If there are too many summer weekends like this, there is a distinct risk that my usual cautious pessimism will vanish altogether. Already, I find myself grinning happily for no reason at all. Not only is the ‘glass half full’ but it’s rather near brimming.

I blame the weather. It’s like SAD – seasonal affective disorder, but with the opposite effect to the usual depression caused by wintry lack of daylight – hardly a disorder however in this particular instance: SAO (for order) perhaps?

Anyway, I went to a lovely concert at Snape Maltings the other night. It was the Britten Sinfonia, playing music by Ravel, Sibelius, Vaughan Williams and Mozart, plus the world premiere of Michael Zev Gordon’s oboe concerto, which has been commissioned by the BBC – because of this the concert was being recorded by Radio 3. After the concerto was played, the composer joined the soloist, orchestra and conductor on the stage – how wonderful it must be, to hear your piece played in public for the first time in such a fabulous setting.

I went on my own, which allows time and opportunity to watch one’s fellow concert-goers. My neighbour was alone too, a man in his fifties or sixties – he had an almost unlined face but snow-white hair. His hands caught my eye, initially because of his rings. Unusually, he wore a ring on each forefinger, but on no other finger. He had very lovely hands, quite small with slender fingers and particularly well-manicured nails. It was because of the shapliness of his forefingers that he could get away with the rings, which I admired; both gold, one a slender triple coil ending in a rounded, flattened oval, and the other a plain band, decorated only by an intricate, though understated, knot. I arrived after him and he had to stand up for me. The seats are firm and I always take two cushions “You’re well padded” he said, smiling, then “Oh! I mean, um to sit down, er….” I assured him I’d taken it in the least personal sense possible and we both laughed.

My daughter has come home for the weekend. Today has been spent in painting fences. This evening has been spent eating a Thai takeaway and drinking wine; 1 bottle shared between 3 and 1 bottle shared between 2. I participated in both bottles. Therefore I cannot write a coherent entry tonight.
So, cheerfully, do enjoy Sunday, and goodnight.

I received a phone call. It was my friend and neighbour J, from across the field. “Sorry to tell you this, but there’s a cow in the lane. Make that two cows.” I sighed. “Do they have numbers on their rumps?” “Yes, can’t quite read them though from here – oh, there’s another one. And a fourth.” “Stop it,” I said, “you’re attracting them. They’re ours, we’ll come and round them up.”

I had just been reading Pat’s latest episode in her wonderful story and had been poised to leave a comment, so I logged out (so she wouldn’t have to wonder why I’d been reading her for hours) and went and told the Sage. We set off across the field, pausing only to pick up a couple of posts and a sledgehammer.

Two cows were on the footpath, one outside the cottages and one had disappeared. “Where’s Foster?” I asked J and her neighbour M, who had also come out to help. “Off down the lane” – fortunately not towards the road. The Sage and I persuaded the cottage cow back onto the footpath, then he followed her to find out where they had broken down the wire and I, armed with apples supplied by J, went after Foster. “Here, Foster, good girl, chk, chk, come and have an apple.” I was highly impressed to find that this worked – she trotted towards me at a pace that made me hope she would slow down before I was knocked over. She did, gently taking an apple from my outstretched hand.

Not quite so easy to persuade her back to the path, but she went in the end. I went after her, to find my way blocked by Stumpy (I did not name her; she had an accident to her tail) who was very happily eating hop shoots from the undergrowth. I exhorted her to move, but she wasn’t impressed. I pondered. Can cows kick backwards? I was a bit wary of the huge rump, and reluctant to go close enough to pat it. I pulled some hop shoots and timidly tapped her with them. She moved a couple of steps, but preferred her meal, so I unwimped and gave her a firm tap on the bottom. I also lowered the timbre of my voice to a more manly sounding level. It did the trick and she, leisurely browsing on the way, went to the place where the fence was down and strolled back on to the field.

Another 10 minutes and repairs were effected, I went to pull up the last of the broad bean plants for them – and a cucumber or two for Foster, who is not fond of broad beans – and the Sage went to ring the farmer who owns the cows, to suggest that a bale or two of hay would be appreciated – they are good cows who have never tried to get out before, even when neighbouring beasts have pushed their way in, so they must be feeling the lack of fresh grass. There is enough for them to eat, but it’s dry and dreary old stuff and each of them is eating for two, after all.

Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It was M, across the field. “I meant to mention,” she said. “One of your chickens is way across the field. She’s quite happy, but you’ll be missing her later.”

I heard on the radio that Elisabeth Schwartzkopf, the singer, has died at the age of 90. I will always hold a particular affection for her, because she, unknowingly, helped me and my mother through a dreadful year.

1970 – in brief, my father died suddenly in January, all his possessions were valued for death duties* and a few weeks later a company he had invested many thousands of pounds in lost its entire value (tax still payable), then my sister was involved in a serious and agonising accident, which nearly killed her. And then my mother was badly scalded. Me? Oh, I was fine, accidents never happen to me.

*Inheritance tax is still charged – at 40% – but nowadays you are not expected to pay tax on your spouse’s effects. In those days, furthermore, a house and capital was often in the husband’s name – so he was deemed to own everything.

On an impulse, my mother bought a record called ‘Elisabeth Schwartzkopf Sings Operetta’ – I knew nothing about opera, or the operatic style of singing .. it seemed a bit screechy to me. Growing up in the town of Benjamin Britten’s birth – his father was my father’s dentist and my dad used to hear young Ben practising the fiddle during the school holidays – this seems wrong, but hey, it was the 60s, think of the music. I didn’t need opera.

But this record struck a chord (as it were) with us both. We played it over and over, daily, more than daily – when it ended we would lift the needle and start it again. It kept us going, uplifted us and somehow enabled us to carry on. The music was quite light – late 19th Century Viennese operetta; Lehar, that sort of thing. It was very low-brow for her, but it was just what we needed then and, for the future, provided me with a light introduction to the sort of sung classical music that I have loved since.

When my mother was terminally ill I couldn’t listen to music that challenged me. The three CDs I listened to most were Prokofiev (particularly the Lieutenant Kije suite), Hoagy Carmichael and Bix Beiderbecke. Don’t know why. But they helped me through a difficult time too.

Music is an arrow straight into one’s memory. Like a scent, it goes beyond conscious remembering and takes you back, vividly, to a time or a place. And it hits your emotions, where words and deeds can’t always reach.

I wrote, a few weeks ago, that I was not reading books at the moment. Since then, I’ve read a few, but I’ve not been engrossed in reading several each week as usual. At the time, I couldn’t work out why but now, maybe, I have.

Four months ago, I read ‘Human Traces’ by Sebastian Faulks. He’s a good writer and it was not a bad book, but it left me oddly unsatisfied – it just seemed a bit too contrived.
For example, one character went on an expedition to Africa and found prehistoric footprints, of a family of a man, woman and child, fossilised in volcanic ash. He cut one out to bring back to Europe but, surprise, surprise, it was lost forever when a mule fell to its death in a gorge. It had to be lost, because if he’d brought it back then it would have had to have happened then. These footprints exist, but that character didn’t bring them back.
A baby boy was born, after years of his mother’s barrenness. I counted up the years – yep, I bet that infant is due to die in the prime of early manhood in the First World War. And so he did. Dying didn’t add anything to the story, it was just done because that happened a lot in the 1914-18 war and he was far too much beloved to be allowed to live. The requisite poignant twist – oh puh-leeze Mr Faulks.

It was not a bad book by any means – too long, Mr Faulks became too engrossed in his characters and turned it into a life-long biographical tome, when shorter and to the point would have been better. But – and this would have been so much more forgivable in a lesser writer – he made me aware of the plot devices. And I’ve lost my suspension of disbelief and I look for the contrived episodes in every book and can’t be bothered to read them.

Maybe I should reread ‘Birdsong’ and then I will forgive him.

I was booked to play the organ at a funeral in the village church this afternoon. I was rather sorry that the family had asked for ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’ to be played before the service. It’s never been a favourite of mine.

Many years ago, I was invited to the wedding, with my family, of the son of friends’ of my parents. After the marriage, the couple went to sign the register and the organist started to play. I was a patient child and normally didn’t mind waiting, but this went on for an awfully long time, and this drearily repetitive (or so it seemed to me) little tune tinkled on and on. I don’t know if my memory exaggerates (it was the best part of 40 years ago), but I can only think it was played two or three times, as it isn’t really that long. I timed myself yesterday, five minutes. But, ever since that time, I’ve had a mild antipathy to ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’.

I’ve been practising for the last few days (it’s not that hard to play, but I’m a poor organist and have become, over the years, too used to a bit of improvising during the hymns, to cover up the fact that I’m constantly surprising myself with new mistakes), and I’ve especially practised the page turning – there are absolutely no breaks, so you just have to play one handed and hope the page stays where you put it. And I left the church at 1 o’clock, meaning to return at 2, have another good session and be confident and ready for 3, when the service was due to start.

And then the sidesman turned up here at 5 to 2. “What’s the matter, have you forgotten?” I’d evidently written down the wrong time and the funeral was at 2. Oh bugger. I drove down to the church (it’s only 250 yards, but needs must), shot in, apologising, and launched into Jesu Joy. And then, once the service started, realised that I didn’t know how many verses the second hymn had. Sometimes this particular hymn has three, sometimes four – and I hadn’t picked up a service sheet. Should I rely on hearing the words (it would be the third verse, if any, missed out) – but they sang the first hymn quite quietly, I might not be able to make them out. So, embarrassed, I asked.

I’m not sure if I earned my fee in sheer mortification or should have given a refund on the grounds of awful disorganisation.

And then I arrived home to find myself locked out. I’d left in a rush without my bag and my husband had no reason to know that. Fortunately, Al was home next door and had a key, because it is tipping down with rain now and I would have had to sit in the car. So all those people who complained bitterly that we were actually having a summer with sun for a change have their wish.

Update, 8 pm. So it’s funny is it? First diamondweeza, now Geena, my daughter El, Al and Dilly – all saying, well you must admit, it’s quite amusing. Al said “Dilly said it’s the sort of thing that was in the Vicar of Dibley.” “Well,” I replied grumpily, “if it had been in a sitcom, it wouldn’t have been in a very good one, it wasn’t exactly hilarious.” We looked at each other. Neither of us has ever seen the V of D, so how would we know? Sub-Vicar of Dibley, that’s my life!

And I’ve spent the last 15 minutes picking courgettes in the rain, because I didn’t do it this morning and they would all be marrows by tomorrow. I’m a saintly woman, I tell you.

The reason I didn’t do it this morning was because I looked after Squiffany – for half an hour or so, supposedly, but she fell asleep on me after 20 minutes and didn’t wake up for two whole hours. “Were you regaling her with tales of NADFAS lectures?” enquired Al.

The butt of all the jokes, that’s me.

Humph.

I was listening to a programme on Radio 4 yesterday and the slump in sale of photographic film was referred to. There was a conversation with a representative of one of the big photo development firms, who said that this is now a small part of their business – they had realised the writing was, not just on the wall, but on a large neon signboard in their path (this is my linguistic flight of fancy, he spoke sensible English) when one of the directors was in a fairly rural part of China a couple of years back and watched an elderly man clad in traditional clothes start to fish, using a traditional bamboo pole. He caught a large fish. Smiling broadly, he held it up with one hand, took a picture with his mobile phone with the other and sent it to a friend (or maybe his wife – ‘no need to go to the market, sweetie, I’m bringing dinner’). And the onlooking director realised that the whole world had truly changed.

This reminded me of a conversation with my late mother about five years ago. “What is this ‘digital’ stuff they keep talking about now?” she asked me. I wondered how to put my basic and scanty knowledge into a form that would not completely confuse her. “Well, you input data using, for example, binary numbers” I started. “Ah” she interrupted, “I know all about binary numbers, I understand now. Thank you darling.”

It was true too, that she had been on a course about 30 years before and come home talking with great interest about binary code – and that was enough. She was completely happy that now she understood digital technology. And furthermore, she thought that I did too.