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.