Our dog Tilly is normally very well behaved. The other evening, I couldn’t find her. Eventually, I looked in the last possible place, which was the cloakroom, and let her out. The next morning, when she didn’t greet me as usual. I checked the cloakroom door and couldn’t open it. She had got shut in, scratched the door and rucked up the carpet. Eventually I managed to open it just enough, first to let her out, then me in, and it took me some minutes to persuade the carpet to lie flat enough to open and shut the door freely.

Since then, we’ve propped the door open each night. But because of that one time, the paint has been scratched off the door and marks gouged in the wood. Stupid dog.

My old dog Chester, still much missed, often used to sleep in there. Sometimes, he would lie against the door and refuse to move and you had to push hard, he resisting all the way, until you finally burst in. He used to lie along the wall, with the result that the wallpaper is quite grubby there – I like that wallpaper, which goes really well with the painted Edwardian washbasin which we bought from neighbours who bought a nice Edwardian house and proceeded to take out all the attractive original features and sell them – since we were about to move here, we shrugged and took advantage of it as they were going to do it anyway. I don’t want to redecorate, but I can see the time approaching – it’s coming up to two years since Chester died and marked wallpaper is less and less excusable.

Chester liked the cloakroom because it was cool in summer and there was a constant supply of delicious toilet water. How is it that male dogs love drinking from the toilet? I’ve never known a female to do so, but all dogs, as soon as their legs are long enough, love a refreshing slurp. I’ve never been a very girly girl, and felt left out in girly pursuits, but that sort of thing makes me realise that blokes, of whatever species, are something of a closed book to me too.

I’m playing the organ in church tomorrow. No one has told me the hymns. Pfft. If I’m not given warning of what to play, it’s not my fault if I play a succession of random notes in the wrong rhythm is it.

Blimey, it is tipping down. England in August, huh.

So, last night I filled the spare fridge with wine, ready for lunch today, but came down this morning to be met by a disconsolate Sage, holding a quantity of ice (not for long, ow, frostbite in August is not a good outlook except in the Antipodes) and regarding a large puddle on the floor. Everything was still cold, so the only problem was fitting everything into the usual fridge. Mind you, it’s so damn cold that food hardly needs refrigeration. It’s just the wine that needed to be chilled.

Our friends enquired if I really should be decorating the nursery next door, rather than chatting with them over after-lunch coffee. “Please stay” I begged – I had absolutely no intention of helping today, though I’ll be happy to during the week, and I rather wanted an excuse to stay comfortably in my own drawing room. In fact, later, I was offered a job, but backed away hastily and went to read the papers and have another glass of wine.

That’s it really, nice lazy day – apart, of course, from the time spent slaving over a hot stove this morning. It feels like autumn, the first ratatouille using vegetables from the garden. Dear little aubergines, striped purple and cream, and there is a very good crop of peppers this year too. I hope the chillies hot up soon though, they are crunchy to eat from the plant, but there is still no bite until you reach the stem, not even from the seeds.

A disjointed effort today? Yeah, but it’s the weekend, innit.

Have a good one.

xx z

ps – oh, and I discovered that Mrs Friend as well as Mr Friend reads (or has read, anyway) this blog. Momentarily bashful, then charmed. Love to you both, sweeties – xxx

We have a fairly large, ugly, useful porch. It is a small room really … my in-laws used to call it ‘the loggia’ and sit in it on sunny days and have afternoon tea there. But we turned the back porch into half of the study, so we need somewhere to keep the wellies and the chicken food, and a word like ‘loggia’ is too high-falutin’ for me anyway, so the porch it is, and it is usually full of stuff.

That is, a large cupboard, a large chest freezer, a small upright freezer, the aforementioned wellies and chicken feed, and other general stuff.

Plus, today, a quantity of assorted furniture, several black bags full of curtains, cushions and things like that, boxes of books, several mirrors, tables and other furnishing-type stuff. And two banjos which belonged to my grandfather.

We’re finally clearing the last of my mother’s possessions from Al and Dilly’s house. They have kindly housed them for the last few years, but now need the space. And El and son-in-law Phil are coming for the weekend to decorate the room, so it must be empty. I’ve cleared as much as I can for now, but there still is a corner cupboard, a gate-legged dining table, an antique commode, a chest of drawers, a large armchair, a ditto clock and a couple of other things I can’t quite remember, which Al this evening or Phil tomorrow will have to help with because the Sage and I are old and weak and need our children to look after us.

So this afternoon will be spent in finding places for all this furniture etc, as I know what we are like – if we leave it there for more than a day, we will believe it belongs there and it’ll never be moved. I have also just counted up and realised that there will be ten of us for lunch tomorrow (including the baby), which is wonderful as I like nothing more than a full table, but I need to start wondering what we are going to eat, and doing something about it.

So, what’s the first thing to do? I’m a busy woman, how can I best use my time?

Spend 15 minutes blogging about being busy of course.

I’ve just returned home, having dropped my son off at the station to catch his train to Leicester – he’s going to the Summer Sundae festival at de Montfort university.

Odd, isn’t it, how different home feels when someone has left and will not return for a while. At this time of the day he would normally be at work. And he’s often out in the evenings. But it feels emptier here without him.

It looks emptier too, in a good way. I went shopping yesterday for food for him – he’ll buy there of course, but he likes to do some of his own cooking. So the kitchen table has been full of stuff that is quick to do on a camping stove, mainly based on quick-cook noodles and couscous, plus nuts, seeds, dried fruits. He probably won’t be able to keep up his usual intake of fresh fruit and vegetables, but that doesn’t mean he intends to come home too much unhealthier than he left. I did provide some Pringles (the boxes won’t be easily crushed) and a box of red wine as I think that some bad habits are essential in life.

Anyway, a rare couple of nights alone for the Sage and I, before another family influx at the weekend. And to think, four years ago, that we were resolutely preparing for empty-nestdom.

Tilly tried to take a piece of toast from Squiffany a week or so ago. “Naughty girl” said Squiffany, pulling her hand away.

When her mother came home, I told her. “I’ve never called her naughty girl, have you?” said Dilly. I denied it – we agreed, we know well the maxim ‘blame the behaviour, not the chid.’ “My friend says ‘naughty boy’ to Bodger (her two and a half year old); since the baby was born he’s been really difficult. And I say ‘good girl’ quite often,” Dilly said. I agreed, so do I, both to Squiffany and Tilly.

So she constructed a whole phrase from scratch. One never remembers this sort of thing unless it is written down – so now I have.

I’ve just had a phone call from Islington Council. I was very annoyed when they didn’t ring back, after three calls – there was no way of leaving a message, except your name. They did reply to the recorded letter, but simply to send a receipt. However, after the fourth call I was phoned back within minutes but a helpful bloke, following which, on his advice, I emailed (he gave me the right department to go to). And I’ve just had another phone call.

So, the good news is that the summons has been withdrawn. And the other good news is that they are refunding me money. And the third good news is that really helpful and intelligent people work for Islington Council, if you can only get hold of them.

I’d like to mention too, that it was a lack of complete information that caused the problem. No one’s fault.

*(from title) Shakespeare. Richard III I think.

Last night I experienced the most magnificent, moving concert of a lifetime. I went to Snape Maltings to hear the Youth Orchestra of the Americas , on the final night of their inaugural European tour.

It was an impressive sight from the start. Snape is not a large concert hall, with 830 seats – for the Proms, the middle front section of seats is removed for the Promenaders, who pay £5 to sit on the floor. This is the best bargain in concert-going. My own seat cost £23 (with a pound discount as I had booked a number of tickets together). I was greeted politely by neighbours on both sides as I arrived – Snape is a very friendly concert hall. And on the stage were over 100 young musicians from all over North, South and Central America – some 20 countries were represented altogether. There were several flashes as the musicians themselves took photographs of the full concert hall from the stage.

The programme started rousingly, with Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man. I was amused to see the couple in front of me do huge double-takes and stare at each other questioningly – evidently they had not read their programmes properly and had expected something else. Ravel’s Rapsodie Espagnole followed, then Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, with the wonderful young Venezuelan pianist Gabriela Montero. Afterwards, when we applauded long and vigorously and would not let her go, she demonstrated her enjoyment of improvisation, by asking for a snatch of a tune, on which she played a series of variations. The skill and wit of this was hugely enjoyed by us all, on stage and off, and we left for the interval feeling invigorated.

The conductor was Benjamin Zander. Between each item he chatted to the audience. He started with his memories of Aldeburgh in the early 1950s when, for 3 years he and his family had spent their summer holidays in a caravan so that he could receive music lessons from Benjamin Britten and Imogen Holst. Mr Zander is an accomplished speaker and, as the evening went on, worked us skilfully; we listened with pleasure and indulgence to his anecdotes and reminiscences, he charmed us with his enthusiasm, he reminded us of the fear and oppression that artists such as Shostakovich had lived with in Russia – he sat each evening with his coat on and his bag packed, such was his conviction (held with good reason) that, at any time, the secret police might arrive to arrest him, and he did not want his children woken up and terrified. And Mr Zander drew a lesson from that, that not all of the countries these lovely young people come from are peaceful and free or seen as such; indeed four members of the orchestra, from Colombia and Cuba, were unable to obtain visas for this country and had to return home early. He read out a note he had received from one of the cellists present, David Estoban Escovar, from Colombia, who said that, with all the troubles and wars in the world, he had wondered if becoming a musician was a trivial pursuit, but his experiences in this tour have convinced him of the worth and value of his profession.

And then, after the interval, they played Shostakovich’s 5th Symphony. With the conductor’s words fresh in our minds it had a particular resonance. Shostakovich had written one movement in a sort of code; played at full speed it is rousing and designed to appeal to the authorities, but at half-speed it is a lament for his country, and that is how it was played last night.

Afterwards the conductor spoke to us all again, about the unifying and inspiring effect of this tour on these young players. And it moved us all, many of the orchestra were in tears and we were not immune either. The applause went on and on – there were calls for an encore which I felt was a little greedy – had they not given us enough? But they were ready for us – with one further anecdote about the nature of Englishness, which made us all laugh, they played ‘Nimrod’ from Elgar’s Enigma Variations; and I can truly say I’ve never heard a more beautiful and expressive version of that well-known piece.

And after that? We hadn’t finished with them yet, nor they with us. We were indeed a reserved, if enthusiastic English audience, but we were on our feet by then, clapping on and on. And then the conductor returned to the stage and put his finger to his lips and we stopped. He shrugged; he didn’t know what was going to happen either. The drums started beating, the double-bass players twirled their instruments, several musicians came to the front of the stage and started dancing, and they went into an exuberant celebration of Latin American dance. For, I don’t know, 10 minutes? we stood, clapping while they danced and played. Some of the audience joined in the dancing onstage. And when they finally finished with José Gomes de Abreu ‘s Tico Tico and stood, hugging each other, we filed out, past Benjamin Zander who had come to shake hands and say goodbye. “Pleased to meet you” he said, courteously to me – he, too, was a little spaced out by then too. “Amazing, isn’t it,” I heard one man say to his wife, “that we were all in tears a few minutes ago, and now we’re all laughing.”

The orchestra has been in Europe for a month, for rehearsals and preparation for a 3-week tour in Belgium, Italy, France, Germany and England. And today they are flying home again. Few of them have visited Europe before and, wherever their lives take them, this has been an unforgettable episode. And if any member of the orchestra find this on Google at some time (unlikely perhaps, but it could happen, I’ve often been surprised to find myself so easily, rambling on about sheer trivia), then do, please, say hello – it was a privilege to share a moment of it with you.

And sorry, everyone, that this has been so long and so inept – it’s clear that I am no sort of a reviewer and no real musician either – you’ll notice that I have kept well clear of technicalities, and even of a description of the music. If you can’t do justice to something, don’t do it at all. But, sorry you weren’t there – you’d have loved it too.

My word. I saw that one of the letters in today’s Times was written by a friend of ours. Excitedly, I read it out to the Sage. Then I noticed that another letter, on a different subject, was written by another friend.

Such synchronicity – I’m deeply impressed.

I poured myself a glass of red wine, took a sip and sat back down at the computer. Minutes later, I picked up the glass and found a fruit fly struggling to swim, so I fished it out with a pencil, which I put down on my desk. It wobbled its way unsteadily along the pencil – well, by now I had such fellow-feeling with the little beastie that I couldn’t kill it. I angled the pencil so that it could walk along the desk.

Just now, I noticed that it had dried out and was walking more briskly – towards the curve of the edge of the desk ……… and it fell off, with an audible plop, onto an envelope on the floor (yes, those four words speak volumes about the tidiness of my study). It staggered under my handbag to sleep it off. I giggled.

The time after we moved here was, you might say, the start of the rest of my life. I had remained ambivalent about our decision – I had always lived near the water, either the sea or Oulton Broad, and I thought I would miss this badly. I expected to feel homesick.

In fact, I never glanced back and loved it here straightaway. Although we had had a large garden before, we had been very overlooked – our big square garden was edged on two sides by other houses’ long narrow strip, and on the third side was the Rectory. We had about 8 next-door neighbours. I’d not been bothered about this, but here we were alone. A field on every side, but with houses only a couple of hundred yards away, so we were not isolated. But I can’t say this was the reason, it was, simply and instantly, home.

A few days after moving in, my husband said, on the Sunday morning, that he was going to church. Better show his face…..
I was gardening and didn’t want to stop and change, so I said I’d carry on and he could go without me. An hour later he reappeared. “We’re invited to coffee at the Rectory” he said. “I can’t go” I said, startled, “I didn’t go to church.” “Yes, they particularly invited you, come on.” I felt shy and embarrassed, but it would have been worse to refuse, so off we went together.

There had been a christening that morning and the young couple and their baby* were there, with the rest of the congregation. Everyone was cheerful and friendly and when it was seen that I had a toddler (Ro was just 2), a young woman with two small boys came over and invited me to her house, where she was giving a coffee morning to raise funds for the about-to-be-started Mothers and Toddlers group. “Next Tuesday” she said cheerfully, describing where her house was.

On Tuesday I plucked up all my courage (I was still quite shy in those days) and set off. It was not for years that I told her that I’d taken her to mean that Tuesday, when she’d meant Tuesday week!
The next week, off I went again, and found out that there was a group of women of about my age with children of Ro’s age, all wanting to be friends with me. This was quite a heady sensation in itself, as I wasn’t the most outgoing person and had expected it to take some time to know any one. We met for a morning each week in the village hall or, in the summer, in each other’s houses or gardens. We used to go off to the seaside, the zoo or a similarly child-friendly but fairly inexpensive attraction once in a while. We had all taken a work break to bring up our children until at least school age, so we didn’t have much money but had time to spare for our own and our children’s friendships.

*This baby girl has just completed her second year at Cambridge University, reading Law.