“There’s a fruit fly by your glass” observed the Sage. “I know, bless it,” I replied. “I’ve never seen fruit flies in December before, poor little thing, I’m not going to deprive it of its last few days of life.”

All the stuff I ordered online last week having arrived, I started ordering the frivolous stuff. Except that one thing, whilst in stock, did not come up on the order form, not even when I cried and begged. Strange, how impervious most websites are to threats and pleas. Anyway, it’s all done now as I telephoned. Nice girl. When I gave my postcode, she confirmed one letter -“F for Freddie?” Indeed, it is, and it is noticeable that, although the correct identification word for the letter F is ‘Foxtrot’, nearly everyone says ‘Freddie?’

I didn’t write yesterday as I had nothing to say. You are thinking, as I am, that it is a wonder that I ever write, in that case. A mistress of small talk as I normally am, I’d been out for lunch (again…) and was all chatted out.

I owe Jen a post for her Mad wedding day. Jen you will, I know, understand that, as it must be heartfelt, it doesn’t come quite to my command. It is one for a wakeful night, it will happen and I’ll let you know when that is – sorry I’m late.

At this point, a little dispirited, I broke off to read the paper. And was highly entertained to read this article, describing how church congregations are cowed by bullies and that vicars are stressed by the need to be nice. Apparently, ‘troublemakers’ ‘indulge’ in ‘church hopping’, trying out different styles of service and going to the ones they are happiest with. Yes, and so? The person quoted says that these people suffer from neurotic personality disorders bordering on the psychotic. That is the rudest thing she says, but by no means is it the only insult. She also says that one of the most stressful features of ministry is the effort to be nice to difficult people. Well, maybe she should chat to shop assistants, they might say the same thing; and they have rather less job security, no pension and no free house to live in. I’m not fulminating against the clergy, nor against the Church of England, only commenting on an academic who is being most oddly offensive. Maybe she hopes to provoke debate? Not here, I’m just laughing at her.

Tonight, there was an open meeting at the village school to display the plans for a new school, on a new site, that we have been working for (with the full support of the Local Authority, some people there I regard with Deep Respect as, with all regard to their dispassionate professionalism, they have been very helpful and really wonderful) for several years, having been through the throes of PFI (don’t ask, it’s a way the government have of disguising the amount of money they borrow; they are willing to pay through the nose for this deceit) and beyond, and the plans are, finally, going to be submitted tomorrow.

The site of the proposed new school is part of a large field, owned by the Church (Norwich, not the village) which is willing to sell for a Good Reason if it comes within the remit of a carefully drawn up Trust.

This is fair enough, I am a Trustee for two Trusts myself and understand the obligations.

There are several houses that back on to the aforementioned field and the owners, naturally, want to be sure that the value of their properties and their own lifestyles will not be adversely affected.

All reasonable. Yet, I cannot abide Nimbyism. I have, tolerant as I am, a fair degree of idealism within me and I think you have to look beyond yourself to the greater good.

Anyway, people had a chance to have a look at the plans and then the Headteacher introduced the various people from the local authority who had come along, and then they explained the plans and took questions. At the end, the Head asked if there were any more points …. I found my hand raised – it was possessed, I didn’t do it……

I reminded everyone that twenty years ago, the government had wanted to close down small schools and the whole village had united to keep this one open, although there were only 19 pupils. When I became a governor there were 24 pupils and my son became the 25th; five years later there were 56. A couple of years later, 76 and, with fluctuation, that is the number there are now. The new site is still in the heart of the village; the choice is to have a school or not, as the present site is completely unsatisfactory for modern times (true, it is tiny; no hall, no playing field, one out of three classes in a mobile classroom and they have to run round the whole building to get to the loo. Staff room, what’s that? Dining room, 2 classrooms with a dividing door between transformed while the children go outside, whatever the weather).

I said, I am partisan and, if you have concerns, do object, but also do try to consider the bigger picture. I was a governor there for 18 years and, when the new school was first mooted, we offered a bit of our field for access if that would help, we were happy to have the school right by our garden. I really want a school in the village for my own grandchildren to come to, I cannot be disinterested, and I care very much for the future of the children of the village…..time to shut up and stop ranting.

That was the gist. I shut up, went into the kitchen and did the washing up.

And, on the way, asked the LA chappie to let me know if there were many letters of objection because, if there are, I’ll write in favour.

It’s no wonder I’ve a bit of a reputation as a passionate woman. Hah!

Not too long ago, I complained that I didn’t receive notification of any comments. I dealt with it by logging on to Blogger by Firefox instead of Safari and putting in my gmail address instead of hotmail. Since then, it has been all right, except that I’m not that enamoured of the gmail inbox. So, today, using Firefox, I put in my hotmail address, which I nearly always use. It didn’t sodding work, I’ve just found a comment that has patiently waited for approval for sod knows how long because I didn’t get an email. I don’t use word verification because I have to type in the sodding wv myself and I do it wrong as often as not, sometimes several times, and I haven’t even the excuse of being dyslexic – I think it is discriminatory to put in random letters that can easily be misread.

Please excuse multiple uses of ‘sodding’ but it could have been worse, after all. This is not today’s post, this is a mere rant and will be followed by a proper post quam celerrime (if that’s how you spell it, it’s been a long time since 6th form Latin)

At last night’s dinner, I sat obliquely opposite *Dawn*, whom I’ve known slightly for several years but not got to know very well. She seemed to know about me, however, within minutes she was teasingly remarking on my liking for a drink or two…look, really, I don’t get this, I really have never fallen over or become truly embarrassing through drink. I am a regular moderate drinker (okay, those awfully tightlaced types who think that anything over 10 units per week is a bit dodgy might call it more than moderate, but they all weigh less than 110 pounds and are thinking of what is appropriate for themselves) and I am also a person who is only truly awake in the evenings – those of you who have only met me during the day have not received the full esprit de Z – (so help me, this sentence is becoming truly convoluted, are you losing the thread yet?) but that is no reason for the reputation I seem to have as a frightful tippler who is never happy without a drink in her hand. The only consolation is that everyone feels able to tease me about it, so I must be spoken of as a sot, but a good-natured one.

Anyway, I had a chance to chat to *Dawn*. She is lovely and I love to hear people talking about their enthusiasms. She mentioned she is going to Stafford for a big chicken competition so I encouraged her to tell me about them. It transpired that she has, this year, started entering her chickens into shows and has done extremely well. She said that it had taken her years to work up to first prizes with her goats, but she is already winning trophies with the chooks. Apparently, they particularly enjoy their pre-show bath; she uses a maximum-shine shampoo she buys from her hairdresser (she has lovely hair herself) and puts them on a wheat and corn mix for a week after the bath, to stiffen up their droppings so that they don’t dirty themselves before their big day.

I wonder if she has to lead them round the showground, like they do at Crufts.

Having stayed up late to get all preparations ready for the meeting, I was rewriting by 8 this morning. I knew I would, I always rewrite, but you have to do the writing first to be able to see what could be improved. Meeting was cheerful and lunch afterwards was jolly. Ladies in their 70s were complaining that men in their 80s only want them for their potential nursing qualities, which I agreed was a complete bummer and have recommended non-commital relationships with younger men. Men are absolutely adorable but quite a lot of work, which an independent woman can’t necessarily be doing with.

I drove a darling friend home afterwards; I haven’t known her very long, less than a year, but I absolutely love her. She is funny and upbeat and stalwart – she’s actually very ill but shrugs it off and enjoys life regardless. She fell badly the other day and her son scolded her for wearing high heels when she is so frail. She said ‘pfft’ and sent him on his way, but admitted that he is absolutely right, her heel caught on something and down she went and she says she’s rainbow-hued all down one side. Her husband was ill earlier in the year; when he returned from hospital he was quite emotional; he said that he thought she would not be able to look after him and have to put him in an old peoples’ home. She and I both nearly cried too at that. They are a pair of beautiful cracked pieces of porcelain, who are happy as long as they have each other and they make the most of every day.

Many of my friends are older than I am, some by thirty or more years, and they are so wonderful. Most of them have been through some degree of hell but they don’t let themselves dwell on that and just get on with living.

It is now eleven minutes past midnight and I have not completed the preparations for the meeting that I need to leave the house for at 8.45 in the morning, which counts as early for me as I only get up in the dark for vital reasons, such as … I’ll insert one if I can think of one…

The reason is that I could not find the book in which I had written vital information. I had it this morning and so looked in the kitchen and the study and then in the car. Goodness, it is mild tonight, positively balmy. I went out without a coat on and did not care at all. It was not in the car, so I looked in all the places I had previously looked and checked under the dog too.

Finally, I remembered checking answerphone messages as soon as I had arrived home, so looked in the drawing room and, eventually, found it on the windowsill, behind the drawn curtain.

But that had disconcerted me and so I needed to do frivolous things for a bit to settle my nerves.

Right-oh, back to work.

It’s odd. 4th December and I’ve done quite half of the family Christmas present shopping. Both grandchildren, husband and two children pretty well sorted. Three children and one sister to go. This is unprecedented – added to my Extreme Accountancy of yesterday and I’m almost tempted to believe that I’m starting to become sensible. Surely not. It is not the way I want to be … or maybe it is …. I don’t know, it doesn’t fit in with my mental image of the ‘free child’*, who has no need to plan ahead because it’s far more fun to wing it on the day; on the other hand December is a fearfully busy month, try as I do to catch up with things so that I can take time off with a clear conscience, fit in as many jollies as possible, fill remaining evenings with making up holly wreaths for Al to sell (this is my most hated job and I do it purely from selfless maternal duty) and help him in the shop as we near the Final Shopping Day as the week before Christmas is the busiest in the year for a greengrocer – and so, each year, I bemoan the fact that I still have all the shopping to do in mid-December. So, if I can keep this going, I will be pleased with myself, but I will feel as if a little bit of carefreeness has vanished from the Z personality.

I also, sensibly, took myself to the osteopath to get my hip ultrasounded. He was a bit surprised to see me as he said bursitis shouldn’t really come back – I explained that it had never quite gone away as my patience did not return me enough times for a complete cure. Nevertheless, once it’s better he intends to check that the joint is all right. Which it is. As long as I can still switch on the light, at shoulder level, with my foot (which I can, I just went to check), my joints are fine.

I also booked train tickets to London. I have been explaining the use of the Oyster card to the Sage, who is concerned that its intricacies might be beyond him, as he has to go on business (and also a bit of pleasure, as he bid successfully for a vesta (Victorian matchcase) at a London saleroom and he needs to pick it up) on Wednesday of next week – ooh, what will I do all by myself for a whole day? – and I am meeting my sister for a Day Out on the Saturday. This is probably not a good idea at all, because it will be vastly crowded, but we intend to do Cultural Things at museums and stuff, so maybe we’ll be all right. A long and boozy lunch is indicated, for sure.

A meeting tomorrow morning, for which I have prepared rather less than half the things I promised. An evening’s work ahead of me, I fear; or, rather, a night’s, as I’m going out for a drink with a friend in a couple of hours.

*Those of you who actually know me are, I appreciate, laughing like drains right now. Look, I never quite got over 1969, all right? Not that I was ever a hippy.

Well, this has been a useful evening, if only because it demonstrated Forethought and extremely sound Common Sense.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about my tax returns. Furthermore, I have put together papers for the accountant and can confidently ring him to make an appointment, knowing there won’t be a last-minute panic AND (this is getting good), making sure that all the current years bits of paper so far are all together and accounted for so that I will not have to panic in a year’s time.

Ooh, I wouldn’t be an accountant, not for the world. I would come home crying every night because yet another anxious-looking person had come in clutching tumbling armfuls of paper and hopefully thrust them at me in the hope that I could magically sort them out. I can cope with my own things, but anyone else’s would give me nightmares.

Rather more jollities to come this week than I know what to do with. Including the WI Christmas dinner. Whoo-hoo, dancing on the tables before the week is out.

Have fun, darlings

My little girl and her husband are coming home for the weekend, and so I am happy. Although I won’t spend all that much time with them, as the Sage and I are going to a party this evening, to celebrate friends’ Golden Wedding anniversary. So my children are going to spend the evening together.

First, I have to put together the Advent ring. There are five candles, one to be lit every Sunday in Advent and the fifth for Christmas Day. That is, each week you light the previously lit candles plus one more. They symbolise stuff, but don’t ask me to remember what. I’m not really sure about all these ritual symbolic thingys. It’s the sort of thing that really alienates people who aren’t involved.

After that, I must go and buy wine. I was startled, the other night, to discover that, apart from the Good Wine, I only had a couple of bottles left. I’ve been busy recently and haven’t done much shopping, except for fresh food. I don’t keep much convenience food in, except for the odd frozen pizza, and usually prepare meals from scratch.

The Sage went to pick up some hens yesterday. Not for us, but for several friends who needed to replenish stocks. A local egg farm was due to get in new stock and so wanted to sell the 18-month-old birds. It is a splendid place, as free range as you can imagine. There are big barns for the chickens to sleep and shelter in, but they are free to roam over large fields too, which are kept safe from foxes by electric fences. Al used to get supplies of eggs from there, but when the lion stamp was brought back in a year or so back, they decided to sell all the eggs to a large supplier as the equipment was expensive and the individual stamping made an extra job they didn’t have time for. Al can sell our bantam eggs unstamped as you may sell your own stuff, but if bought in, it has to go through ‘the system’. He had to find another source of free-range eggs as he never sells anything else. Anyway, the Sage went and chose the hens, they were put into boxes and he went off to deliver them (no charge, he’s just nice like that). When he looked, there were quite an array of new-laid eggs, the girls weren’t wasting any time.