According to today’s Eastern Daily Press, a Norfolk farmer has stepped up biosecurity at his farm, where he has 24,000 free-range laying hens. Laying eggs that is, not lying down. Whatever could that mean?

He feeds them indoors.

My desk faces the window. This is not altogether a good thing, as it faces east and so the morning sun shines in my eyes, but an advantage is that I can see the garden and part of the drive (so can run away from visitors if I have been foolish enough to start work before dressing). There was a cock pheasant strolling around this morning outside the window.

The house and garden are surrounded by fields so we do have a fair amount of wildlife coming to call. When we moved here there were lots of rabbits and I had to put rabbit-proof netting around the vegetable garden, but myxomatosis (yes, that is spelled right although it doesn’t look it; Word has never heard of the word so I had to stand up – yes, Stand Up; exercise for the morning done – and check the dictionary. It comes from the Greek for mucus apparently. Nice.) put paid to most of them and if numbers go up, foxes move in.

The Sage is very fond of birds. Parent songbirds watch complacently as he goes to their nest to chat to their babies; although in theory they should desert the nest, they relax comfortably while he acts as nanny and gives the chicks aphids and, on hot days, sprinkles droplets of water into their gaping mouths. He has in the past hand-reared baby pheasants – they are not intelligent birds and once he found a brood cheeping dispiritedly by the road, the mother having hopped over a low wall where they couldn’t follow.

This is a particularly handsome pheasant, being lighter in colour than the usual, with a beautiful golden tail. He kept going into the greenhouse last summer; to eat cucumbers I suppose, so I had to be very careful on my approach, as he would career, panic-stricken, into the glass when he saw me. After one particularly terrified charge, he limped for days. He recovered sufficiently to spend the autumn eating acorns that had fallen on the drive and the winter eating the grains of wheat that we helpfully left for him. I wonder if he’ll find a wife this spring. It would be good to have a little flock of golden-tailed pheasants.

A surprise this morning – went out to the pond to admire the frogspawn and found that the tadpoles are hatching. Seething mass of wriggling darlings basking in the sun. Some years, if the mood takes me and I have time, I spend a day by the pond just watching tadpoles hatch, but I’ve missed most of the occasion this time. There are some surplus pond plants that I must remove as there won’t be enough clear water for them to swim in as they grow, and if I leave it a few weeks I will have to take ages frisking each chunk of plant for tadpoles, as well as snails etc. I’m a bit softhearted…….

When I was a child we had a big rock-garden; really it was huge, about ¼ of an acre. My grandfather had it constructed in the 1930s to help provide employment. There was a system of ponds and waterfalls and my favourite pond was well stocked with newts. I loved them dearly and spent hours watching them and catching them – I never used a net, it was a point of pride to use nothing but a swift hand. They were then kissed and examined and released again.

I still catch frogs if I can; not in the water as my reactions aren’t up to it (and besides, I’ve grown up) but if I move a log or something and there is a frog crouching, I pick it up and, um, give it a kiss (perhaps not grown up that far). People ask if I expect it to turn into a prince – ‘well, it’s only happened once so far —‘, I reply brightly.

The postman brought me a parcel and I was quite excited. I couldn’t remember ordering anything but a surprise is Good. Not that good in this case however, just a new cartridge for the water filter, together with an invoice helpfully telling me that £26.79 has been taken from my bank account. Oh. Very useful.

I’ve put the photos on the computer, with a few I took at the weekend there are 300 of them. Blimey. Whatever does anyone want with 300 photos? And even the rubbish ones, if they include a family member, I find hard to delete. Unless they are unflattering of course, I’m not unkind.

Emails from friends and family are kept, however brief and businesslike; it seems uncaring to throw them away. And personal, hand-written letters are a rare pleasure that particularly touch and hold me – partly because of their rarity perhaps.

Softhearted and sentimental. I flounder in a sea of Stuff and I don’t even mind. Except that I can never find the Stuff I need.

Driving back from Norwich this lunchtime, I listened to a programme about political diaries. At one point they were discussing why one writes/publishes a diary and what to put in it.

It made me muse, why am I writing this?

I have never kept a diary as it seemed absurdly self-conscious of me. Is one writing to someone or not? If it’s for yourself, there is no need to explain what you already know, so that sort of detail implies that it’s really for ‘posterity’ – and that’s not for me. But to write purely for yourself seems just too navel-gazing for me. Occasionally, years ago, I tried; usually of course when I’d been given a new diary – the ‘journal’ type rather than the appointment one that rules my life, or at any rate gives some order to it. But it generally petered out when I reread what I’d written a few weeks later and became hugely self-conscious about it. Or, come to that, bored.

This blog, though I only started in January, has continued longer than any journal I’ve ever written.

It is, I think, partly because it is not a real document; it would only become one if I printed it out.
It’s typed. Which is not an effort as handwriting has become – as one doesn’t do it a great deal.
I’m writing to no-one or to anyone; that is, it’s in the public domain (sorry, sounds pretentious) but it’s not addressed to anyone and those who know about it, or come across it, are free to read it or not and I won’t even know.
It’s in a nice limbo between ephemeral and permanent, being both and neither.

When I started, I was not going to tell anyone. I have now (most of my family and one friend) and I know two people read it regularly because they have told me. I thought it would be anonymous so I could say anything I wanted – but I soon realised that I was giving a good many clues about myself and could be easily identified. So that’s when I relaxed and told people. But not many; I’m not angling to gain readers and certainly not ones who know me.

The radio presenter acknowledged that sometimes he said and did things to be able to spice up his diary; but then it was always intended for publication. I don’t do that but I sometimes react to events by thinking how I could write about them. Having had the mental composition exercise, that’s usually enough for me however and I either forget about it or can’t be bothered to go through it twice, once in my head and once through my fingers. Usually, I sit here not knowing what I’m going to write about and a whim comes to mind and I just write it down. Very unfocused; more or less a combination of present events, memories and just thoughts as they pass. Though not necessarily all in one epistle.

But as for the question, why am I writing this, I haven’t answered it at all. Self-indulgent? Too much time on my hands? Or too many things on my mind, so a way to relax?

Or is it another whimsy that will pass.

I quite like the fact that it doesn’t matter, whatever the answers are.

A month or two ago I bought a camera. I have never owned one before and hardly ever used one. I always felt it created a barrier between me and what was going on. Of course, those who, like me, hate having their picture taken are often the keenest snappers; photo or be photoed (that can’t be how you spell it, my own fault for being too lazy to write photographed), but it’s never appealed to me.

Digital cameras seem different, mainly because they show a bigger picture and I don’t have to put my eye to a little viewfinder but can see what is actually going on. And I need to take photos of stuff we’re selling for our website. Selling at a real auction of course, not online. And of course there is Grandbaby.

However, the downside is that it’s so easy to take loads of pictures that I can see they are going to build up, filed under vague categories and not properly labelled, for years to come. I’ve got about 200 of them from the past week and I can’t even bring myself to load them on the computer yet. It’s not that I don’t want to see them, but it’s all fresh in my memory and I don’t need them yet. By the time I finally get round to it, I’ll have forgotten why I took the pictures. And where they are of.

I should have gone to the WI tonight but cried off as I had work to do. Half regret it though; the subject of the talk was to be ‘canopies’ and now I shall never know if I would have received sound advice about sunshades or about tasty nibbles to go with drinks. I rather suspect the latter.

Venice was, of course, wonderful and I have nothing to add to everything that people have said over hundreds of years.

Other observations instead. They are very fond of dogs there and, to my pleasure, most of those we saw were mongrels. Not even designer cross-breeds. I suppose if you are Venetian you have absolutely nothing to prove about your status in life and don’t need a pedigree animal to demonstrate your poshness. Charming dogs anyway, and I really rather wanted to bring one home. Not a kindness of course, even if it were possible, as many of them would never have seen a car and would be frightened. I only saw one cat during the week.

I stayed so clean. Usually one gets awfully grimy in cities but when there’s no road traffic there’s nothing to make you dirty.

Easy to find your way about; equally easy to get lost in a small way; that is, you can always find your way to St Mark’s, the Rialto etc as there are signs, but the glove shop 50 metres away could be down any number of little lanes and it’s very hard to find again. And it would be useful to have cul de sacs marked as by the time you have ambled down a few blind alleys and back again you have completely lost your sense of direction. Fortunately it doesn’t matter. It was extremely funny, however, on the last evening, to find ourselves walking by the restaurant we had left 10 minutes earlier and be greeted by the startled waiters again. In fact, I was laughing so much that I was obliged to pop in and use the loo, which must have given the other diners quite the wrong impression of me ‘how rude, she just came in off the street, went to the lavatory and strolled out again’.

It’s so entertaining, just watching people. Not just for what they do, but for what they wear too. There are two who particularly stand out in my mind and I will remember them fondly.

The Pixie
I watched her in the Doge’s Palace. She was on her own and went round with a guidebook in her hands, which she read intently. She was small and slim, with neat features and long curly hair and the most retroussé little nose I’ve ever seen.
But what made her noticeable was her jacket. It was knitted, multi-coloured, patchwork; unusual but not remarkable. Until you noticed the long pointed hood extending all the way down the back with a tassel at the end, which made it look like a garment straight out of the Brothers Grimm. Why, I wondered, if you are born looking like a pixie, would you emphasise the point by dressing like a pixie too? Quite sweet for a little girl I suppose, but don’t ever expect to be treated like a grown woman.

The Raccoon
Oh now he was wonderful. I noticed him the first morning at breakfast. His appearance was unexceptional and so were his clothes except for his astonishing spectacles. The lenses were quite small and oval; the rims were black and thick and close-fitting. The followed the curve of his face exactly, like goggles. He looked exactly like a raccoon. We watched for him keenly every day and one night we were truly blessed; we were going to a concert so dined quite early. As I opened the door of the restaurant to leave, there was the Raccoon preparing to enter. I stood aside for him, he said ‘grazie’ and I smiled at him. And turned to my sister with joy on my face.

There is a third person who was considerably less entertaining and I remember him with no affection at all. We went to the concert, which was held in an upper room in the prison next to the Doge’s Palace. Behind us sat an elderly French couple and unfortunately he suffered audibly from catarrh. Well this happens and one should be tolerant. But he seemed unusually attached to it and regularly honked and snorted the viscous matter through his facial passages, when surely he could have expelled it into a handkerchief. Or spat or swallowed, indeed, I am a broad-minded woman and could have borne either eventuality if done discreetly. He did, fortunately, stop when the music started, although that removed a faint doubt that he had either been unaware of his behaviour or been unable to help it.

The string quintet entertained us for an hour. One piece they played was Pachelbel’s Canon. I was slightly surprised when they started it at a speed I don’t usually work up to for nearly a page and a half, but I consoled myself with the thought that it took all five of them to play the notes I manage solo. Tho slo.

Well, how relaxing. I’m having Sunday lunch cooked for me and the family by my daughter and my presence in the kitchen is unneccessary. A quick enquiry was made regarding cooking time for the leg of lamb and instruction was sought on how to make mint sauce but otherwise my contribution has been to get out a bottle of wine that has been gently maturing for the last decade and a half for a special occasion.

If you are a purist who is horrified at the prospect of mint sauce being served at all, let alone at the same table as a bottle of good wine, be reassured; proper mint sauce is delicious but never touch the bought versions which are uniformly nasty in taste, texture and colour.

While I was away the daffodils came into flower, 12 chicks hatched and the pond filled with frogspawn; safe to say that spring has arrived.

Today is Al’s birthday and Tuesday will be El’s so jollity reigns.

And while I was away my husband got my car MOTd (it being its 3rd birthday yesterday), filled Ro’s car with petrol and bought him a new spare tyre. How helpful a way of demonstrating that he missed us.