One of the problems with living alone is that you tend to have to eat the same meat several times in different guises. The most rewarding aspect of cooking is watching the pleasure of others derive from eating the food you make for them. After dinner Norman and I brave the weather and wander as far as the stables before retiring indoors, away from the wind and rain. He sleeps while I read my Observer and then go to bed, my body still on summer time.