I’ve spent the last three hours cooking. I am making squash soup, minestrone soup, game stock, beef casserole and braised red cabbage. I also have some rhubarb awaiting inspiration and a mango that I had forgotten and which is now perfectly ripe, but if I leave much longer will be past it. I had a similar avocado, but Ro and I shared that and now I’m sitting down with some brie, oatcakes and olives. I know that eating at ones desk is a dreadful example to the little ones, but this has rarely stopped me doing anything.

I had so many vegetables to prepare that I just put a box on the floor near me for the peelings, rather than spilling bits all over the floor while repeatedly opening the compost bin. I cut the cabbage in quarters, cut out the core and chucked it in the box. Tilly keenly rescued it and crunched it up, quarter by quarter. Very healthy, no doubt, but it may be necessary to encourage her to sit in another room this evening, for her digestion may be affected.

I haven’t started on the marmalade and I’m not likely to now. Not today, that is, nor tomorrow, for I am going to the Dark Metropolis. My sister, El, Phil and I are having lunch together. It may not be the highly cultural outing that I said I’d be doing, but we are meeting up at the National Gallery, so it will count. Looking at that list, I’ve not got far yet, but I am buying unexpected music and liking it too (cheers, BD and Julie).

Looking up old posts reminded me of this one. Since I wrote it, I have had several occasions when I’ve remembered someone who didn’t know me, or had forgotten my name, anyway. I wonder if this means that I’m getting better or whether I had been so worried about myself that I hadn’t realised how many other people are the same.

I could be improving, you know. I phoned to book my train tickets yesterday (for those of you who don’t live here, pre-booked tickets are cheaper) and, as often happens now, the person at the call centre said his name when he answered the phone. He was very helpful and found me the cheapest ticket – unfortunately it was two hours earlier than I wished to leave so I decided to spring the extra tenner for the later train but, since the difference was negligible, go First Class. El cheapo fare coming home, so I’m in the usual cattle truck.

He was friendly and sensible and at the end I (of course) thanked him. “Goodbye, Jason,” I added. And realised that I’ve done this several times recently, remembering the names of people on helplines.

Is it possible, do you think, that writing about the problem I had with names has, by making me focus, cured it?

I’ve just sent this email to the PCC. There was nothing else to do.

I’m awfully sorry. I have left undone those things that I ought to have done (I draw a veil over the rest of the confession) and cannot put it right as I have lost my vital notebook.

love Z*

Does this sound mortified enough?

Well, it wasn’t. I then sent the email without attaching the minutes. My reputation for efficiency is entirely shot and no one will ever trust me with any job ever again.

Hey, look on the bright side!

I woke to a grey day, but it started snowing not long after. It was all quite cheering and I looked forward to building a snowman with Squiffany.

But later, even as snow was falling, the trees started to drip with melting ice and it was cold and damp and cheerless. My meeting had been cancelled as the forecast was bad, so I bought Seville oranges from Al and came home to make marmalade.

Unfortunately, it has been one of those afternoons when annoying things have cropped up and have had to be dealt with and I haven’t done it after all.

And I have had occasion to reprimand* my husband, who is not, at present, sagacious at all. He is very apologetic, now that the damage is done, but I don’t become offended without good reason and the atmosphere is cool.

Very cold outside and the roads will be treacherous as soon as it freezes. I’d rather have had a good cheering snowfall.

*we didn’t quarrel, exactly.

I was asked in a comment not long ago if I think that life is harder for young people now than it was in earlier decades. Listening to the Today Programme on Radio 4 this morning, I realised that the post I have spent some time drafting is made redundant by the superb and moving explanation, by two young lads of 15 and 16, of their life in Peckham. This takes you to Radio 4 and Today, and right now it’s under ‘teenagers in the area’. After tonight, I hope you will be able to find it in the ‘listen again’ archives for at least the next week. it’s also a podcast, which I hope you can find here

These were two articulate and sensible young men talking about the difficulty of staying safe and gaining an education in their area of London today. They are disgusted about the conditions that prevail at school, where couples have sex in the school toilets, where drug pushers have more influence and power than any authority and where many youngsters join in, as to stand aside leaves you in fear for your life. One of them saw his first stabbing, blood and guts hanging out, when he was nine. He was afraid to leave his home for days. He points out that most fathers are long gone and many mothers cannot be relied on, being addicted to drugs themselves.

Afterwards, there was an interview with the director of a youth charity. He said that a great deal had been done in the last few years. Unfortunately, by locking up the drug pushers in their twenties, the teenagers had taken over – the average age of these was now nearer seventeen than twenty-seven and these kids were more ruthless and vicious than their older counterparts.

I grieve for those boys. I don’t think that things have been so bad for at least a hundred years. There was, in the years between the two world wars, poverty and hardship, but anything like this was , if it existed, a small and isolated problem. Being treated harshly by an unfeeling boss or being beaten by a cruel headteacher; even unemployment, conscription, hunger, was not like this.

Even those youngsters who live in safer areas and have more money are not much better off. Those prostitutes who were murdered in Ipswich last year – they were pretty young girls, mostly from ‘respectable’ homes – I’m not giving a value judgement here, just saying that prostitution was not in their family background. They had, or so their families said, gone the way they had because they had become addicted to drugs. It was noticeable that, much as the reporters wanted them too, most locals, even in the local villages, were sympathetic and sad and they didn’t condemn them for their lifestyle.

I became a teenager in the late 1960s, when we were all pretty relaxed about drugs. Pot and LSD were pretty well all that were available and the worst thing that could happen (pretty bad, it was agreed) was a ‘bad trip’. I never took drugs and didn’t even smoke – peer pressure sent me the other way and I never intended to do anything I might become addicted to. But the late 60s, early 70s, were halcyon times if you were young, in this country. Even cynics like me (no hippy, me, I didn’t believe that if you love each other things would be all right. Well, correct that, they would be, but it ain’t never going to happen and I thought that hippyness was sadly delusional) were pretty cheerful. It has been downhill all the way since then, for the young. Well, so I think. I do love young people*, they try really hard in spite of everything and I hate those middle aged bastards like me (not me, people of my age) who are ruining the world.

Oh damn. You can see why drafting doesn’t work for me, if I didn’t post this at once, I’d be back to the drawing board in the morning.

*you count as ‘young people’ if you are young enough to be my child, that is, 36 and under. Anything older, sorry darlings, you’re my generation. You are still my generation unless you are older than my mother, who would now be 83. Or my father, who’d be 97 in July.

I realised that I have not eaten much today. I had the juice of two oranges and a slice of dry bread for breakfast, and at lunchtime the Sage needed me and my car to tow Al’s van to the garage. Al was relieved that it made it home last night. It started to make an odd chugging sound when he was delivering a box of veg and he didn’t really want to have to walk home at the end of a day on his feet. This morning he meant to take it to the garage, but it wouldn’t start at all.

So the time reserved for lunch was spent pushing the van to a place it was attachable to the car and driving very slowly through Yagnub to the garage. When we reached the roundabout (only one roundabout in this town), fortunately there was no traffic for a minute so I simply turned right instead of going all the way round and risking wrapping the tow rope round the Black Dog. After this, I didn’t have time to eat and just grabbed half a slice of ham and an olive.

As a result, I was hungry by 6 and made a little bowlful of olives – black with chillies and green with lemon, flavoursome cheddar cheese and a few mini oatcakes. The pleasured anticipation, as I poured a glass of red wine too, made me realise that I really haven’t been giving myself enough edible treats, recently. Although delicious, it was not quite exciting enough for the degree of happiness I felt.

My book has still not turned up, but I have made a reasonable fist of the minutes and sent them to the Chairman with a confession. I hope he will be able to fill in any gaps. He is a dear man and I have tested his patience twice within a week. I feel very embarrassed. I have suggested that, either I resign and bother the Catholics or Quakers instead of the Church of England, or that he gives me a great deal of annoying work to do at once, for I will not protest. But he probably would not trust me with it any longer.

I called on Dilly and the children. Dilly was giving Pugsley some puréed pear. He mumbled it around his mouth for a while and some was returned to his chin. “I’m not sure how much he actually swallows,” she said. “When he has sweet potato, he makes an awful mess and you can see how much – or little – has gone down his throat.” When he had had most of it spooned in his mouth, his face crumpled and he shut his mouth. Dilly tried another spoonful, but he put his bib over his face. As soon as she put down the dish and took off his bib, he smiled again. I’m not sure that this baby will need to learn to speak.

PS. The Sage has just handed me a letter from Norfolk County Council about risks from Avian Flu. It is, I am happy to say, well written, sensible and reassuring without resorting to ‘we know best’ platitudes. I congratulate the writer.

It says, sensibly and realistically, keep poultry indoors if you can, but if this is impractical, keep their food and water where wild birds can’t get to it. It explains that meat and eggs aren’t going to spread the illness even if it is there to be spread, but wash your hands – you do wash your hands after touching raw poultry anyway, don’t you (yes, obsessively). It gives relaxedly useful advice, but no threats or scaremongering.

Might the BBC learn from them? Might pigs fly?

I’ve just checked my diary and have a meeting tomorrow. Marmalade making is off.

On the other hand, several inches of snow are forecast for tomorrow. The meeting might be off.

The chickens are becoming used to their new home in the greenhouse. They may be glad of it by tomorrow.

I was chatting to the WI treasurer last night. She asked my if I’d like to claim for expenses for the four polyanthus I’d taken for the table flowers. “Goodness, no,” I said. “They only cost 50p each.” She explained that, with the increase in subscriptions, our branch is expecting to have a £500 surplus and so they are offering people who do the food and flowers the cost of them.

I had forgotten that the subscription is imposed by Head Office. They want to have a big increase in the sum paid for affiliation to the national group and are justifying it by sending out a glossy magazine to each member – there always has been a magazine, but it has been paid for separately if you want it. I suppose that they don’t want to be seen to be taking a higher percentage of the sub, so the sub has been raised enough to maintain a tactful proportion. Our expenses are not high, however, as it is, so we will probably have to spend our surplus on parties. One can resign from the National Federation and just become a friendly group, and some WIs have, but they have to hand back anything they have with the WI name, even if it was made and paid for by the group. For example, we have two tablecloths, embroidered by members, one to commemorate the 80th anniversary and the other to celebrate the different elements of Denton village life as lived by WI members. Heavy handed? Feels like it. I haven’t been on the committee for years though, I only go because I see friends there, some of whom I don’t see anywhere else.

I must dry my hair and put on my face, I’m playing the organ for a funeral this morning. I am still not sure what it says about me, that I’ve planned my own funeral already. Not that I expect it to happen any time soon. But I’ve chosen the hymns, the reading and the coffin. So long as I overcome diffidence and tell my family what they all are, it will be excellent.

And I gave one of the polyanthus to the treasurer, one to the friend who gave me a lift and will give one to Dilly. The other is for me.

I was driving back from Norwich when my eye was caught by an odd-shaped bird atop a bush. The sun was behind it, so I couldn’t see what sort it was for a moment.

Then I realised. It was two birds and they were At It. Having It Off.

In public too. Shameless, they were.

Apparently, we will have snow on Thursday. That’s all right, I’ll have time to build a snowman on Thursday. I also hope I might have time to make marmalade. Al still has a couple of cratesful unopened, but he thinks that will be the last of the Seville oranges.

I haven’t had much sleep the last couple of night, I’ve been waking up at 3 or 4 am and staying awake (worrying about that bloody notebook, isn’t it stupid. It’s not as if it helps). I hope WI is worth turning out for.

It’s now around 10.45 pm and I’m just sitting down with some cheese and biscuits and a dram of Scotch, having just got back from a governors’ training meeting. One of the best presented and most interesting I’ve been to in a long time, in fact. The last one I attended, the Local Authority person presenting the session started it by saying “I hope you all know that this is no longer to explain the new system, as the Government has put back its implementation by a year.” No, I hadn’t known, I had done this training twice in the previous few years and it would have been nice to have been told in advance.

I amused myself by asking tricky questions, based on my in-depth knowledge of the subject. You can catch ’em out, you know.

This one was on behaviour and anti-bullying matters. There is a new Education Act, being implemented in April and he was telling us about the new jollities within.

I drove through Lowestoft. I lived in Lowestoft from the age of 3 or 4 to 32 and now can hardly find my way about the town now. New roads all over the place. It’s good, actually, they haven’t dealt with all the congestion caused by having a town that is cut in half by a bridge, but they have improved it considerably. However, I did find myself driving down a road I hadn’t known existed. I didn’t lose my bearings, so I wasn’t very late…

I was bored stiff within the first three minutes. He asked for the general principles one should be considering when drawing up a school’s Behavioural Policy. The usual jargon was mentioned. ‘Whole-school ethos.’ ‘Respect, not only from pupil to teacher, but from pupil to pupil, pupil for him- or herself, teacher for pupil.’ ‘Work ethic’ .. and all the rest. Worthy and true, but we’ve been there before, so many times. But, skilful instructor that we had, he spotted instantly that we’d all been there, done …… I’ll spare you the cliché. He had his Powerpoint presentation, but skimmed over whole pages – “don’t need to tell you about that, it’s in the hand-out. Let’s talk about what it really means.”

Two and a quarter hours (no one minded that it overran) well spent. I found myself asking lots of questions and stating quite a lot of opinions/facts (hey, with me, aren’t they the same thing? heh heh), some of which were really quite pertinent. I also asked my nasty question, which was ducked the last time I asked it (which I mentioned).

“If a pupil has been excluded from one school and you have a place available, the Local Authority can compel you to accept him/her. However, what is the legal position if the exclusion has been for physical violence against another pupil or member of staff, and the Governing Body fears that it could happen again?” He replied that the LA can still oblige the school to take the pupil. “What if it happens again, the parent or teacher finds that there was a demonstrable risk and sues? Whose is the liability.” He did a bit of sensible fudging. “So, if the Head and the Governors refuse to take the pupil, but are overruled, they are in the clear? It will be the LA that will be sued?”

He said, for a definitive answer, that it would be necessary to consult the legal department of the LA. I apologised for asking a mean question, said that my school has been well supported by the LA and they only do what the Government tells them.

My speciality is in being absolutely horrible and then being awfully nice. Wrong-foots people. I’m good cop, bad cop, all on my own.

At the end, I gave him a top-notch evaluation (we have a Sheet of Judgment to fill in), except that he didn’t give out the hand-outs until the end. I said that I can see why, he doesn’t want us to read rather than listen, but it means your notes are on a separate piece of paper, rather than against the item they are relevant to. I also said the room was too hot, but that was on a different evaluation.

Another full day tomorrow, a meeting all morning, shop all afternoon and Women’s Institute in the evening. I’m doing the table flowers. I’m sorry to say that I will probably buy four pretty flowering pot plants, rather than spend an hour arranging flowers.

The bakery was broken into last night. They prised open a sash window at the side of the shop. They took the float and the charity box. What did they expect to find? Sticky buns?

Al supposes he’ll have to take the float home out of the tills every night. He has always said that at least he doesn’t need to worry about burglary, not unless the local ne’er-do-wells are anxious about their 5-a-day, but if they are after a few pounds in small change, he’ll have to change his mind.

And the town has been thick with reporters*, wanting a new angle on bird flu. I was sorry for the butcher opposite – a bloke with a camera was filming his shop from just outside the window, a couple of yards away and then from the other side of the marketplace. Poor Adrian had to stand there, nowhere to hide. And his ‘free-range chickens’ sign in the window. I’m not sure why they are here, Halesworth, 9 miles away, is next to the turkey farm.

It was confirmed that the Ch1cken Round@bout birds (I did a link a while back, here is another one) are officially wild birds, so they will not need to be rounded up, even if poultry have to be kept indoors. If ours do, they can go in the biggest greehouse, which is about 40 feet by 14 feet and they will be fine until the weather heats up. And then we will have to think again, unless we want them to lay hard-boiled eggs.

*ooer. Natasha Kaplinsky has made a special trip Herself to Holton. And the BBC is most anxious about the Ch1cken Round@bout.
I think, am I a cynic, that a little bit of each reporter rather hopes that the outbreak hasn’t been entirely contained.

Nothing out-of-season blooming that I can see, but it’s such a delight to have the first flowers of the year in the garden.

You can click on them to enlarge – that little iris is a gorgeous colour.

Another lovely little iris.