No votes for amn’t I. Most for aren’t, followed closely by ain’t/int (I’m allowing for regional variations here) and one, slightly confusingly, for am I.

The reason I ask is that I only know two people, who don’t know each other, who say or write “amn’t I?” And both of them are gay men. I do not suggest anything from this, I’m just mentioning it.

Happy Mothering Sunday to any and all of you who have, or who ever have had, a mother.

It’s just four years since my mother died. In her sleep, in her own bed, with me and my daughter asleep in the next room. Not at all a bad way to go and I’m not remembering it sadly.

I had decided. I’d decided to defer my decision.

I’m still going on about my veggie patch. I don’t know what I want to put in there, or how much more room I really need or how to divide it up. So, for this year, I thought I’d make 8 beds, each a couple of metres wide and twenty-something feet long (I”m bilingual, you see and think in metres or feet, whichever is easiest at that moment) and see how it goes.

I went out to pace it out. And the Sage followed me, all cheery and smiling, to tell me that he has arranged the loan of a cement mixer and the help of a very good friend, and we can put in the (permanent) concrete paths within the next week or two.

This is like having a commitment-phobe partner who, after several years of fobbing off suggestions of moving in together, suddenly comes round with sheaves of property details to view, a wedding booking form, rings and arrangements already made for a honeymoon. You’ve wanted this for ages, so you can hardly protest now that you need a little more time and how about next year?

However, right now I’m off to church to make up Mothering Sunday posies to be given out in the service tomorrow. That’s guesswork too – I sent out an email a week ago, asking for flowers, greenery and helpers. I’ve had two replies. I explained that I’d appreciate replies as I need to know what to expect.

I don’t think I’m a control freak, it’s just so much easier if you have some idea in advance. I’ve bought 18 bunches of daffodils and have picked more. One has to guess how many posies to make up anyway, so at least I’d like something as a definite.

Sod it. I’ll take along a packet of chocolate biscuits. So at least those of us who do turn up can have a spot of self-indulgence (though, the amount of cake I’ve eaten in the past week, I have no excuse at all).

Dear me, I’m not tired tonight, but I am totally smashed. It started with the champagne – only a couple of glasses but it goes straight to the head. It’s the bubbles, darlings. I moved on to white wine of the still variety afterwards.

However, the good news is that the Sage kissed me before – the bad news – he went out.

He went out. Yes. Hm.

However

He’ll be back.

Blimey, I am smashed, aren’t I.

I would, by the way, like to conduct a poll on how many say ‘aren’t I’ and who says ‘amn’t I’. Any takers?

Pat is doing terrifically well, but she needs your vote. She’s currently in second place and you only have until Sunday to vote for her. Here’s the link to vote for Pat’s Past Imperfect.

And while I’m plugging, I sullenly ignore most of the “Comic” Relief output by desperate celebs anxious to bring themselves publicity while not being very funny at all, but this is different. Please support Mike, who is quite wonderful and who has created this book from scratch in only a week. Do buy. You only have to look at the list of contributors to know it’ll be splendid.

My son Ro has just left for work, which is not unusual at all at this time. However, not only did he come in to the study for a minute’s chat first, but he also CAME ACROSS TO MY DESK AND GAVE ME A KISS!!(!) This happens very rarely and just shows the family bonding effect of helplessly giggling throughout dinner last night.

It slightly took me by surprise so I had to apologise for the marmalade kiss I gave him in return. He was, remarkably, completely unbothered by it, although I did read him Paddington Bear books as a child, so the idea of marmalade stains is not altogether foreign to him.

I will cook a special meal for tonight and serve champagne as that always cheers everyone up no end. There is a bottle in the fridge, there always is (for that’s the sort of Z I am).

Tonight, we had cauliflower cheese for dinner. I’d been to Norwich for lunch and then straight back for a meeting and I didn’t feel like anything inventive or strenuous, or even meaty.

I cooked the cauliflower whole, although I criss-crossed the base to speed up the cooking a bit.

Ro came into the kitchen to enquire about the progess of dinner. He peered in the pan. “Oh I say. Is this the latest fashion?” (I usually cut a cauliflower up, for then it cooks faster) “I couldn’t be bothered to chop it up,” I replied, with dignity. “Fair enough. What’s that pile of cheese for?” “To put on top and melt in the oven. And to eat while the rest of the meal is cooking.”

I put a pile of pasta and halved grilled tomatoes in a dish, plonked the cauliflower on top and poured on the cheese sauce. I sprinkled on the grated cheese. He chuckled. “I bet you’ll take a picture and blog about it next. What are you going to call it then?”

I laughed too. “Looks like a Bombe Surprise!”

“Call it Bombe Fromage*,” he suggested. So I did.

During dinner, the Sage was talking about someone we knew years ago – I remembered her name for him. “Her husband ran Yarmouth Stores, didn’t he?” I was a bit surprised. “Isn’t he a surveyor or something. Where is Yarmouth Stores, anyway?” “Er, in Yarmouth?” said the Sage, kindly. Ro nearly fell off his chair for laughing and choking on his delicious Bombe Fromage.

I will tell you about my day in London, which was Lovely, but I’m still really tired and I wouldn’t do it justice.

*He says that it reminded him of Bon Voyage. But I don’t see that having any possible relevance.

I have a newly cleared (by the chickens) piece of ground that measures about 35 feet by 50 feet. This will be an extension of the kitchen garden and will just about double it in size. I am finding it quite difficult to decide how to divide it up.

When we moved here, we turned a small lawn into the veg garden. We had the turf taken off and stacked to rot down and made beds 4 foot wide by 38 foot long (sorry, you are going to have to do the metric equivalents yourself. 1 foot = 30 centimetres, within a gnats crotchet). There are 6 of these, with 2 foot paths in between. At one end, against the greenhouse, is a 3 foot by 30 foot herb bed. At one side is a further area for jerusalem and globe artichokes, which is now part of the newly cleared area.

Since then, I’ve acquired 2 more greenhouses, one 30-something foot by 12 foot and one about 40 foot by 14 foot. I also have another area, about 45 foot by 12 foot, for growing squashes and pumpkins.

And another, for soft fruit. That’s also 38 feet long and has three beds, each 4 or 5 feet wide.

It seems enough for anyone, doesn’t it. But the soft fruit area was not well planned or executed and has become overgrown. When I was too busy to look after it for a couple of years, it got completely out of hand and I’ve now taken down all the netting, cut off the bits of currant growing through it and, in the autumn, will consider moving it altogether, or maybe everything but the raspberries which come up everywhere anyway.

What I’m finding it hard to do is decide how to divide up the new area. Two sides, a short and a long, will be against a wall once I’ve built it (once the Sage has come up with the ideal bricks) and I might put in some fruit trees, such as apricot or peach. One faces South and the other East. Another side is separated from the 40 foot greenhouse by a 2 foot path. The fourth is alongside the present kitchen garden.

It’s much easier to deal with beds with permanent paths, for several reasons. One is that you don’t dig, manure or weed where you aren’t going to grow things. Another is that the rain comes off the paths onto the ground – useful on my light soil. The ground warms up early in the spring as the heat of the sun is absorbed by the concrete and released later. If for some reason you don’t need all the garden for vegetables one year, it does not become badly overgrown, especially if you put down a mulch.

But four foot paths are not perfect for everything. So maybe five or more foot this time? Or maybe a couple of narrower ones for climbing beans? Or is that too restrictive?

Usually, I’d just grow potatoes for a year to clear the ground and let the plan form in my mind gradually. But the chooks cleared it for me and I need to decide quickly.

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and decided it was just too dull to post. But tonight I’m too tired to write and I’d really appreciate some advice, if you have any, so I’ve changed my mind and am inflicting it on you.

Off on another jolly tomorrow. Yes, my life is full of frivolity. I have earned my keep today, however, by looking after Squiffany this morning, working in the garden and greenhouse this morning and working on actual money-bearing work this evening, as far as one can when one has sunk half a bottle of red and is Merry.

I will leave for Norwich at 6.45, ante meridiem.

When I arrive back in Norwich, some 12 hours after I leave, I’ll toddle down the the Assembly House for a private view (no, not just for me, it’s not that private) of an exhibition put on by students at the City College – a group I’m on the committee of has sponsored it.

I have explained to the Sage and Ro that I will be too late for dinner and not to wait. I’ll eat on the way home. This means either that I’ll huddle at a Table For One or that I’ll queue at MuckD for a takeaway. Or I could dream hungrily of bacon and eggs all the way home. I don’t know. I’ll let kind fate decide.

I’m going to visit the Goldsmiths’ Hall, in the City*, by the way. I’ve not been there before, I expect to be vastly interested.

*near St Pauls

It seems very quiet around here now. Squiffany came to visit for only three hours, but I’m lonely without her.

We were very busy this morning. She arrived clutching a small pot of yoghurt and a punnet of raspberries, asked for a spoon and sat and ate them, giving me two of the raspberries. Then we went for a walk round the village. I had a key to deliver and Tilly was keen for a walk. As we set off down the drive, she charged across the field excitedly. She rushed back to us, galloped off again, went through the hedge onto the other field and vanished. “Where’s Tilly?” asked Squiffany. Tilly belted back, wild-eyed and mouth agape, vanished into the field. She was gone for longer than I’d expect for a dog hoping for a walk. I was not surprised to see a rabbit hop through the hedge onto the drive and unhurriedly lop along towards the garden. Quite half a minute later, Tilly reappeared, sniffing for tracks. She really is the world’s worst rabbiter.

When we arrived home, Squiffany asked for some orange juice. While I was squeezing the orange, I heard the computer ‘ping’ a reminder and realised I had Meals on Wheels to deliver today.

It’s not especially awkward taking a child with you to deliver M o W. What is awkward is the car seat. One has to align three separate pieces of buckle simultaneously and clip them together. It needs to be tight fitting of course, or it isn’t much use. I put her in the seat and fastened it, drove to the café, took her with me to fetch the food, clipped her in the seat, drove to the first house, took her out — so it went on. She was very charming to all the old people, although quiet – too much attention for a little girl. When we arrived home, I asked her what she wanted for lunch, giving her several options. “I want to go upstairs, please, Granny.”

I know what that means. Granny has a very bouncy bed. Also, Squiffany lives in a bungalow, so the stairs themselves are fun. While we were bouncing, I asked again about lunch. “Would you like pasta?” “I like pasta,” she replied, “But not today, thank you.” Everything I suggested received the same response. It was far too polite to take exception to. “Well,” I said in the end. “I’m hungry. And I’m having chips. You can share them if you like.” I put the chips in the oven (no, I don’t normally give a child such naughty food, but hey, being a granny means you can get away with it) and we went off to feed the chickens. They are still living in the greenhouse, which is well ventilated, but if this warmth continues they will have to move soon.

Chips, egg and tomato ketchup went down very well. Some of it down her front, indeed. Afterwards, I rummaged through the bag Dilly had left. Clean clothes, fortunately. By the time Dilly returned to take her to playgroup, her face and hands were washed and she was wearing a clean top.

And now I miss her.

Murph’s comment on the last reminded me of the way I devised to justify any extra expenditure I might ever make. A couple of years ago, I spent a day shopping for clothes and stuff. I don’t do this very often, but I found myself in the mood and in the happy circumstance that everything I liked fitted and everything that fitted I liked. So I bought them.

Now, my husband has never been one of those chaps who complains when bills come in. In fact, he’s very pleased when I spend money – he doesn’t think I spend enough on the whole. So when I came home and said I’d been shopping for clothes, he said “Good for you.” “I’ve spent quite a bit. A teapot’s worth, in fact.” “What,” he said airily, “about £900?” “Oh, crumbs, no. More like £600*.” “A cracked teapot then.”

Since then, every time I’ve spent money on more than necessities, I’ve thought of it in terms of Lo’st’ft china. A teabowl and saucer. A coffee cup. A nice little cat – maybe not, I could get a car for that. But a badly damaged piece could start at £20 or £30, so there’s something to fit all eventualities.

*This is a lot for me to spend in a day, but it may be small beer to you, of course. Or a small fortune, on the other hand.