It has rained heavily overnight and the snowy landscape has given way to a world once again rich in colours and textures. I carry Norman into the garden room and sit in the armchair for a while, massaging his shoulders before releasing him into the garden. In the field beyond my garden hedge, a large dog fox trots, with a rabbit in its mouth, between clumps of straw coloured grasses. No doubt on his way home after a successful nights hunting. The sun has not yet risen, but the eastern sky is already light with grey on blue, no trace of snow or ice remains. We breakfast on sausage, black pudding and bacon, much to Normy's approval and then shower, dress and walk as far as Carr Lane, where I let him off the lead. He promptly turns tail and skedaddles back towards the house. I will take him out properly after I have been to church and visited Leslie. His little blue coat is filthy and there is just enough time to put it in the washing machine, before I set off for Saint John's. After parking opposite Joy's house, (Felicity's sister), I walk back towards church, when Leslie phones, he has fallen and is just about to get in the ambulance to go to hospital, when I ask if he is hurt, he says he won't know until they xray him, so I promise to call back and visit later, if he is allowed home, but the connection is bad, or he has hung up and there is no reply when I try calling back. I say a prayer for him in church, Father David is taking Mass this morning so Roy must still be unwell, the homily is given over to reading a letter from the bishop of Southwark, urging us all to write to our MP opposing the "gay marriage" bill and whilst I think the legislation is a bit rushed, I am inherently against all forms of prejudice and do not feel threatened by the move, so won't be able to comply. Judging by the number of people who don't collect the prepared postcards after the service, I am not alone in thinking this way. On my way home, I stop and buy a small leg of lamb and some winter roasting vegetables from the supermarket, as well as more bacon, sausages and coffee. Once indoors, I prepare dinner, coating the lamb in rosemary and garlic, before laying it on a bed of carrot, turnip, parsnip, fennel, onion and potato in the Romertopf, clay roaster. While I am doing this, Paul McCartney is on radio four, talking about vegetarianism and meat free Mondays. Undeterred, I place the pot in the oven and set it to cook slowly for three hours on a medium heat. Later Norman and I drive into town and park behind Butcher Row, finding the only free parking slot. Beverley is thronging with shoppers, it is almost as if people are emerging from hibernation after the snow, as we make our way along Toll Gavel and into Saturday Market Place, before turning left through a snicket, crossing Lairgate and then making our way up Greyburn Lane to Felicity's House on Albert Terrace. Hanne is just leaving as we arrive and Barney, Felicity's grandson, has just got back from walking Molly and Sam, her two dogs. Barney is waiting for his mother and we exchange commiserations about the Tigers defeat by Barnsley yesterday, he is also a fan and witnessed our demise. We stay for half an hour and I am rewarded with a small tot of whiskey against the cold, and fail to advise her that it is really much warmer outside. On her table is a beautiful little history of "The Pastures of Beverley", that Barbara English has written and has just come off the press. She popped one through Fliss's letterbox and though I only had time to flick through it, I shall ring Barbara to congratulate her on her victory in Saving the Sets and arrange to buy a copy. We leave around half past four and retrace our steps to the car, the sun has gone down and with the westerly wind, it does now feel quite cold. When we arrive home the lamb and vegetables fill the house with a wonderful aroma, they are cooked to a tee, but being a bit of a perfectionist, I take both out of the clay pot and set them to brown, with the oven turned up to maximum. While this is happening I add a lamb stock cube to the juices and a little cornflower, in order to make a rich gravy. When the meat and vegetables are browned, we serve dinner, the lamb is wonderfully tender and the root vegetables lend a caramelised sweetness, that blends well with the gravy. Norman gives it his seal of approval and is no doubt looking forward to eating the rest of the joint over the coming week. Later, after washing up, I wrap the meat in foil and reserve it in the fridge, along with the balance of yesterday's Bolognese sauce, that I save in a Tupperware container. After several failed attempts and half an hour of Mozart, I eventually track Leslie down to the assessment ward in Hull Royal Infirmary, the staff are very evasive, but it seems to me that he may have been kept hanging around in A & E for over eight hours. All they will tell me, as I am not family, is that he is comfortable and waiting to be seen by a doctor. Margaret and William are in London and all I get is their voice mail, so I have left messages and a text, with the tel no and extension of the ward. There is nothing more I can do until morning. Later I play around with my drawing application, to try to depict the fox I saw this morning, and write a little poem about him. It's not up to Felicity's standard, but here it is!
The Ginger Biscuit, Dusty, Fox
A hard night's rain has washed away
The snow and ice, white on grey.
A ginger biscuit, dusty fox,
Through clumps of straw blonde grasses trots,
And rabbits to his vixen brings,
Then earthbound, dreams of cubs and spring.
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