Tilly in the wilderness. She’s sticking her tongue out, but not in anticipation of catching the hen and chicks. She was happy.

Tilly, my dog, had a wonderful afternoon. She found a mouse in a pile of wood and, although it escaped quickly, it took her a couple of hours to be quite sure of that. She snuffled through the wood and everything else nearby, enjoying the feeling of being a hunter and, it seemed, quite unbothered to end up with nothing at all. When I finally called her back to the house she was proud and joyful and obviously very happy. She lay asleep in her favourite chair most of the evening (yeah, we spoil that dog), legs twitching in dreamy memory.

I’ve got a meeting here (in my house, not in my office, which is in my house but not available for meetings as it would involve too much tidying up first) in a couple of hours. So I’m here to get together all the papers and stuff. You will observe that I’m not actually doing that, because it is not very interesting, but it is there to be done. I also have to clear up and hoover the room where we will hold the meeting. Having had a jolly family weekend, the house is neither clean nor tidy. These are not interesting jobs either (especially as I’ve noticed that something unidentifiable has been spilled on the carpet, right by the door where I can’t move a rug to, so I will have to clean it). Unfortunately, my housekeeping standards are so much lower than everyone else’s that I am satisfied and stop tidying at about the point that everyone else would think, gosh, this place is a tip, time for a good clear-out.

The thought of this is by no means as worrying as Wednesday, when 10 people will be coming here for an all-morning meeting, after which I have invited them for lunch. Now, this will be a pleasure (assuming today’s efforts will not have undone themselves by the day after tomorrow), as all the committee are friends, but I am rather aware that the only part of my garden which is not a complete wilderness of weeds and overgrown undergrowth is the kitchen garden, and the committee member who would be most likely to go and have a look there is on holiday and therefore not coming. It does me good to have to face up to my shortcomings however, and at least the field looks pretty as you come down the drive.

This morning was spent at the local high school, interviewing prospective admin assistants. Very good applicants, hard to choose between the final two. There is quite a gulf, in schools, between the rates of pay of teaching and non-teaching staff, because the non-teaching staff are paid only for the hours they work (plus statutory holiday pay), whereas the teachers are paid for school holidays. The person we appointed, who is my age (but looks younger, dammit, what has she got that I haven’t?) doesn’t work in a school at present, so may well be taking a pay cut. I don’t think the government is likely to do anything about it as it would cost so much; the extra payment would have to go from everyone to the cleaners and cooks to the office staff and teaching assistants. This does not seem to affect the quality of applicants to the jobs however, which is usually very high.

Half an hour gone. Dear oh dear.

A LITTLE LATER – oh, no, I’ve wasted another few minutes on http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/ – no, I’m not linking it because, if you haven’t been there before, you will spend hours chuckling and I will have led you astray. I already have a daughter to lead astray and must not tempt you to stop working too.

IF YOU HAVE TWO LOAVES OF BREAD, SELL ONE AND BUY A LILY.

Comment by Stitchwort
“The teapot’s quite pretty, and the 18th century script is beautiful, but to pay that much money for a teapot with no knob on the lid… How are you going to make tea in it? I bet the spout dribbles too.
I hope the purchaser gives at least the same amount of money to the Darfur appeal (as they obviously have more money than they need).”

I read this and then went to church, where I did the Epistle reading; Johns’ first letter, chapter 3, verses 16 – 24.
Verses 17 and 18 say this:
‘How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.’

Indeed, Stitchwort, point taken. I think the modest little teapot is a bit of an innocent target, in truth. £8,800 is not a huge amount of money. A piece of similar age from Chelsea, Sevres or Meissen would cost many times that, and what about the art market; Picasso, Van Gogh, Vermeer and others go for millions. If I had a few thousand pounds to spend, I’d rather buy something I loved, that would give me a great deal of pleasure, than have my hair done every day during an election campaign.

But it is true that, in this country, most of us have more money than we really need to live on and, whether we buy a cup of coffee and a cake in a café, a breadmaker when we could knead our own, an M&S ready meal which we could cook or a decorative object, just because it’s pretty and we like it – whether we can easily afford it or have to save up is beside the point, if we chose to live more simply and gave away the surplus, it is possible that the world overall would be a kinder, better, even, place.

One can say that, by buying consumer goods we are providing employment, in this country and abroad. Yes, and deepening our consumer footprints too, using resources and adding to pollution and climate change. I bought two pairs of shoes (as it happens, having mentioned metaphorical footprints) the other day – I needed shoes, mine were worn out (literally). But I could have managed with one, and given the rest of the money away. Even less justifiable is my recent trip to Venice; there is little worse, ecologically, than an aeroplane trip and I was spending money simply on my own amusement that could have been donated to a worthwhile cause.

I don’t have answers. We each have our own small extravagances and carefulnesses, our own generosities and meannesses. I don’t know if I’m more or less culpable than you are. Thanks, Stitchwort, for food for thought. I’ll try to do better in future. Though I stand by our auctions. Yes, 18th century china may not be used, except for decoration, nowadays but the items we sold on Friday were made and painted by hand, by people who would be unremembered if it were not for those who love and buy their work. I can’t think that is a bad thing.

1661: An illustration – walking past la Fenice, Venice.

I pondered on clothes, as I toddled around Norwich the other day. Not something I do often; well, not other people’s, as I am terminally unobservant, but my eye was caught, twice, in the space of an hour or so, which is sufficiently unusual to remark on.

The first was a woman in a singularly unattractive coat. A shapeless, washed-25-too-many-times, greenery-bluery fleece with an uneven hem, which had been all right for walking the dog when it was new, but now was not good enough for mucking out the pigs. I thought, what a pity, attractive woman: but then I saw the skirt underneath. Oh it was pretty. Silk, patterned, just the right length, the right amount of movement, just right. Why cover it with the first nasty coat that came to hand, just because it might rain? Haven’t you got a suitable jacket? Go on, anything reasonably tailored will do, doesn’t have to be perfect, just not beastly.

The second was another woman. Mid-forties, with husband and a couple of just pre-teen children. Oh, she was perfectly turned-out (a lot of hyphenated words this evening, n’est pas?). Her hair was short and permed and perfectly formed, her slim figure looked as if she exercised rigorously every evening – or, shockingly, before work in the morning – she was, dreadful word, well-preserved. She wore skin-tight jeans and a little embroidered jacket that, together, looked as if she was just trying too hard. And she had on blue eyeliner. Honestly, this is true. Bright blue eyeliner. Aged 43, 45. She looked like a 55-year-old stuck in a timewarp, and yet she could have been really attractive if she had relaxed, taken a little less care and worn less make-up and hairspray.

Do I sound judgmental? I hope not. I’m not so well dressed myself; I hardly bought any clothes for years as it was so much more pleasant to buy things for my children and anything left over went towards books. I’m not much more structured, clothes-wise, now, although I do take more care. But if I got it as wrong as they did, I do hope I’d have the sense to look in the mirror and not go out that day.

Gaff of the day was made by me. I greeted a couple, gave them a catalogue and said I’d put them on the mailing list. “Mr & Mrs —-” – I paused. He looked startled. “Oh, ah, no” he said “This is my daughter.” Well, he was considerably more flattered by the mistake than she was.

It was a family affair, which gives us all huge pleasure. Both sons and Dilly came along after work and El and her husband took the afternoon off work and came from London. Our cousin also came along after work to take the money at the end – I don’t do money, I can add up but I can’t count notes under stressful conditions, especially after 8 hours on my feet, smiling constantly. I’m all smiled out today. We know most of the customers; we’ve been holding these specialist sales for over 20 years and some people have come to every one. Others have had their interest kindled by us. If someone comes in and says “I’m interested, but I don’t know anything about it and I don’t know what I like yet” then I’ll offer to bring them everything, a couple of pieces at a time, so that they can learn the characteristics of the china and what type of things they are drawn too. They can make notes of the pieces they like and then I’ll bring those to them again. We give a pretty accurate guide price (unless there are keen bidders who drive the prices up) which takes into account any damage or repairs done, so that they know roughly how much they will have to spend. It’s a pleasure, a year or two later, to see how those people have grown in knowledge and enthusiasm – and sometimes they have developed rather expensive tastes, which is, well, it’s good for business.

The sale itself was excellent. Prices were buoyant (though nothing sells itself; the Sage has been an auctioneer for a very long time and knows what he’s doing) and the last lot, a darling little inscribed teapot, had so many people after it, including two telephone bidders, that the price went up by £1,000 in between me saying to my phone bidder ‘do you want to bid again?’ and him saying ‘yes’. He got it though in the end. The knop on top of the lid, which has been broken off a long time ago, would have been shaped like a little open flower. The pot itself is completely undamaged and it fetched £8,800. It was particularly valuable because it was inscribed both with names and a date.

An auction is great. Addictive though EBay is, there’s nothing quite like being there, handling the pieces, seeing how the bidding is going, watching people’s faces and hoping for them to look down or shake their heads (if you’re bidding), or keep their eyes on the auctioneer and nod (if you are selling). Having a personal interest in the outcome turns it from an interesting, but not personally engaging, affair into an exciting strategic wrangle and of course to be the auctioneer is the best job of all, albeit the most stressful.

I rarely buy, myself. We’ve got too much stuff already and I’m not a collector; we have one in the family and that is plenty. But I love it when I do; I am a determined bidder and think (yeah, okay, I delude myself) that, if I am quick and decisive, I will intimidate my more hesitant opponents. I wave my catalogue or numbered paddle to attract the auctioneer’s attention and then nod firmly the moment he has taken another bid. Then, when I win, I beam happily at him – or her – and show my paddle again for the number to be taken.

So, today, not much work. I will probably put together the price list for the website and, if I get around to it, write a sale report. But the family is all together for the first time in a month, so I won’t spend all day on the computer.

Excellent sale, I do enjoy a good auction.

I have come home and relaxed on Laphroaig, coffee and Green & Black. Why no name to the coffee? I’ll go and see what it was.

Douwe Egberts dark roast.

I just might enthuse tomorrow.

It’s our big specialist auction tomorrow night. We’re going all computerised. This is a first; the Sage has resisted up until now, but all his children have persuaded him.

Luckily, I had the prescience to stock up with Green & Black’s chocolate earlier today (although the baby nibbled the corner as we went round the shop together).

But it will all be fine. And highly successful.

Dilly, my daughter-in-law, was slightly apprehensive about the prospect of having a boy. She only has sisters and, although she now has two little nephews, she felt that there might not be the close sibling bond that she enjoyed when she was growing up, between a boy and a girl. She was also not sure that a little boy would be as cuddly and willing to be loved as a girl. Everyone has been reassuring her, and telling her that boys are very close to their mothers. And pointing out that, after the hell of Squiffany’s teenage years, having a boy will be tranquillity itself. “That’s true” she pondered “I was really mean to my mother for years.”

Al is very pleased. He doesn’t know how his father-in-law managed to retain any sort of control at all as the only male in a houseful of women. He sees the new baby-to-be as a natural ally – although, seeing the close relationship he has with the baby he has, particularly since he started looking after her every Wednesday, makes me suspect it is fear of hormones rather than absence of a father/daughter bond that concerns him.

I won a little power struggle today at least. Squiffany kept trying to pull a lead out of the television which was plugged into Ro’s Xbox. I said no and took her hand away several times. In the end I put a box in front of the tv and, when she sidled round and touched it again, I said no once more, gave her a Look and moved her. She cried briefly, eyeing me from between her fingers, and stomped out of the room (I followed her and we went to feed the bantams instead). But later, when she ventured towards the television and put her fingers near the lead, looking to see what I would do, I said nothing but Looked at her (but with a half smile instead of an edge). She left it and cheerfully came for a cuddle instead. And later, when I said she couldn’t have a second biscuit, she accepted it without a murmer.

On the other hand, when she said no to the salmon I’d cooked for her tea, I cooked her an egg instead. But at least it was proper food – and I didn’t want to start a battle I was destined to lose. And Dilly says she will give her dad the salmon tomorrow for Squiffany’s lunch, so it will not be wasted.

Another jolly morning. Al left Grandbaby Squiffany with me for half an hour while he went to help E. open the shop. In that time, she cuddled the dog, the chicks and a chicken, waved carrots hopefully at the cows, who were too busy ruminating to bother to walk across the field, and had a ride in K’s nim cart (electric buggy, so called because they don’t go vroom vroom, they go nim nim). She then was tired and we turned on CBeebies; of course that was the instant her father arrived home and caught us.

But that isn’t the particularly jolly part, that’s just setting the scene. It was time for Dilly’s 20-week scan and they invited me to accompany them to the hospital. Squiffany and I amused ourselves for half an hour in the waiting room while the scan was being done – they do measurements of bones, check vital organs etc at this stage. All is well, they have a 6 inch long baby, plus legs (two of them), and we know its sex and, oh, no reason to boast as it’s no accomplishment, but I can’t help being pleased that I was the first person they told. So we went out for lunch to celebrate (just a sandwich and cake as D. had to get back to work).

I am usually a remarkably unobservant person, but at this time of year I am particularly aware of the countryside. I love to see the new growth of leaves on the trees and hedgerows and the blossoming of the blackthorn and may would make me quite lyrical, if I were the poetic type. Even the weeds in the flowerbeds (for I don’t spend time weeding flowerbeds) look fresh and attractive now. I enjoy driving along Norwich’s southern bypass, the A47, at this time of the year because a bright person had the idea, when it was constructed, of planting cowslips along the embankment. These have spread over the years and look so pretty just now. The meadow saxifrage is just coming into flower on the field and along our drive and, soon, it will be joined by buttercups and I will sigh sentimentally to see the cows lounging artistically, being only too well aware, I suspect, that the flowers set off their black and white colouring rather well. The farmer sends his friendliest dry cows (from his milking herd) over here for the last few weeks before their calves are due, so that we can stroke them and feed them leftover veg from the shop.

The Sage brought me a glass of red wine and a piece of cheese at half past six. How kind.

At quarter to seven, he refilled my glass. And gave me another piece of cheese. My suspicious mind was alerted.

“Thank you” I said (be polite first, always a sensible move) “But have you something to tell me? Am I going to be cross?”

“I think the sale will be pretty busy on Friday. I think you need building up beforehand. It will be frantic from 3 until 4 when all our helpers arrive.”

So, he thinks it’s a good idea to make me really relaxed and cheerful now? Shouldn’t he be sending me out for cross-country runs and building-up exercises like that? Or setting me really hard sums so that my mind, at any rate, will be agile? On balance, I prefer the red wine and nice mature cheddar (I’d call it Cheddar if it came from there, but I doubt it) but I am an instant-gratification girl at heart.

He’ll expect a gourmet dinner in half an hour.

Hah, no problem. As long as the other half of the bottle is MINE.

(25 minutes later) The men are saying yum yum and filling their plates. And they don’t want any wine. Whoopee, happy family.

Another funeral this morning and the church was full. We had to get out more chairs as all the pews were full and there were still people standing. He had lived within 6 miles of his birthplace all his 61 years and he has been buried, in the churchyard,200 yards from the house he was born in.

He was born with a hole in his heart and was not expected to survive childhood, but, after an operation, was able to live a cautiously normal life. As he could not join in the sports he loved, he helped. He drove the minibus, he helped on the sidelines, he raised money and served on committees. And his wife and family loved him.