Welkom in Nederland

The rain has finally stopped and the day has dawned, clear, bright and sunny. We fry up the last two Italian sausages, oak smoked, Wiltshire, bacon, Irish black pudding and an egg, then eat a liesurely breakfast before starting out for the day. We arrive on Newbald Road and park, I carry Norman across the trickle of water that was a stream yesterday and a river the day before, and then set him down on dry ground. This is the last walk off the lead that the dogs will get before I return from Holland next Tuesday evening, so we make the most of it, it is a lovely crisp morning the sun providing just a touch of warmth as it hangs, low in the sky, to the south. The wind is fresh and noticeably much colder, but once we are away from Black Mill, no problem. The old bomb craters are still full of water, but the level has dropped by a foot since yesterday, as we climb up the path to cross Newbald Road at the common's western boundary, our path intersects with a group of ramblers, who tell me they are out for a five mile walk from the liesure centre. They veer off to the east, skirting the edge of Burton Bushes, probably anxious to avoid the muddy trails, while we push on straight through. Fifty yards short of the gated entrance, a single oak tree basks in the sun, in all it's autumn glory, one day it will be a major oak but at present, is about halfway there. In the woods, we manage to avoid the worst of the mud and enjoy the peace and solitude for the ten minutes or so that it takes us to make our way through and then follow the path downhill and back to the car. I drop the three dogs at Pip's house, give them some biscuits and water and then drive back to Tickton. Sarah is collecting Norman later. Once home, I drink the last of the fresh milk and eat a couple of oaties, before changing into my travelling clothes, give the house one final check and then set off for Leeds Bradford airport. While I am driving, I listen to the extended news and Lord Leveson's statement on his recently released report. It sounds like a slam dunk to me, so I am surprised when David Cameron later opposes statutory underpinning. I guess he believes by staying on the side of the Murdoch media, that they will support him in the run up to the next elections. "By their friends shall ye know them"! I break my journey at the world's best fish and chip restaurant, the Mermaid, in Morley, I settle for a small portion, as the milk and oaties are still having an effect. As ever, the food is first rate. From here it is only ten miles to the airport but it takes as long as the trip from Tickton, due to heavy traffic, fortunately I have allowed plenty of time and it is three thirty as I arrive at the long stay car park. The barrier doesn't recognise my credit card or prebooking, although I have already paid, so I have to take a ticket. The transfer bus arrives within minutes and shortly after I am in the terminal, where the information desk informs me that they will validate my parking ticket when I get back. There is a long queue through security where I find, to my horror, that I have left my Swiss army knife in my leather bum bag, although I have had it for twenty years, there is no other option other than to jettison it. Apart from that, everything goes smoothly, the plane takes off on time and arrives at Schiphol less than an hour later. In the days when I did a lot of International travel, Schiphol was my favourite hub and it hasn't lost its edge, in ten minutes I am through customs and immigration and on the 1911, high speed Fyra service to Rotterdam. I phone Graham and Lilliane before boarding and arrange to meet them at Starbucks in Rotterdam Central station. The train is fast, clean, comfortable and cheap, about 9 euros, including the high speed supplement and delivers me painlessly to Rotterdam in under twenty five minutes. I am just about to order a chocolate in Starbucks, when Graham and Lilliane appear, so we decide to head for home and drink there instead. Graham and Lilliane's house is only a ten minute drive from the station and by just after eight, we are sat in their kitchen drinking tea. Graham is tired, as he has been up since half past five, in order to take his border collie puppy, Frankie, out for a walk before starting work, but agrees to have a glass of wine with me while I eat some salami, Camembert and rye crackers. Four hours and several bottles of wine later he finally makes it. Well he can always have a lie in until six tomorrow!

How high is the water Momma?

Unbelievably, it is raining again when I let Norman into the garden this morning, six straight days on the trot, the old boy knows his routine and trots manfully through the downpour to perform his duties before hurrying back indoors. After a shake and a roll on the carpet he stretches out next to the hall radiator, his head inclined to give a decent view of the stove and the preparation of breakfast. Norman is unequivocally in favour of Morrison's Italian sausage, and it is easy to see why, yes they have a much higher meat content and significantly less fat than English sausages, but each one costs the same as a gourmet tin of dog food. I give him half a sausage, a rasher of streaky bacon and a slice of black pudding, but he always manages to perform his Jedi mind control on me and procure at least another quarter of a sausage. As I have said before, the force has a strong effect on the weak minded! The old boy is looking rather well on his premium diet, there is not much that can be done about his cataracts, but otherwise he is looking sleek and fit, his coat shiny and glossy. We are meeting Felicity and friends in the Poppy Seed this morning and because of the ongoing rain and flooding on the Westwood, decide to walk round Cherry Burton this morning. Somehow the dogs sense that it is the weather, rather than me to blame, and nobly perform their ablutions, as we wend round the village, which is blessed with regular waste bins, in which to deposit their treasure. The wind is still coming from the Northeast, bringing light flurries of rain, but, as yet, it doesn't carry the icy, skull shrivelling charge of a real winter northeasterly. The terriers are returned safely home, and Norman and I collect Annie from Walkington, before driving back into Beverley and parking down Westwood Road. Annie assures me that the quarter mile walk to the Poppy Seed, will be no problem, but after two hundred yards she has to stop and rest. Felicity is already in attendance, accompanied by Hahne, and Rosemary joins us shortly afterwards. We all order drinks and reminisce about Sunday lunch, until we are joined by Thelma, whose husband died scarcely a month ago. Thelma is about seventy five, black and a barrister, before retirement, very refined, careful and precise in her conversation. She is known to everyone, but new to the group, and from the twinkle in her intelligent brown eyes, I expect will be more prominent as time goes on. I am both intrigued and impressed, in equal measure, by someone who has transcended barriers of race and gender, perhaps thirty years before her time. Beverley is an anachronism in the United Kingdom, as the town is largely racially and culturally homogenous. There are very few coloured people in the area, this was brought home forcibly to me at Louis' prize giving assembly last Friday, where all the children were white. In my primary school, Warwick Road, in Batley, West Yorkshire, around seventy percent of the children are now of Asian descent. It is my contention that people are not inherently racist, the first Asians in my town were the Shah family and lived in a house across the road from mine. They were considered somewhat exotic, but accepted, because people knew them as individuals and liked and respected them. The problem, it seems to me, is with mass immigration, where the scale of new faces exceeds the capacity of the local natives to get to know them as individuals, and consequently feel threatened and regress into stereotyping individuals as groups. Hostility then breeds defensiveness, and immigrants then cluster together for both comfort and safety and consequently a culture of suspicion, fear, and hostility becomes the inevitable result. Thelma, intelligent, articulate and accomplished as she undoubtedly is, must necessarily feel more than usually vulnerable now her husband, who was white, has died. If she will let them, the Poppy Seed girls will take her to their bosom and ensure she soon feels one of the gang. After tea, Felicity walks to Barclays and then meets me in Lloyds, where I am collecting my euros for my trip to Holland tomorrow. Afterwards, Norman and I accompany Fliss back to Albert Terrace and then walk round the corner to retrieve my car from Westwood Road. Annie insisted that she would get a taxi home after she had done her shopping in town. We arrive home around midday, the river Hull gently overflowing the levee and lapping at the walls of the Crown and Anchor pub at Hull Bridge in Tickton, as we drove over the bridge. One more day's rain and widespread disaster threatens the whole of the floodplain south of Tickton, where the extensive building of residential estates on the floodplain, could spell catastrophe. Tens of thousands of homes could be flooded. When we arrive home, I heat the remains of yesterday's chicken pilaf and feed Normy with dry dog food. Later, I do my housekeeping, tidying up and running the vacuum cleaner through the house and then settle down to read my book. After feeding Norman around five thirty, I walk him through the village, the rain has finally stopped, although the streets are wet and slick and large puddles dominate the landscape. A full moon lights the sky and the stars are twinkling bright, tomorrow, I suspect we will trade rain for ice. I let Norman off at the usual place, once we emerge from the snickett, and we play praise and pat all the way home. I must confess  that in spite of looking forward to seeing Graham and Lilliane tomorrow, I have mixed feelings about leaving the old boy. I phone Leslie when we get in and he tells me that he is doing OK, so I arrange to visit when I return from Holland. To bed at ten.

Pilaf and packing

Norman trots out into another rainy morning, however the weather forecast suggests that the weather will start to clear from tomorrow. Morrison's expensive Italian sausages, are herby, meaty and different, an acquired taste, but one I think I could easily take. Normy thinks they are great, and having wolfed down his breakfast is gazing at me with his big brown eyes and his paw raised in supplication for extra sausage. Kids, dogs, and especially women, know I am a pushover, and I save him a quarter of my sausage, which he accepts as no more than his due. I put on a wash load of towels, before showering, dressing and driving to Cherry to collect Dolly and Teddy. The fast flowing stream that has sprung up on the Westwood, is still burbling and gurgling in front of Newbegin Pits, I carry Norman over it and the terriers hurdle it with ease. There is a steep bank, up which we are forced to climb, before gaining the woods, this has become a slippery slide of glutinous mud and I touch ground as my Wellington booted feet scrabble for purchase, my hand instantly coated in thick mud. Fortunately I have kitchen roll in my pocket, intended for Normy's treasure deposits, and manage to clean myself before peeling a Clementine orange. It is raining lightly but the wind has swung to the Northeast, although it is not particularly cold. There are fewer dog walkers braving the rain and we almost have the common to ourselves, Dolly returns to the lead at Black Mill and we limit our walk to an excursion to the gorse bushes before walking alongside the new stream as we follow the valley downhill back to the car, passing the three water filled bomb craters as we go. I try to photograph them, but I must have insufficient memory as my iPhone refuses to play ball. We return to the car and the three dogs, all wet and muddy, jump on to the back seat of my car, which is protected, at least to some extent by the blanket that I have put there precisely for this purpose. On our way home, we call at Walkington Manor farm shop to buy a dozen eggs, I don't have the exact change so put an extra five pence in the "honesty box", if I remember, I will recover it the next time I buy something here. After dropping the terriers at Two Riggs we drive home and after feeding Norman, I set too to make my chicken Pilaf. Once the chicken, onions, peppers and Mediterranean vegetables are fried and then added to the rice, I top the pan with chicken stock and leave it to simmer while I knock up a batch of oaties and pop these in the oven. After ten minutes, I turn the heat off under the rice pan, and leave the rice to absorb the rest of the stock, serving it ten minutes later. The arborio rice has absorbed the flavours of the chicken and vegetables, the trilogy of garlic, chile and ginger, giving it a nice kick. Half a painful is more than adequate for lunch, the other half saved for tomorrow in the fridge. I have decided not to swim today, as I feel a little achey today, my chest is tight and don't intend to take any risks before my trip to Holland on Thursday. Instead I lie down and rest for an hour before getting up and digging out the ironing board to press my shirts for my trip. I am travelling with just cabin baggage and manage to cram, socks, shirts, pants and vests, as well as a couple of sweaters, a change of pants and a pair of winter boots into my leather hold all. Later on I take Norman for his walk around the village, it has finally stopped raining and there are stars shining to the east and an almost full moon is smiling behind a low flying cloud, by the time we arrive at the PostOffice and turn down Carr Lane, the rain is coming down again. The rain has not been particularly heavy this last five days, but almost incessant, it stops again as we arrive home. Back indoors, I make a supper of rye bread, salami and goats cheese and then eat this in the Garden room while I listen to Hull City playing Crystal Palace at the KC stadium. At half time it is still nil nil but City have been much the better side. They are still the better side at full time, the Palace keeper denying them victory, and the match ending in a scoreless draw. I read for an hour and then turn in.

A rainy Monday.

It is still raining when we get up at seven thirty, but the rain has eased somewhat, and is not falling quite so heavily, so Norman trots down the path to the lawn and relieves his bladder, before retreating to his breakfast watching spot by the hall radiator. Perversely, my neck shoulders and back are stiff, in precisely those muscles that should have been affected yesterday, by tossing Louis around the pool on Saturday, even my reaction to unaccustomed exercise is slowing down! I make breakfast, and cut Norman's tythe into small pieces, before sitting down to eat my share of the spoils. November has been a good autumn month, the month's rainfall concentrated in the last few days. A good autumn, leads naturally, to the feeling of a short winter and as we get older, long winters are harder to take. Notwithstanding this, clear, crisp, frosty mornings are perhaps my favourite weather in the whole year. Alas they are also rather rare. Before showering and dressing, I harvest my aired pants and vests from radiators around the house and then store them away in the cupboard above the dressing table mirror in my bedroom. Before setting off for Cherry, I have to replace the blanket that protects the leather seats in the back of my car from the worst of the dog's muddy paws, Norman is wagging his tail enthusiastically in anticipation of his walk, despite the continuation of the rain. I take a different route to Cherry Burton, driving through Beverley town centre and then up York Road, as I wish to assess the state of the Westwood, before taking the dogs there. Four fire engines are pumping out the lake, that stood yesterday on the southern part of the Westwood, and the river that ran adjacent to Newbald Road, has been reduced to a stream, so a walk on the common is possible, if not entirely sensible. Dolly and Teddy are eager for the off, having been confined to barracks all weekend and don't want to wait, whilst I discard my shoes and pull on my Wellies, before sallying forth, across the streams, puddles and lakes, that bar my access to the woods at Newbegin Pits. Norman is spared the worst of it, as I tuck him under my arm and carry him to dry ground, before setting him on the forest floor. The rain is light, but incessant, the sky grey and dull, the leaves gone from the trees and the ground a soggy morass of mud, the words, " I don't like Monday's", echoes in my brain, except I am retired and so don't want, or need, a duvet day. The dogs think it is great, although there is not a rabbit or squirrel to be seen, half the rabbit holes are filled with water anyway. Dolly comes back to the lead at Black Mill and we strike across country towards Burton Bushes, between us and our destination is a small valley, in which the Luftwaffe dropped several bombs in WWII, these have left three craters, that lie on the fairway of the golf course. Each of these, is five or six feet deep and thirty feet in diameter, and completely filled by flood water, three fast flowing streams run in parallel from west to east across the Westwood. These streams are about six inches deep, which is three inches longer than Norman's legs, but the old boy plunges through them and then shakes off the excess water on the other side. It is almost as if, he is relishing the challenge. We are out for two hours, I suppose it was quite exhilarating, but we are now all soaked, after dropping the terriers back at Two Riggs, I dry Normy on his towel and then call at Morrison's to do my final shop before leaving for Holland on Thursday. The butcher's counter has some wonderful looking Italian pork sausage, and as we ate the last of our supply this morning, I order just six links, two per day, to last us until I go. It turns out that these sausages are fifty pence each, so I will comment on the value, after tomorrow's breakfast. Graham wants me to bring a Xmas Pudding and eventually I find the Xmas display, but the majority have new fangled flavours, and it takes me a while to find something that is both traditional and good quality. When you are an ex pat exile, you want traditional Xmas fare! While I am there, I buy a couple of slices of roast beef, as roast beef sandwiches and tea have captured my imagination for lunch. En route home, I call in at the cobblers, to pick up a pair of oxblood Oxford shoes and to drop off their twins in black to be soled and heeled. I also leave the left shoe he repaired the week before, to see if he can stretch the toecap, as it was rubbing against my toe. We arrive home at one O'clock, and by the time I have she'd my wet gear, feed Norman and then made my beef sandwiches and tea, there is only an hour left in which to eat lunch and to perform other tasks, before I need to set off and collect Louis from Saint Mary's. outside, in the field beyond my garden a small goup of deer are grazing in the rain, I photograph them with my ipad, they look up, see me, decide I am no threat and continue to graze. I have just enough time to slice, dice and marinade a couple of chicken filets, that I defrosted this morning, they will form the basis of a pilaf that I intend to make for dinner, this evening. I drive to Sam's house down Copendale Road and park up outside. From here it is a ten minute walk to Saint Mary's primary school and Louis and I are visiting his cousins, Laura and Rebecca, before his swimming lessons at five. It is only when I am in the playground at Saint Mary's, waiting for Louis, that I realise I have a text message on my phone, it is from Sam, cancelling our visit. Louis is happy to see me, but disappointed at not seeing his cousins, we drive to Tickton, and I show him the river Hull, very close to bursting its banks at Hull Bridge, just before the Tickton turn off. When we get in, I make Louis his usual ante pasta, and then feed Norman with a tin. After he has eaten, Louis wants to take Norman for his walk around the village, despite the falling rain and I am pleasantly surprised by his affection for our little dachshund. It is only when we reach the post office, that his true motivation is revealed, last week he wangled an expensive magazine out of me and wants to repeat the ploy. Against my better judgement, I give way, post rationalising my decision, on the grounds that he won't see me for a week after today, because of my trip to Holland. We let Norman play "praise and pat" down Green Lane on our way home and then have to set off immediately for the Leisure centre and Louis' swimming lessons. I tell him that in order to earn his comic, a Disney make and do package, he has to pay attention and listen to the swimming instructor. Somehow, I get him there on time and the bribe works, he listens carefully and does his best to follow instructions. Afterwards, after drying and dressing him, I drive him home to Sarah's and report his exemplary behaviour, before presenting him with his comic. Sarah and Alice have been to the dentists, Sarah to get some antibiotics for her sore gums and Alice to have her braces fitted. Sarah is back to work tomorrow. I drive home, arriving around six thirty and don't really feel like cooking, so make do with ante pasta, the chicken can wait until tomorrow. Louis said something this evening, that touched me, he told me I was his Dad, I am not, only his Grandad, but I do my best and shall just have to make sure I don't die on him before he is big enough to get by on his own. InshAllah!

Floods of laughter

It was raining when I went to bed last night and raining when I awoke around three o'clock and it is still raining now, as I pull the curtains at eight. Norman starts down the path towards the lawn, but hesitates and wants to turn back because of the weather and has to be encouraged to complete the trip. I make my way to the kitchen and fill the kettle with water to make coffee and then put on the stove for breakfast. Normy runs back into the house and then rolls on the hall carpet to dry himself, while I hurry to close the garden room door again, against the wind and rain. Somehow a cooked breakfast always tastes better with the prospect of foul weather facing you and after breakfast and a shower, we venture out into the rain for Norman's walk, before I go to church. The golf umbrella I carry has to be quickly folded, because of the strength of the wind and the rain beats cold and hard against my face, Norman delivers treasure even before we get out of the cul de sac, in which my bungalow sits, but we proceed to the end of Green Lane and through the snickett on to Carr Lane, before turning tail and returning home. I let my little dog off the lead and he pauses for a long pee, before hurrying back home to his warm bed by the radiator. I change out of my wet dog walking pants and cagoule and don more respectable clothes for church, before driving to Saint John's and parking a little distance beyond Sarah's house. There is just time for me to call in to see how she is, after the extraction of her wisdom teeth yesterday, before the service starts at ten thirty. Sarah is up and about, her face not too badly swollen, she is making some orthotic insoles for Clement, before he returns to university this evening, and says she will be staying home tomorrow, as she doesn't want to risk her raw gums becoming infected, so I agree to collect Louis from school and take him for his swimming lessons later. The bad weather has affected the turnout for mass, but those of us that have braved the storm, make a decent fist of the hymns and are cheered up by the presence of some local schoolchildren, who are also selling cakes in the hall afterwards, to raise money for their charity to aid Uganda. After mass, I buy half a dozen mince pies from them for Leslie, I had intended to make some more oaties, but was too tired after "tossing the chugs", yesterday. When I switch my phone back on, I find I have three messages, one from Hahne, giving me the address for Annie in Walkington, who I am due to collect and transport to Hahne's house for lunch, one from Annie cancelling lunch because of a flood in Walkington and one from Felicity asking what time I am collecting her. By this time I have almost arrived in Walkington, and finding no flood, collect Annie anyway, before driving back to Beverley and picking up Rosemary and Felicity and delivering them to Hahne's house. We arrive at a quarter past twelve and thankfully, the rain has at last stopped. The lunch is in aid of age concern, and has been cooked by Tina Cerruti, who runs one of the oldest and best restaurants in Beverley, Hahne has collected the food from the restaurant, while I collected the other guests. We are offered sherry before eating, which I decline, as I have been promised some ice cold dill schnapps, served Scandinavian style, in a frozen glass, and need to limit my alcohol consumption as I am driving everyone home again. We are served smoked salmon as a starter and the dill in the schnapps combines with the fish to give a sort of Gravadlax effect. Very satisfying, I could get used to the schnapps, the main course is traditional roast turkey and trimmings, but is free range and has a tangy smoky flavour, quite different from the usual dry tasteless, cardboardy meat, associated with Bernard Matthews. For desert we have ground almonds in cream, with a hot cherry sauce and red or white wine by choice. The lunch lasts until three and is accompanied by much laughter and merriment, until it is time to take everyone home. It is decided we will drop Annie in Walkington first, and drive down York Road, where the southernmost stretch of the Westwood is under three feet of water, in precisely the place that Yorkshire Water have just spent over a million pounds and six months effort installing a massive storage tank, in order to prevent exactly this situation recurring. (It was extensively flooded in 2007). A little further on, we turn left down Newbald Road, where I usually park my car before walking the dogs of a morning, a small river is flowing down the hill, parallel to the road, as water pours off the saturated higher ground towards Walkington. The flooding is not as bad as it was five years ago, but any more rain could prove catastrophic. We deliver Annie home safely and then Rosemary and Felicity, before I drive home to Tickton. The small lakes of Friday on Swinemoor have become much more impressive and the river Hull is within a foot of the top of the levee. The river is still tidal here and if the flow of water downstream increases and coincides with a high tide, there could be serious problems. However there is a mechanical flood barrage in Hull, that can be lowered in precisely this event, I just hope the environment agency are on top of their game. Paradoxically the sky has cleared and the sun is shining brightly, as I park up outside my house, Norman is waiting in anticipation of lunch, and I feed him with dry dog food before walking him round the village, apart from some large puddles, Tickton is, so far, unscathed. Norman is returned to his basket, before I drive to Molescroft to see Leslie, our usual coffee morning switched to tea time, because of the lunch arrangements. Leslie is waiting for me and seems frail, but the colour in his complexion looks noticeably better. He tells me that the cardiologist has changed his medication and he is waiting to see if he feels better, in the meantime he says that the new medicines are keeping him awake. I make coffee for us and open the mince pies, we chat about the weather, Europe, the Leveson enquiry and anything else I can think of other than his health. Once he is engaged in conversation, he suddenly seems more like the old Leslie, it is such a shame that he couldn't be persuaded to come to lunch. Some company and a good laugh would have done him the world of good! I leave around a quarter past five, drive home, give Norman a tin and then phone my brother, Graham and his wife Lilliane, in Rotterdam to make arrangements for collection on Thursday. Afterwards, Norman sits on my knee and I read until eight and then have a supper of oatmeal crackers and cheese. My usual weekend routine of housekeeping has been disrupted by family and friends, but it has been a good disruption and I can always catch up later. To bed at ten thirty.

A portrait of Norman

It is almost dark when I get up, but there is a line of brightness on the eastern horizon announcing the imminent arrival of a new day. I follow Norman into the garden and photograph the scene, a touch of frost on the long grass in the meadow and swirls of mist lingering in the hollows. Once back indoors, I set about making breakfast and coffee, the new filter papers from Morrisons are a real disappointment, twice this week they have collapsed, dumping the grounds into the jug. The solution is to use two filters instead of one, but that also doubles the price. After breakfast, the washing machine is loaded with shirts and the shorts and vests, that have been drying in the garage, recovered. They still feel somewhat damp and so are set to air on the radiators, before I settle down to read the Saturday Guardian and finish off my coffee. Felicity phones around nine thirty to say her son is coming to visit and is unsure about the Poppy Seed, he is due to arrive at noon, so I tell her to save her strength and enjoy the visit. We leave the house at ten after hanging the freshly laundered shirts in the garage and loading the machine with this weeks whites. I am picking up my grandsons, Clement and Louis from Sarah's house after the Poppy Seed and so park near Louis' school and then walk with Norman up Bleach Yard and down New Walk into town. On our way we meet Joy, Felicity's sister, who lives a little further along than Sarah, she is letting in workmen, who are fitting a new kitchen this morning, and sends her apologies to the Saturday morning coffee group. We are first to arrive at the Poppy Seed, but Sylvia, who lives round the corner from Fliss, comes in as we clear some plates from our usual table by the window. She is soon followed by Jill and a companion, who are rendezvousing with Sylvia before going to meet Hannah at the Scandinavian Market in Hull. After everyone has settled down and ordered drinks, one of the regulars comes over and hands me a card, with some sketches of Norman, nestled in my arm, that he drew two weeks ago. The card is inscribed as follows:-
Saturday 10th November 2012
A very much loved elderly dog sits
With it's owner in Poppy Seed,
Beverley.
I am both delighted and touched by the sketches and the artist's generosity and ask him to sign it for me. His name is John Geekin, and he has captured Norman's contented features to a tee. We all leave together, around half past eleven, they to the Scandinavian Market and we to Sarah's house. Sarah has already left for her dental appointment, she is having some wisdom teeth removed, so Clement, Louis and I set off to walk through town to the library. I collect the other Simone Weil book I ordered, "The need for roots", and Louis selects a superhero book from the children's section and then we retrace our steps. Clement offers to buy lunch at the Thai restaurant, which we both love, but Louis is adamant that he wants fish and chips from Sullivan's, probably the best chippy in Beverley. We take our meals and sit on a bench in Toll Gavel and watch the market day crowds walk past as we eat our fish and chips. There are a number of Burnley football fans in the crowds, Hull are playing Burnley at the KC stadium this afternoon. Norman is alert, as ever, for donations and when Louis accidentally loses half his haddock from his batter, it hardly has time to bounce from the pavement, before Normy requisitions it. After this al fresco lunch, we make our way to the market, because Louis wants to buy a toy with his pocket money, Clement and I teasing him, suggesting vegetables, flowers or some tea towels, before allowing him to buy some toy racing cars. Louis is delighted that his big brother is home from college and wants us all to go to the swimming pool this afternoon, and we agree, because the exercise will tire him out and facilitate an early night, thus giving Sarah more time to recover. We make our way back to North Bar and then I head home, in order to collect my swimming gear and to leave Norman in his basket, before returning to collect my grandsons and driving to the pool. The inflatable obstacle course is in the pool, for the children to play on, but Louis tires of that and wants to play with myself and Clement, so we invent a game called tossing the chugs, and throw Louis between us. Louis loves the game and can't get enough of being thrown up in the air to land with a splash in the water. The only drawback being his size and weight, it is like tossing a sack of potatoes, and I suspect my arms and shoulders will register the effect tomorrow. After our swim we have hot chocolate in the cafe and then I drive them home. Sarah has gone to bed to recover from her extraction and Clement is making dinner for Louis, before putting him to bed. Despite his haddock lunch, Norman still expects his dinner when I get in, so I open a tin for him, before making my own evening meal of pork chop, chips and salad. I wasn't sure I could eat another cooked meal, but "tossing the chugs", has restored my appetite. After dinner, I read for a while but then the forecast rain starts to rattle against the window, so I decide to take Norman for his evening walk, before the rain develops into the gale that has been forecast for later this evening. The westerly wind, that has brought the rain, has brought warmer air and so it is not too cold as we walk round the village, sheltered underneath my golf umbrella, I let Normy off at the usual place to play "praise and pat", but the old boy, very sensibly, decides to leg it for home. I dry him on his towel when we get in and then settle down with my book again. The wind builds and the rain lashes against the patio doors in the garden room, but my little dog sleeps through it all, his gentle snores in counterpoint to the storm. To bed around eleven.

Prizes for Louis

Norman wakes early and wants to be let out, so I slide my feet Into my slippers, open the garden room doors and let him out into the predawn cold. There are still stars shining in a clear sky and to the southeast the day is just about to break. He sprints back up the path and straight into the kitchen for breakfast, but I have other ideas, the central heating has just switched on and I retreat back under my duvet until a quarter past seven. I have smoked salmon on cream cheese and rye toast for breakfast with coffee and Normy has to make do with dry dog food, although he does get just a taste of salmon, which he obviously likes. We leave the house at a quarter past eight as I take Louis to school on Friday, because his mum has an early start. We are loaded up today, in addition to his haversack with his packed lunch, and his book bag, he also has a parcel of toys for "children in need". We share the load, I carry the haversack and book bag and he the parcel and then the three of us cross the road and walk down New Walk to Bleach Yard and then to school. It is a lovely morning, the sun has just risen above the arch of North Bar and is shining straight down our path, the wind has died to a gentle breeze and the sky is a clear cobalt blue. Louis tells me that there is a prize giving assembly at a quarter to three and that he has won an award, so I promise that I will come. He gives me a hug and a kiss at the school gates, collects his bags and then runs happily into school. Norman and I retrace our steps and when we get back to Sarah's house, I change my shoes for walking boots, before driving to Cherry to collect the terriers. Today is a gift of a fine day between two storms, the weather is forecast to turn windy and wet again later tomorrow, so we make the most of this present. As usual we progress via Black Mill to Burton Bushes but do this by a path that brings us into the woods from the southeastern corner. The southern edge of the wood is a mixture of oak, elm and lots of holly, I can't see any berries in here and wonder whether some entrepreneur has been harvesting natures bounty. Underfoot it is very, very, boggy and as a consequence we have the woods to ourselves, as we make our way towards the little gate that opens facing the racecourse, we pass a den of sticks that the kids assembled last weekend, it takes me back to my childhood, we were always building dens and campfires. After dropping the terriers back at Two Riggs, we make our way to Tickton and after giving Norman fresh water and some biscuits, I grab my swimming gear and drive to the leisure centre. A class of children are just finishing their lesson as I enter the pool at midday, and so I take over their free lane and then repeat Tuesday's 2,500m session. The four two hundred metre medleys go especially well, as I am now able to complete the first two lengths butterfly without needing to recover on the backstroke leg. Afterwards I drink tea and eat a few oaties in the cafe before driving to Saturday Market to deposit a cheque at Lloyds bank. There is just time to drive and park at Tesco, before walking the half mile to Saint Mary's primary school for Louis' assembly. Us parents and grandparents are seated on two rows of chairs at the back of the hall, while the children file in, starting with reception, the youngest class and then working up to the oldest. The children sing a nice hymn and then the prize giving begins, there are prizes for lots of things and the children troop up onto the stage to collect their certificates and then stand shyly in line facing the audience, all except Louis, who has spotted me and waves wildly before performing a victory shuffle, despite being only five last June, he is head and shoulders taller than his other classmates and looks at least seven. His teacher gently tries to calm his exuberance and succeeds temporarily, before the winners all leave the stage. The head teacher then presents more certificates for those achieving the most house points for work and conduct, Louis is called up again and goes completely over the top waving his certificates in the air, modesty, it seems, is not part of his make up. It is all over by a quarter past three and the children file back to their classrooms before being dismissed for the week. Louis' teacher brings him to see me before he goes, he thinks I am collecting him, but Sarah has arranged for him to go to the after school club, so he has to make do with a well done and a hug. Afterwards I make my way back to Tesco, do a little shopping and then return home to make dinner. Nothing complicated, frozen haddock filets, oven chips, garden peas and tea with fresh bread and butter. Poor Normy has a tin of dog food, but I save him a piece of haddock as well. After dinner I read for a while and then take Norman for his evening walk. It is a clear, starry night with a bright moon, just past the half full, and not too cold, we walk through the village to the post office, depositing treasure in the waste bin outside and then make our way down Carr Lane, where there are no street lights. Fortunately the moonlight is bright enough for us to see our way and once we are through the snickett onto Green Lane, I let Normy off his lead and play "praise and pat" all the way home. Leslie had three different district nurses dressing the lesion on his leg when I called, before Louis' assembly, so he called back as I walked back to Tesco, the cardiologist came to the startling conclusion that Leslie was old, but otherwise found nothing wrong with him, nevertheless Leslie found it reassuring. I have promised to visit after church on Sunday.

Oak woods and home comforts

We wake to a brighter day, but with a fierce wind blowing from the southwest and buckling the tops of the fir trees on the far side of the field, beyond the garden. Norman diligently trots down the garden path to relieve himself on the lawn, before sprinting back indoors to monitor the progress of breakfast in the kitchen. It is ready by a quarter to eight, Normy's share of the spoils are half a rasher of bacon, half a sausage, a piece of black pudding and some egg white, cut into dachshund sized pieces and placed in his tray. With the possible exception of roast lamb, I think Norman enjoys his breakfast best. When we are finished eating, we retire to the garden room, where I read the Guardian on my iPad over coffee, until it is time to shower and dress for the day. It is still very windy when we arrive on Newbald Road with Dolly and Teddy, but the air is milder than last night, there are huge puddles everywhere and a stream has formed that poor Norman is forced to wade. Once in the safety of the woods, I let Teddy and Normy off their leads and they go their separate ways, checking scents here and there, but always keeping myself and Dolly in sight. The ground is sodden and boggy and the last of the leaves, that are still left on the trees, flutter down towards the ground in spirals of lonely isolation. Dolly and Teddy exchange places when we emerge on to the common, this higher, chalky ground, is better drained and much less soggy than the woods, low clouds scud across the sky, driven by the wind, whose full force we now face, as we make our way towards Black Mill. After restricting ourselves to the village due to yesterday's heavy rain, I decide to take advantage of today's drier weather and skirt the western edge of the common, trying to keep to the lee of the wind. Eventually we approach Burton Bushes, where a large proportion of the trees are oak, one of the last to lose its leaves in the autumn. The oaks are resplendent, the leaves the colour of antique gold, and here and there, little grey squirrels gather acorns for the approaching winter. In the woods themselves the rainfall has added to the fragrance of the scentscape, a heady mixture of tannic oak, cidery elm, damp earth, moss and fungi. We sit for a while on Brandon Barker's bench, sheltered from the wind, and feel the peace of this wonderful primeval woodland. No man made artistry or architecture can compare to this, each visit is like a short holiday for the soul and my dogs seem to share this feeling too. We all love these woods. We wander away happily down the hill to the car and then drive back to Cherry Burton, where I deliver Dolly and Teddy back to Pip, before driving home. We get stuck in the roadworks for ten minutes but I don't mind and just look at the small lakes that have been formed on Swinemoor, beneath the raised levee of the river Hull. Once indoors, Norman has some dry dog food and I make a mug of tomato soup, which I eat with the remains of last night baguette. I intend to swim later this afternoon, between two and three thirty, if I don't forget my trunks again, but decide to prolong my peaceful state of mind in meditation first. Later feeling very relaxed but unusually tired, I find myself feeling very sleepy and decide to nap for half an hour. When I awake, I have slept for three hours, my body must have been in need of the rest but alas, it is now too late to swim. Norman reminds me that it is time for his dinner, so I open a tin for him and he seems satisfied. The wind has gained in strength and it has started to rain, large wet drops are driven against my windows and set up a rolling drumbeat whose cadence rises and falls with the intensity of the storm. A good night to be indoors! And a good night for a hot winter dinner, I make lamb steak with thick onion gravy, mashed potatoes, spring greens, carrots and broad beans, a large glass of Cabernet Shiraz accompanies the meal. Afterwards, comfortably replete, I read my book in the Garden Room until the sound of the storm eases a little and then dress in my foul weather gear and take Norman for his evening walk. We shelter under a large golf umbrella but it is still raining quite heavily, although the wind is not so strong. The adverse weather seems to accelerate my dogs bladder and bowels and after five minutes, he has done all he needs to do before bedtime and just wants to be back indoors, a sentiment I wholeheartedly support. When we get in, I dry him on his towel, do the washing up and then return to my book. He is snoring gently in his basket as I finish this blog. To bed around eleven.

Singing in the rain

It is raining heavily outside, but at least my neck is not stiff this morning, the new pillows proving to be a good investment. Norman trots heroically through the downpour to do his duty and then takes station by the hall radiator to watch me cook breakfast. We are due to meet Felicity at the Poppy Seed this morning and therefore need to be about our business by nine o' clock, fortunately this leaves time to browse the guardian over coffee before showering, dressing and driving to Cherry. For the first time this year, as far as I can recall, it is too wet to venture on to the Westwood, and so the dogs and I just do a circuit of the village. I am dressed against the weather and carrying a large golf umbrella, which, with three dogs on their leads, is quite a juggling exercise. The dogs and I communicate through body language and telepathy, so they seem to accept that this exceptionally wet day is not one to be off the lead chasing rabbits and squirrels. The vividness of the colours of leaves, berries and flowers in the low light of a rainy day always pleases and surprises me, as does the sense that the foul weather has rendered the streets the private domain of my dogs and I. The only other pedestrians we see are other dog walkers, who all seem remarkable cheerful in the face of their adversity, in marked contrast with car drivers, who all seem to want to be somewhere else and to get there quickly. While we walk, I think about my friend Leslie, I suspect his real problem is facing the existential tangibility of impending death, now that he has turned ninety. Old age, sickness and death are the inevitable terminus of life but our outlook on this dismal prospect can make such a difference. When I was diagnosed with cancer, almost ten years ago now, I thought how nice it would be to live through another summer, to wear my shorts and sandals and feel the sun on my back. That gift has been granted, many times over but the real choice towards the end of one's life, if not before, is to either give thanks for another day and wonder how it can be put to good use, or to wonder if it may be our last and to shrivel in fear at any sign of the slightest symptom. Perhaps that is a little too black and white, but ultimately our outlook is either one of faith, or of doubt. If I had a family motto, it would probably be, "so far, so good," I hope my optimism survives my eventual demise! We complete our walk, gathering treasure from each of the three dogs, and depositing the same, in bins around the village, before returning Dolly and Teddy to Pip and drying Norman on a large, green army towel and then setting him on the back seat of the car for the trip to Beverley. We park at Saint John's and walk the two hundred yards to the Poppy Seed, Normy's towel stowed in a Tesco "bag for life", which will scandalise Felicity, who fought a vigorous, but losing, campaign against their store coming to town. She is sat reading the Yorkshire Post between mouthfuls of toasted teacake, as we arrive at the cafe, there is only one other customer, everyone else deterred by the deluge. I dry Norman again and settle him on my knee and then drink tea and chat to Felicity for an hour. She says she meant to send copies of her poetry anthology to her friends on the creative writing courses he did many years ago, but has filed away their names and cannot recall where she has filed them. I suggest we send the poems out into the world and track their peregrinations on the Internet, as someone did with books a few years ago. I even offer to leave several copies in Leeds Bradford and Schiphol airports on my trip next week. Felicity quite likes the idea and wonders how far the poems may travel before Xmas. The rain is relentless, so I leave Norman with her and fetch the car to the cafe and drive her back to Albert Terrace. It means driving the whole way round the one way system, but saves her getting soaked and perhaps slipping. We arrive back in Tickton for eleven thirty and I decide to do some outstanding admin and have lunch before swimming at two thirty. After giving Normy some dry dog food, I download the boarding slips for my flight and then fit the new ink cartridge to my printer, the old one having expired, only to discover that I had bought a colour pack. I decide to try anyway, but the bar codes are illegible, so I shall have to buy a black ink cartridge as well later. Lunch is spaghetti and the last of the white asparagus I bought for Leslie, light but adequate before my swim. After lunch, I book my parking at Leeds Bradford, which cost £38, not too bad in these days of hammering travellers at every opportunity. It is still raining heavily as I drive into Beverley, avoiding the main road and using the single track route adjacent to the river, where huge puddles have formed, it takes a while, as I have to give way to oncoming traffic three or four times, but it is still a lot quicker than the main road. I arrive at the Leisure centre for two thirty and suddenly wonder whether I collected my trunks from the radiator in the bathroom. I didn't and as they almost certainly won't allow me to skinny dip and there isn't time to drive back home and collect them before swimming lessons start at a quarter to four, plans have to change. Simone Weil's "Gravity and Grace", is waiting for my collection at the library and I need a new ink cartridge from Tesco, as well as visiting Leslie. I phone him from the supermarket after collecting my book and surprise, surprise, he has had another medical emergency. He felt unwell again last night and called the emergency doctor, who unable to find anything wrong, referred him to his GP, who in turn under pressure from Leslie agreed to refer him to his cardiologist tonight, as long as Leslie saw him privately. ( the NHS already haven taken a big enough hit, and Leslie can afford it). His appointment is at six, so I drive to Molescroft to visit him, arriving around three fifteen. Leslie is waiting for me and seems fine, his colour is good and his breathing normal, but his body language is very defensive, he talks to me with his arms folded in the shape of a cross against his chest. I keep the conversation light and talk about anything except health matters, family, friends and the approach of Xmas. Leslie tells me he wants to rest before his trip to the cardiologist, so I leave at four and drive home. The rain has finally stopped and there is a splendid sunset to the west, Norman is wagging his tail in anticipation of dinner when I open the door, but I make him wait until five and fit the new ink cartridge and finally print my boarding passes, before opening a tin for him. My niece, Rachel, phones, to tell me she has been offered a marketing job with stagecoach and doesn't know whether to take it. In the current economic climate, it is a no brainer, but she just wanted me to tell her so and to congratulate her on getting fixed up again so quickly, after being made redundant last week. I am really pleased for her, she deserves to do well. Later Normy and I walk round the village in the dark, the sky has cleared, the stars are out and there is a bright half moon hanging in the sky. It's reflection mirrored back in the large puddles that festoon the village paths and this fortunately prevents me from stumbling blindly into them, which I may have done without the moonlight. It is also much colder, we play our usual game of "praise and pat", as we head home down Green Lane and are both glad to regain the cosy warmth of our bungalow, my glasses instantly steaming up in the warmth. I heat up the plate of Canneloni that I had stored in the fridge, accompanied by a crusty baguette and a glass of Cabernet Shiraz. After dinner I read until bedtime.

A pain in the neck.

Woke with another stiff neck, the culprits a pair of ancient pillows whose innards have morphed, over time, into a bag of rocks. After breakfast and coffee, I feel much better, but I will need to invest in some decent pillows before long, my glasses have also sprained after horseplay with Louis, and fall of my face every time I bend down, fortunately my old pair are OK for distance work and I use these to take the dogs out. We are out early this morning, because I have promised to call and see how Leslie has settled in to Cedar Grange, later. It is a mild, cloudy day, with spots of rain in the air and a gusty westerly wind. The woods are now thickly carpeted with leaves but in the words of Jose Feliciano's "California Dreaming", all the trees are bare and the skies are grey. I packed a change of footwear in the car before setting off and in the process, have left Norman's lead behind. He trots along behind me unconcerned and as we are not staying out too long, as I am visiting Leslie, the only drawback is that I have to carry him the last few feet across the road to the car. After returning the terriers to Pip, we drive to Cedar Grange, where I park up and change from my walking boots into a pair of moccasins, before ringing the bell for entrance. When they let me in, I am told that Leslie has changed his mind and did not check in yesterday, so I go back to the car and drive home and then see to a few chores, before driving to the leisure centre for a swim. The pool is quiet before midday and I have a lane to myself, although I feel slightly out of sorts. I do what I always do in these circumstances and warm up on 400m backstroke, and then review the situation. Once my muscles, heart and lungs are put through their paces, I feel fine, so swim two more 400m on breastroke and freestyle, before switching to individual medleys and swim four 200m repeats, and then warm down with easy 250m each on back and front crawl. As I have explained before, my swims are active meditations. In passive meditation one focuses on the breath, or a mantra, to get beyond the linguistic mind. Beyond the running commentary and stream of consciousness dialogue, that accompanies our waking lives. With active meditation, the same effect is achieved by extreme concentration on the task in hand, in my case, swimming, but swimming in the most relaxed and streamlined way possible. It works for me and I nearly always emerge from the water more relaxed and refreshed than when I went in. Swimming medleys is also a complete full body work out. After showering and changing I drink tea and eat a few oaties in the cafe and then drive to Sarah's house, where I am due to collect Alice for an orthodontist appointment at three thirty. It is two fifteen when I park up and walk into town to see if my spectacles can be repaired. I am told they can have them ready for three o'clock, so leave them with the opticians and browse through town for half an hour. I notice Leslie has called and so call him back, his explanation of his actions concerns me. It seems the lift at Cedar Grange had not been repaired yesterday, so he delayed his admittance, which is sensible, but then claimed he later felt ill and called out the emergency doctor, who found nothing wrong with him again and referred him to his GP, who he saw today, about the slight stuffiness in his nose and insisted on being referred to an ear nose and throat specialist. He is awaiting the appointment for this, which is what he claims he wanted all along. Cedar Grange is deferred until this has taken place. I am afraid my old friend is starting to behave irrationally, I said I would call in and see him tomorrow. Serendipity, it seems, is working in my favour and I spot some goose down pillows on special offer for fifteen pounds in Boyes' store and decide to do my neck a favour and buy them. They come in a bag with rope handles and so I saunter back to collect my glasses, which are repaired and waiting for me, they also cost fifteen pounds, but that is £300 cheaper than new varifocals. En route to collect Alice, I call at the dry cleaners and pick up my Daks corduroy pants, complete with their new zip, another £15, but worth every penny, as they are by far the most comfortable winter trousers I possess. Alice is waiting for me and I drive her the half mile to the dental surgery, she is having spacers fitted today and braces next week. The dentist is unimpressed with her brushing and threatens to abandon the treatment unless her teeth are sparkling when she returns. My suggestion of pulling her teeth out instead, if she doesn't improve her oral hygiene, is discarded as being too radical. Ah in the olden days we had different ways to motivate kids! Alice has almost stopped laughing by the time I drop her off, " the dentist thought you were serious, Grandad", she hoots. "I was, I was", I reply.
When I arrive home, it is getting dark and Norman is waiting for his dinner, I am ready for mine as well, as I swam 2,500m at lunchtime. Lamb steaks, oven chips and salad are soon put together but Normy has to make do with a tin, as the steaks are too small to share. After dinner, I put clean pillowcases on my new pillows, hang up my pants and then take the dog for his evening walk. Afterwards I read until bedtime.

Time stands still

I wake with a stiff neck, it is just becoming light outside, but my watch reads ten past one, clearly it has stopped and probably needs a new battery. When I check my phone it says seven thirty five, so I get up, let Norman into the garden and start to make breakfast. It is windy outside and cold, Normy fairly sprints back into the house, then assumes his usual sentry post by the hall radiator, while I fry our full English. We eat together and then he follows me into the garden room where I finish my coffee and read the Guardian, before showering and dressing to start the day. I am concerned for Leslie and undertake to call him once the dogs are safely delivered to the Westwood. This I do while Teddy and Norman are off the lead, I am just to about to advise him against taking the room next to the main door, because of the noise and disturbance, when he tells me he has already booked the room upstairs, the one overlooking the garden, and his sat waiting for his son in law, William, to drive him to Cherry Burton. I arrange to call in and visit him tomorrow, after I have taken the dogs out. As soon as I have rung off, I dial the care home and ask that Leslie be introduced to the residents in the Lodge, an annex reserved for those that are more independent and not demented. He will make better progress with a few friends, as it is, there are few elderly men in these places, females tend to predominate. I just hope that some physiotherapy and social contact, will help him to get back on his feet. As we turn the corner of Newbegin Pits and progress towards Black Mill, the full force of the wind hits us, it is not quite gale force, only medium sized branches are moving, but it has the chill of winter about it. When we finally arrive in Burton Bushes, the oaks to the western edge are taking the full force of the wind and producing a cascade of leaves that shower down to the ground, by the time I steady the dogs and set up the camera on my phone to try to capture the scee, the phenomenon is past, and although I wait for several minutes, the effect is not repeated. Old Bill is sat out of the wind on Brandon Barker's bench, with his three dogs, one of which, a small terrier, is always ready to scrap. I wish him good morning and press on, returning to the car for twenty past eleven, although rain is forecast later, we have completed our walk without getting wet. Norman and I arrive back at Tickton half an hour later and I set too immediately to make some béchamel sauce. The Bolognese sauce left over from Saturday is soon stuffed into cannelloni, sprinkled with mozarella cheese and then topped with bechamel and a generous grating of nutmeg. There is enough to make two individual iron ware dishes of cannelloni, which I put into a medium oven for thirty five minutes. While these are cooking I knock up another batch of oaties on a baking tray and then make a Parmesan salad as a starter for my pasta. When the pasta is baked, I take it out and set it to cool, replacing it in the oven with the oaties and then sit down and eat my starter with some crusty bread, Norman has dry dog food and a dollop of Bolognese sauce. The cannelloni smell wonderful, but after my full English this morning and the starter, I am too full to eat one. So they will wait for dinner this evening. I have to collect Louis for three fifteen and then take him to my daughter in law, Sam, before taking him for his swimming lessons at five. By now it is two o'clock and this gives me enough time to pop into Beverley to Michael Phillips' watch shop and get my batteries changed. I park at Tesco's and walk to the jewellers, the battery in the watch is OK they say, so they recommend a service for sixty pounds, which I decline and ask for the watch back. When they replace the cover, the watch suddenly comes back to life, it appears that I must have pulled out the winding mechanism whilst I slept. Embarrassing, but cheaper than a service! The forecast rain has finally arrived and I pull on a beanie hat from the pocket of my winter coat and turn the collar up, as I make my way back to the car and then drive to Sam's house, which is just round the corner from Louis' school. When I get there, Sam says she had forgotten that Laura is participating in an after school fair, in order to raise money for children in need. Plans are thus changed and I agree to collect Louis from Saint Mary's and then walk the half mile to Molescroft Primary school and pick up Laura and bring her home. The children in need fair is in the school hall and Laura is on the first stall, selling raffle tickets to name a teddy bear. We buy two for a pound, one for Louis and one for her. The place is heaving, over three hundred parents forming a compressed, circular, crocodile, around a variety of stalls manned by children and teachers. The cacophony is deafening and I stagger round oozing change for half an hour, before collecting Laura and walking back to her mum's with Louis. Laura and Louis play, while Sam makes me a life saving cup of tea, Rebecca, my son's other daughter, arrives home around four thirty, she has a bad back, which eases with a massage, and then suddenly it is a quarter to five and Louis and I have to leave for swimming lessons. Provisionally, I arrange to take all my five grandchildren to the Hayride pub, for tea on Friday, Clement is coming home from UCL, to help look after Louis, while Sarah recovers from having some wisdom teeth extracted. Louis and I arrive on the poolside in the nick of time and Louis, who is a bit hyper after seeing his cousins and eating chocolate cake at the fair, lets off energy by being the first across the pool on every exercise. Unfortunately he also ignores most of the instructions on the drills. Afterwards, I dry and then dress him and deliver him back to Sarah's house a little before six. When I arrive home, I warm one of the dishes of cannelloni in the microwave and open Norman a tin, we eat together. The cannelloni is very good and very filling. After dinner we walk round the village, the rain has stopped though it is still windy, but much less cold. Once we get back to Green Lane, I let Normy off the lead and we play "praise and pat", all the way home. I swear the old boy is getting faster! I read until ten and then have an early night.

Stuck in the lift with Leslie

It is a cold, clear, morning, the lawn white with frost, as I let my dog out to perform his duties before breakfast. Our routine is slightly altered today, as I have volunteered to cook lunch at Leslie's house after church, he expressed an interest when I told him about spaghetti with white asparagus and so I have bought the ingredients and will make it for him later. After our usual full English breakfast, I read the Observer over coffee and then shower, dress and walk Norman down to the bridge over the drain. It is a glorious morning, clear blue skies, with the sun low to the southeast. The ground is still frozen and the breath from the Alpacas at the farm, comes out like clouds of steam and when I let Normy off the lead, he jogs all the way home, his little tail wagging happily. Before leaving for church, I load all the ingredients and cooking utensils that I will need for lunch into the back of my car, including a chilled bottle of Riesling, it will stay cold in this weather. I arrive in good time for ten thirty mass, a later service than my usual one, and find an empty pew, where I settle my mind and pray before the service starts. This service has the full choir and organist, who lead us in our hymns and sung portions of the mass, the sermon is a reflection by Father David Pick on his experience with prisoners and their families. Today is prisoner Sunday, the theme is breaking the cycles of abuse that lead to offending and recidivism. My mind is turned to Gaza and other places where this tragic pattern in human affairs is endlessly played out. Faith is a better response than despair. After communion I drive the short distance to Leslie's house, unpack my cooking gear and knock on the door. Leslie is waiting for me with his coat on, he tells me he has just called the ambulance as he is unwell, I return my pots etc to the car and sit with him until it arrives. He seems OK, but says he felt short of breath and unsteady on his feet this morning. He has a blood pressure monitor, so I suggest it may be useful to check his pulse and BP while we wait. Both are normal, and ten minutes later a paramedic arrives, a pleasant, competent woman, called Alyson. She spends a full forty five minutes giving Leslie an ECG and a thorough examination and when it becomes obvious that this is a panic attack, I phone Leslie's son in law, William and ask him to come. Once the checks are completed the paramedic asks Leslie what he wants to do, there is nothing apparently wrong with him other than being old, frail and frightened. The options are hospital, which she doesn't recommend, someone to stay with him, or respite care in a nursing home. He and I have discussed the possibility of a short convalescent stay in a nursing home and I have the number for the care home in Cherry Burton and he asks me to ring to check the availability of rooms. They have rooms and say we are welcome to view them should he wish and I thank them and say we will call back after discussing this with William, who arrives shortly afterwards. The paramedic completes her paperwork and leaves a copy for Leslie's doctor and he asks me to post it through the surgery letterbox later. After she leaves William asks Leslie what he wants to do and he decides that he would like to see the rooms at Cherry Burton, so I phone ahead and then drive the three of us the two miles to the home. The staff are waiting for us when we arrive, the home is an old mansion in extensive landscaped gardens, and we are shown a double room adjacent to the entrance, and then the lounge and dining room on the ground floor. There are two further rooms available on the first floor, one overlooking the garden, so we are conducted to the lift and conveyed to the first floor. When we arrive, the lift door fails to open, and it fails to respond to the button that would take us back down. There are four of us stuck in a space one metre wide and two long. Fortunately we are able to raise the alarm and another member of staff calls the fire brigade, who arrive within ten minutes and free us in a further five. Fortunately no one in the lift was claustrophobic and spirits are soon repaired with a cup of tea. The room overlooking the garden is very pleasant, and after our tea, we are given the prices and I take Leslie and William back to Leslie's bungalow. Leslie seems undeterred by the experience and seems inclined to return tomorrow, for one or two weeks respite. I have to leave, as it is now almost four o'clock and need to get back to Norman, on my way, I post the report for the doctor. I think my old friend has lost the confidence to live alone. When I get in, Norman is waiting for me, his tail wagging in anticipation of dinner, which I promptly serve. I put my shirts and socks on the line to dry this morning and recover them from the line in the gathering dusk. They are dry enough to iron, which is a result for this time of year. Lunch becomes dinner and it only takes a few minutes to prepare the asparagus and pasta but it is sad that I didn't get to make it for my friend. After dinner we walk round the village, it is a cold evening, the crescent moon is thickening towards the half and swirls of fog are rolling down the lane, above us the cries of pippistrelle bats sound out and the stars twinkle through the mist. I am glad to return indoors to the warmth of my room, Norman sits on my knee and snores gently while I read my book, which I put down after a while and then close my eyes to take in the events of the day.

Twice in a century

Norman shakes himself and rouses me from that comfortable state that lies somewhere between dreaming and waking. I open my eyes and in the dim early morning daylight that penetrates my bedroom curtains, make eye contact with him, he wags his tail vigorously and hops towards the bedroom door, whilst uttering small encouraging little dachshund barks. Faced by such canine blandishments, I find myself utterly incapable of resisting his wishes and swing my legs to the floor, slide my feet into my slippers and reach for my dressing gown, which lies conveniently on the chair at the foot of the bed. Outside it is a cloudy, rainswept morning, but my garden is sheltered from the worst of it, and Normy fairly sprints towards the lawn for his early morning ablutions. I make sure he can see me, because he has been known, in the past, to pretend to pee, before dashing back for breakfast. This morning he stays honest and then stations himself strategically next to the hall radiator where he can bask in its heat while simultaneously ensuring that I am making a decent fist of cooking breakfast. We eat simultaneously, I have cooked two sausages, two rashers of bacon, two slices of black pudding, two halves of tomato and one egg, Norman's share is half a sausage, the fatty bits from the bacon, a slice of black pudding and some egg white. He is not keen on fried tomato. He beats me hands down again and then watches me with big, brown, soulful eyes, while I carefully masticate and listen to the radio four news. The tactic works, and he manages to blag another half a sausage, that my appetite suddenly decides it doesn't really need. After breakfast, I retire to the garden room, carrying my coffee and intending to read the Saturday Guardian at leisure, fat chance, the BT, weekend broadband curse has struck again, and I have to download the edition manually. After fifteen minutes of patience, I abandon the attempt, my coffee drained and bored with the repetition of the same depressing news. The Palestinians have fired eight rockets overnight into Israel and Israel has responded with one hundred and eighty air strikes. It is just as if some one kicked you out of your family home and then you throw rocks against their windows and they respond by napalming the shanty in which you have been forced to live. Impotent in the face of this injustice, I put last weeks underwear into the washing machine. Still enraged, I hack an onion to pieces and fry it up with some garlic and mince, and then add some oxo, chopped tomatoes and oregano, before transferring it to the slow cooker, where it will morph into an approximation of Bolognese sauce. After showering and dressing, we leave the house around ten, bound for Beverley and the Poppy Seed cafe, where we are due to meet Felicity and friends for coffee. This is our usual Saturday morning routine and we park down Norwood, just before the Girl's High School, and walk into town. Fortunately the rain has reduced to the odd spot, and Norman is in no great hurry, stopping to sniff each lamppost and railing, to see if anyone he knows has passed this way recently. As we approach the Poppy Seed, we encounter Felicity, withdrawing cash from the Barclay's bank, hole in the wall. I offer to help her negotiate her way back across the road, as she is blind in one eye and rather unsteady on her feet, but she spurns my help and launches herself in front of the market day traffic, declaring, "they don't knock old ladies down!" A motorist in a four by four mouths something at her, which I don't think is, "after you my dear". Norman and I follow via the adjacent pedestrian crossing. Felicity says she feels her blood sugars are low, the perennial excuse for sweet foods used by many type two diabetics and orders a toasted teacake and a cappuccino, the waitress brings me a tea unbidden. Within minutes the rest of the Saturday morning crowd arrives, Annie, followed by Hahne, then Rosemary and Barbara, who we haven't seen since her operation, then Jill and finally Felicity's sister, Joy. Norman sits on my knee, enjoying the succession of pats and waiting for someone to order a bacon or sausage sandwich, but today he is out of luck. We sit back and enjoy the craic, as at least four conversations, intersect around our heads. By half past eleven Felicity has run out of steam and we walk her back to Albert Terrace, before making our way back to Norwood via Saturday market, pausing only to busy fresh bread and some olives. When we arrive home, the Bolognese sauce is fermenting nicely, and though it should, ideally, wait until this evening, we decide to cook pasta for lunch. Fifteen minutes later we are eating and despite it being Bolognese nouveau, it tastes OK. After lunch I hang my underwear on lines in the garage, where it will dry, eventually, and then set this weeks, shirts, socks and pyjamas to wash. The broadband is still jammed up, so I meditate for a while and then iron shirts whilst listening to the football on radio Humberside. Hull City are playing away at Birmingham, who we haven't beaten since 1971 and we have only won once at Saint Andrews, the Birmingham ground, in the last hundred years. I know this because the commentator, David Burns, aka Burnsy, tells me so. His expert summariser, Peter Swan, aka, Swanny, an ex Hull City and Leeds United footballer, forms the other half of this comedy double act. In Yorkshire we show affection to our friends by taking the mickey, the closer the friendship the more extreme this becomes. These two are great friends and it is amazing how much Yorkshire affection they are able to absorb. As I have no doubt said before, they are pure comedy gold and most of the fans tune in, as much for their banter as for the match, and a great match it is. The tigers are three goals up in half an hour, Birmingham score two goals either side of half time, but we hang on for the win. So now we have won twice in the last hundred years. After the match, Norman has a tin and then we walk round the village. It is a cold, clear, evening, a crescent moon is rising in the West and the sky is bright with stars. If it stays clear we could well have a frost tonight, the daily Mail, the organ for lobotomised Tory wives, has declared an Arctic blast will plunge Britain into a deep freeze next week. The chances of this are about a thousand to one, but if you like to be kept in a state of permanent fear or outrage, the Mail is the paper for you. During and after the war, we used to cut newspapers into squares and use them for toilet paper, no publication is better suited for this, except perhaps the Sun, but that's not really a newspaper. Once Normy is safely home I phone Leslie, I have promised to make him pasta with white asparagus for lunch tomorrow, and check that this is still OK, before driving to Morrison's, where they have white asparagus on their fresh vegetable counter. While I am there, I pick up a bottle of Riesling to accompany the meal and top up my stock of oak smoked Wiltshire bacon. Back home again I make a salad with shavings of Parmesan, which I eat with a baguette while listening to Front Row on radio four, they are reviewing Michael Hanneke's new film, "Amour", an unrelenting observation of old age, sickness and death. I enjoyed, if that's the right word, his last film, "The White Ribbon", an acute observation of the class tensions in rural Germany immediately before the First World War. Later, I read the introduction to Simone Weil's, " The need for roots", on kindle. She discusses the necessity for obligations, which she claims are universal, to come before rights, which cannot exist without them. Profound and interesting, I shall buy the book, but perhaps in paperback. To bed at ten.

Lost Keys and Leonardo

The great thing about early morning alarms is that I always wake up five minutes before they go off. Perhaps that is just a crippling adjunct of the burden of responsibility that an oldest child always carries. In any event, I am awake this morning by twenty five minutes past six. It is still dark outside and Norman is gently snoring in his basket, which I move into my bedroom every night. Otherwise he wakes up in the small hours, wonders where I am and starts to whimper at the door. This morning I am taking Louis to school, hence the early start, and later, this afternoon. I am ferrying, Felicity, Hanne and Rosemary to a lecture on Leonardo Da Vinci, at the Ferens Art Gallery in Hull. I breakfast on smoked salmon with cream cheese on rye toast, Normy has to settle for dry dog food, and then I shower, dress and drive to Sarah's house to collect Louis. It is a dry morning, high pressure dominating the weather, and as so often in winter, producing a hazy grey mist, that the sun may, or may not, burn off. We walk down North Bar, Louis, Norman and I, and onto New Walk, which is a continuation of North Bar, but marked by a boulevard of trees separating the road from the pavement and thus making it a much nicer place to walk. We find a Spider-Man glove placed upon a wall, I suspect it is one that Louis has lost, but he says not and is delighted to wear it on his right hand, pretending to shoot out spider webs, all the way to school. After delivering him safely to Saint Mary's Primary School, Norman and I retrace our steps back to the car. When we get there, I flourish my keys before opening the car to retrieve my walking boots, and the spare key, for Pip's Micra, comes loose and bounces off the pavement. After picking it up and clipping it back on my key ring, I don my boots, drive to Cherry Burton and collect Dolly and Teddy for their walk on the Westwood. Because they will not be left off the lead again until Monday, I ensure they have a good walk today. Yesterday's travails with other bitches is not repeated today, perhaps because there are fewer dogs about at this earlier time. It is cool but not cold, with insufficient wind to stir the flags on the golf tees, but such wind as there is, is cold to the skin. The wet spring and summer has resulted in the most spectacular Autumn display of leaves that I can ever remember, they won't last much longer, but while they do, the scenery in the woods is wonderful. The leaves are lying three inches deep in Newbegin Pits and Norman runs through them and then rolls on his back and wriggles with the sheer joy of being alive, even though he is ninety in dog years. We stay out for two hours again today, before returning the terriers back to Two Riggs and driving home to Tickton. When we get there, my house keys are gone, and I realise, with horror, that they must have dropped off when I lost the Micra keys earlier. Fortunately there are two hours before I am due to collect the others for the Da Vinci exhibition and lecture, but I can't help speculating about alternative strategies, in case my keys are permanently lost. Fortunately, they are lying on the cobbles outside Sarah's house, where they must have lain since nine o' clock, and in the end, I have only wasted half an hour. Once we are safely back in the house, I switch on the oven and take some frozen haddock fillets, oven chips and garden peas out of the freezer and prepare lunch. While it is cooking I log on to the Jet2 website and book a return flight to Amsterdam for two weeks time and then e-mail my brother, Graham, to let him know my arrangements. Lunch is simple, tasty but effective, Norman has half a fillet of fish and a couple of chips and there is just time to finish my tea, before driving to Albert Terrace to collect Felicity and her friends. We set off by a quarter to two and I deliver them to the door of the Ferens, before driving round the corner, past my old headquarters in Telephone House, to the car park in Osborne Street. From here I walk back and arrive a few minutes before the lecture begins. The lecturer, is Michael Clayton, the senior curator of prints and drawings at the Royal Collection, from which the exhibits at the Ferens have been selected. He talks for an hour and it is obvious that he is not only an expert on Leonardo Da Vinci, but the whole social, political and historical milieu, in which Leonardo existed. The talk was interesting, informative and amusing and one came away with a sense that Da Vinci was a Polymath Genius, who hardly finished anything he started, and whose art seemed like a way of funding his mainly anatomical and scientific interests. After the lecture there were a few lobotomised questions, from people who mainly wanted to announce that they were there, rather than raise anything of interest. Afterwards, viewing the exhibits, a young woman with a magnifying glass who was examining a drawing very closely, collapses to the floor in front of me, she lands in a recovery position, she is breathing and her pulse is steady, after a few moments her eyes open, but she is not fully conscious and doesn't respond when spoken to. The gallery staff call an ambulance, and the audience, once the novelty of the situation wears off, resume their viewing. Paramedics arrive after five minutes or so and the woman is taken to hospital, it looks like a petit mal epilepsy, but could be something much more serious. I hope not. The drawings seem suddenly less important, in the light of this experience, but Da Vinci and renaissance Italy are endlessly fascinating. I collect the car from the multi storey car park, pick up my passengers and then drive back to Beverley through the Friday evening traffic, arriving back at Albert Terrace at five fifteen. Radio Humberside announces the results of the police commissioner election, John Prescott lost on second preferences to the conservative candidate. My guy came a narrow third. Norman is ready for his tea when I arrive home, he has a tin of dog food and then I walk him round the village, before the rain that is forecast to arrive by seven, comes down. Later I make Parma Ham and smoked cheese sandwiches, and have just finished these, when my Niece, Rachel, phones. She confirms that she has been made redundant and is considering taking the firm to a tribunal, as the process was opaque and almost certainly unfair. She has worked there for less than a year, so I advise against this, as she needs to focus on the future, rather than settle scores against past injustices. Even if she wins, the payout is likely to be minimal and the process likely to impinge significantly on her well being. I hope she listens to me, and remind her to send me her CV and her "linked in" profile. As soon as she rings off, Felicity phones, to thank me for the chauffeuring duties, and we chat and laugh for five minutes and agree to meet at the Poppy Seed in the morning. I try to play the "in our time podcast", but the BT broadband is too stretched, so it will have to wait until tomorrow. To bed at ten.

Between yesterday and tomorrow.

There is no particular rush today, so we take our time over breakfast, the usual full English, with Morrison's fresh Lincolnshire sausage, Wiltshire bacon and Irish black pudding, and the usual fresh egg and fried tomato. Melvyn Bragg, is discussing Simone Weil today on "In our time", and although I only catch pieces of it, between the shower and driving to Cherry to collect the dogs, I am sufficiently intrigued to download the podcast later. Apart from her early death, suffering and quite extreme asceticism, we seem to share not dissimilar views. Today is another quiet, in between, day. It is dry, but cloudy, misty, but brightening, and unusually for the Westwood, hardly any wind. The woods are still and pregnant with presence, the dogs treating today as any other day, its particular quality, perhaps, residing entirely in my head. However I can't shake the feeling that things before today will be different from those that follow, although I can't say how. Weird, really! As we emerge from the common, I call Leslie's daughter, Margaret, to see how her dad is and William, her husband, answers the phone, he apologises profusely, as he explains that Leslie was discharged on Tuesday morning. They ran extensive tests in hospital and found nothing wrong with him. I thank William and resolve to call round and see my old friend later in the day. Whilst we walk towards Black Mill, I encounter Margaret Richardson and her Saluki bitch, who promptly starts a fight with Dolly, which is most unusual. Margaret and her husband, Brian, are stalwarts at Beverley athletic club and I have known them both for twenty years or more. We walk together for a while until she has to peel off towards Walkington, where they live, and we turn South towards the gorse bushes. A couple are walking a chihuahua puppy and a boxer bitch, who promptly sets about Dolly and is in turn attacked by Teddy, Norman keeps out of the way. It is all sound and fury and no damage, the dogs soon separated, but for Dolly to be involved in scraps with other bitches can only have one meaning. She is coming into season! Being a pragmatic dog owner, my dogs are neutered, but my bitches intact. It is a nothing operation for boys, but quite brutal for girls. We make our way to Burton Bushes, and I pause for a rest on Brandon Barker's bench, beneath the elms, and ring my daughter in law, Sam, to arrange to visit on Monday. It is a little tricky, as she and my son are divorcing, but my granddaughters, Laura and Rebecca need as much normality as can be maintained. I have always got on well with Sam and try to stay neutral, as far as I am aware, there are no third parties involved. We arrange for me to call round at tea time on Monday, with Louis, before his swimming lesson. We arrive back at my car, after a couple of pleasant hours wandering around the common, and then drop the terriers back at Pip's before driving home. I have Louis this afternoon, as Sarah is on a training course, so I am refraining from swimming, in order to conserve energy. Since we have finally finished the lamb, we dine on pork today. I defrost a large pork chop, which I fry gently with onions, while peeling carrots, swede, potato, and chopping up spring greens, before depositing the lot in the pressure cooker. An oxo cube, a little water, and a rich pork gravy is soon ready to accompany our carrot and turnip mash, potatoes and spring cabbage. Norman has the bone and fat, with the rest of the trimmings. After lunch we listen to the news, mostly about the killings in Gaza, ahead of the Israeli elections, and then meditate for an hour. My meditation provides no solution to the Arab, Israeli conflict, only a reinforced conviction that abuse leads to further abuse. A recurrent theme in the news at the moment, a New Testament doctrine of acceptance and forgiveness of human frailty, seems ever more appropriate. I prepare for Louis' visit by cutting coloured paper into small strips, which I place in plastic containers, that I bought in Morrison's yesterday, for just this purpose. I use these, in conjunction with Louis' glue stick, to construct a mosaic of a bonfire, on black paper. He is a clever lad, and by showing what can be done, he may be inspired to have a try himself. This done, I drive to Molescroft to visit Leslie, calling at the Polling Station, in the village, to cast my vote for the Humberside Police Commissioner. It seems a straight vote between John Prescott and anybody but John Prescott. My vote is for Stuart Davison, a retired Chief Superintendant, from a deprived part of Hull, with a PhD in chemical engineering. He ended the practice of screening out low level crimes, when he ran the Beverley division. As a Labour supporter, I should be voting for John Prescott, but I don't think he has administrative competence. When I arrive in Molescroft, Leslie has just got in after visiting his friend, Mary Hodgeson, in Beverley. They met twenty years ago on an Alpha course at Beverley Minster, shortly after both their spouses had died, and have been firm friends ever since. Leslie seems a little sheepish about his emergency hospital visit, but says he felt short of breath, and after surviving two heart attacks, didn't want to take any risks. He says he still doesn't feel quite right, despite there being no detectable problems, and I wouldn't query his judgement. I leave at a quarter past five and collect Louis from his after school club, and then drive back to Tickton. I show him the mosaic of the bonfire and the bowls of coloured paper and his glue stick, arranged on the coffee table in the living room, and leave him to play whilst I prepare his evening meal and feed Norman. Louis has what he always has, Parma ham, Chorizo, Bavarian smoked cheese, olives, crusty bread and butter, washed down with a glass of cream soda. I ask him how he got on with his coloured paper and he shows me the bonfire, I made earlier,, claiming it as his own. After his tea, we take Norman for his walk around the village and call at the Post Office to buy an ice lolly for Louis. The young shop attendant confesses that he inadvertently switched off the freezer last week and consequently have no ice lollies for sale. Undeterred, Louis parleys this setback in to a Marvel Avengers comic book, with a free pop gun included. We return via the dark of Carr Lane, marvelling at the bright starry sky, but failing to find the faintest, slender, crescent moon that was rising, just after I cast my vote. Once we are through the snickett and under the street lights of Green Lane, we let Normy off his lead and laugh while we play "praise and pat", all the way home. When we get back indoors we sit down together and make a rocket ship mosaic, complete with crescent moon, stars and the planet Saturn. All this between firing his pop gun across the room, with a strict injunction that Norman should not be a target. Sarah arrives and collects Louis around a quarter to eight and afterwards I drive the car to the supermarket to fill up with petrol, while it is quiet, and pick up some more Italian coffee while I am at it. Back home, I have an email from my brother, Graham, wanting to know when I will be visiting him. Provisionally, I intend flying in to Schiphol from Leeds/Bradford airport on the 29th of November and returning on the 4th of December, and ask if this is convenient? To bed at eleven.

Agnus day, again!

We are meeting Felicity at the Poppy Seed Cafe this morning and leave the house promptly at nine o'clock. Freshly shaved, showered and with a good breakfast to see us through the morning. We arrive down Newbald Road at about a quarter past nine, after first collecting the terriers from Cherry, it is a mild, cloudy, day with the wind from the southwest, the soft, moist, Atlantic air soothing to the skin on my face. Within the next few weeks, no doubt, we will suffer a northeasterly air flow, the kind that shrinks the skin to the skull and chaps the cheeks. Once we are safely in the woods I release Teddy and Norman from their leads, the former dashes off chasing rabbits and squirrels and the old boy jogs on behind Dolly and I, sniffing tree trunks to see who has passed by and rooting in the carpet of leaves on the floor of the wood. There are many more leaves down here now than up there and a decent frost will soon bring the rest down, but for now the cider smell, the vibrant ochre and gold colours and the rustle while we walk, are a gift for the senses. Teddy has started to return to the lead unbidden, as we come out of the woods on to the pasture, and Dolly scoots off to say hello to the other dogs, she knows them all after four years practice. As far as the dogs are concerned, it is their Westwood, us humans are just supporting cast. As we approach Black Mill, I am struck by how well Felicity captured its likeness for the cover of her anthology. It's looming black presence is both menacing and strangely reassuring. We head straight back downhill to the car today after an hour in the fresh air. Norman and I arrive at the Poppy Seed just after ten thirty, to find Felicity tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs. I sit him on my knee, after first wiping his paws clear of mud, not that it matters much, as I am wearing a pair of old corduroy trousers and an ancient fleece that has seen better days, but suffices for dog walks. Annie arrives shortly after me and we chat amiably about this and that until half past eleven. Felicity insists on paying for everyone, although Annie and I have just had tea, and gives me ten pounds to do this. The bill comes to £9:20p so I tell them to keep the change, and then give Felicity about a fiver in change. Her generosity exceeds her means. She is also delighted that it was so cheap! Norman and I walk her back to Albert Terrace, collect the herb pot, I forgot yesterday, and then make our way back to Saint John's where I parked the car. On our way we meet father Roy on his way to some meeting or other, a black briefcase in his hand, we say hello and exchange pleasantries for a minute or two and then continue on our way. We arrive home for noon and lunch on the bone broth, that has been simmering for days in the slow cooker. It is by far the best meal we have had out of the leg of lamb, the bones are boiled clean and the pulses and vegetables combine with the meat and marrow to provide a rich satisfying meal. Norman has the extra treat of the bones, although he has so few teeth left he can probably only give them a suck! Nevertheless he enjoys the meal. Woolovers have emailed back to say they don't seem to have received my pullover, so I check my blog and call at the village Post Office, armed with the time and date of despatch. "No luck, sorry squire, you should have sent it recorded delivery!" Is the message I get, I suppose I should really, hindsight is a wonderful thing, but I expect this one will have to be written down to experience. When we get back the British Gas engineer arrives unannounced and asks if it is OK to service my central heating. I tell him he is welcome to get on with it and that it makes a change to talk to a human being rather than a voice processing system. He seems a decent sort, so I make him a gift of a pot of tea and a plate of oaties, which he seems to eat with relish. When he has finished, he tells me that he is allowed 58 minutes per job including travel time. What about the other two minutes, I ask? That's for paperwork he replies, I time him and it actually takes five. That's privatisation for you, screw the workers, screw the customers and fat bonuses for the bosses! After he leaves, I meditate for half an hour and then head to the Leisure Centre with my swimming gear. I am later than usual today and its a quarter past three when I enter the water, there are quite a few other swimmers, but I know most of them and they make room for me in the open section that covers half the pool. I repeat yesterday's session but am interrupted on the breaststroke 400m with about six lengths to go, as the pool is reconfigured for swimming lessons. This involves putting lane ropes across the width of the pool to provide five swimming areas, four for lessons and the remaining one, at the deep end, for public swimming. There are only three of us in this section, myself and two young lads, so I am able to do my individual medleys across the width of the pool. It is fifteen metres wide and so I do two widths in each stroke, making each medley 120m. The change is interesting, because the turns come quicker and there is less opportunity to breath. After a couple of repeats, I have worked out how many strokes to the width and can tumble turn at the appropriate distance. I warm down with easy eight widths backstroke followed by the same on freestyle. As I shower and dry my hair, I watch the lessons, I know all of the instructors and only one of them can actually swim the strokes correctly. All the rest have passed the ASA examination by rote, the problem with this is, that each child is an individual and needs teaching geared to their specific needs. Perhaps that is asking too much, the kids seem to get there, more or less, eventually. Pete Prestbury who coached with me at one time, used to say that most people learn to swim badly and then practice that for the rest of their lives! After a quick tea in the cafe, I drive to Morrison's to restock on sausage, black pudding and cleaning products and arrive home around six fifteen. Norman sits attentively as I make dinner, nothing flash, roast lamb for a change, in a baguette with tossed salad and oven chips. Norman has a couple of slices chopped small and the remnants of the broth, and the lamb is finally finished. Norman looks disappointed but I am relieved we have eaten it all. Still it was great value, it fed both of us for four days for a fiver. Boring, perhaps, but frugal. They had geese in the freezer cabinet for Xmas, I wonder how long it would take me and Normy to see one of those off? After dinner we go for our walk around the village and bump into one of Norman's fan club, a little girl who lives across the green, she is walking home with her dad and stops to give the old chap a pat. Which he greatly appreciates, his tail going like windscreen wipers set for a cloudburst. When we get back Clement phones from London, he has just been to the gym, he is coming home the weekend after next and we discuss whether Louis would sit through a football match. Sarah is having her wisdom teeth out and Clement and I are looking after Louis while she convalesces. My nickname for Louis, is Chugs, because he comes on like a train and consequently baby sitting has become known as "Chug wrestling", an exercise not for the weak or faint hearted. To be fair he has become slightly more sedate of late, he has been born twelve hundred years too late, he would have made an exceptional Viking! To bed at ten.