We’ve had a convivial evening, the Sage and I, putting catalogues together, next door with Dilly and Al.

Now you will probably think that we are provincial and not a little amateurish, but we think that the end result is what matters, the china, the service and, er, the low cost. We charge a very low rate of commission for what we do. Our catalogues are illustrated, but colour printing is too expensive for a free catalogue when we need to keep the total cost, including postage, down to £1 each (an arrangement is come to with a friend who owns a stationary company and we get cheap envelopes). So we have 400 catalogues printed plus 400 copies of each photograph and we stick them on. Three photos, of fifteen lots, and each to be stuck on.

The four of us made a production line. I took through the half of a bottle of red that I hadn’t yet drunk, though Al was already on red and Dilly on pink. In an hour and a half, we’d completed 125 and done two thirds of another hundred. We’ve called it a day. Tomorrow, I’ll print the address labels, we’ll stick them on the envelopes, stick on the stamps, stuff the envelopes and then we can breathe a sigh of relief.

Oh, I’ve also got to send the catalogue to go on the website, take photos of each piece, send them, examine each item very very carefully, write a condition report for each piece and post that on the website.

It will be done by the end of the weekend. Easter will be celebrated, but not by stopping work. However, I don’t grumble about it. We only have two sales a year after all. We don’t exactly work full-time at it. I’ve had enough for tonight though. I’m listening to B-daddy’s Pearl Jam and I’m going to make coffee and then have an early night.

I must take more notice of the phases of the moon. I always used to be aware of this, when I had several dogs to walk each night. Now I only have one she gets let out in the garden and I don’t notice. But sometimes I sleep badly and am awake for hours each night. Maybe I am a lunatic after all?

I’ve impulsively booked to go to a concert at Snape on Friday night. I had an email to say there are still tickets for some of their Easter concerts – I hadn’t booked anything as we often have family things on over the holiday.

You can book online, so I had a look, but backed away hastily when I discovered there was a £1.75 booking fee. Since all I wanted was a single £10 ticket, it seemed a bit steep. Just as well, for when I mentioned it to Ro, he said he’d come too. I rang for the tickets this morning.

A pleasant programme of Prokofiev and Stravinsky, including Lieutenant Kije. I have an affection for that piece. When I was under a period of great stress, I couldn’t listen to much music; I couldn’t cope with it. I played Bix Beiderbecke, Hoagy Carmichael and Kije, over and again. They were enjoyable and comforting in a way I still don’t understand – not that they were, but that others weren’t. Later, I was able to listen to Mozart’s Requiem. Now, anything, I’m glad to say, and I like to be surprised.

I’ll be in the shop this afternoon, so I’ve had an early lunch. A delicious undyed Lowestoft kipper. Maybe it’s because I’m a Lowestoft girl that I love smoky tastes. Lapsang Souchong tea, kippers and bloaters, Islay whisky. And the smell of a wood fire, of course.

My parents didn’t enjoy being hoteliers. The 1940s were not exactly the best time to be in the hospitality business in England. In 1947 people were starting to go on holiday again, but it was a time of austerity and restaurants were limited in the amount they were allowed to charge. I’m not sure how the rationing regulations affected hotels – yet another thing I didn’t ask my mother – but the restrictions certainly made life difficult.

The situation of the hotel is rather lovely. It’s on the clifftop by B0wleaze C0ve, sideways on to the cliff edge, a long, curved building on two floors with a tall square tower in the centre. If you’ve seen any of the Hercule Poirot programmes with David Suchet, the Art Deco houses, contemporary with the books, that are featured in them remind me of the hotel. It has always been painted white. There were 98 bedrooms, a pretty large establishment. The ballroom held, at the time of its construction, some sort of record for (I think) the largest room made of concrete with its ceilings unsupported by pillars (I have no idea what I’m talking about here, just reporting, laugh among yourselves as required).

My father had grown up in a fairly sophisticated, if provincial, society and had high expectations of the kitchen – and he’d been out of the country all during the war and hadn’t lived through rationing. Army privations were one thing, but he’d not experienced everyday life in that time. Both he and Jane were keenly interested in food and when Elizabeth David published her first book on French cooking, they started to follow her recipes and research the cuisines of other countries too, including English food of course. They built up a large collection of cookery books. They did special dinners – my mother remembered one Chinese meal when Malcolm had the bright idea of making 100 silk napkins, each with the Mandarin equivalent of bon appetit in the corner. He had just bought her the latest model of electric sewing machine and was keen to try out all its features.

They might have enjoyed running a restaurant, but a large family hotel too was exhausting. They made money in the summer months, but lost it in the winter, when they had to keep on key staff with little money coming in. Many of the children were badly behaved. I suppose parents wanted to make up for the privations of wartime and spoiled the kids. My parents learned to dread the arrival of middle-aged parents with one adored, late-born child. Those were the worst behaved of all and the parents never reprimanded them, but watched them rampage round the dining room with a fond smile. One such child stripped the newly-wallpapered bedroom one evening while its parents dined – no offer of recompense.

Another time, a charity rented the whole hotel (at a knock-down price, as it was for charity) to give a holiday for East End slum children. Unfortunately, a bedroom was, afterwards, found to be infested with bedbugs. It had to have the paper stripped from the walls, the skirting board and picture rail removed, the flooring taken up, literally anywhere where the bugs or their eggs could be hiding.

On another occasion, a film company rented the hotel for the whole cast of a film. My parents were thrilled – they paid a good price, out of season. Unfortunately, they had negotiated a fixed price and hadn’t bargained for the whole cast to go on strike. The instigator of the strike was, apparently, B1ll 0wen, of L@st of the Summer W1ne fame, who was, presumably, blissfully unaware that he was causing the hotel more losses than the film company.

Once, a small group of waiting staff threatened to walk out if they were not given more money. My father pointed out that, because of the situation of the hotel, down a long track a couple of miles out of town, they were already paid more than comparable posts and several of the female staff were taken home in taxis at the end of the evening too. He accepted their resignation, much to their surprise. A couple of weeks later, they returned, asking for their old jobs back … and were sent away disappointed.

My mother always said that she had done every job in the hotel at one time or another except barmaid, and Daddy had done everything except chambermaid – er – chamberboy?. She also said that by the end of August she had to retire to her bed for a couple of weeks, totally exhausted.

Time to show my real colours. The pity is that no one will like me any more.

A committee meeting this morning which, as usual, overran rather badly. This is my fault as I’m chairman. However, it won’t happen again. Someone asked (completely irrelevantly) which day of the week the meetings will be on from September. She would prefer another day than Tuesday. I said that we’ll decide on dates at our June meeting, but in the meantime, please could people consider if Wednesday will suit. “Wednesday morning’s fine,” said someone, “but could I leave at 12.30 as I’m busy on Wednesday afternoons?” “Would you like to finish by 12.30?” I asked. Everyone nodded. “Then we will.”

They think I’m pretending to be tough. You know I’m tough though darlings, don’t you?

The thing is, other committees I’ve chaired have been more formal and business-like and this one needs scope for discussion. I know, I’m sounding fluffy and unable to keep things focused, but it’s not a business meeting, it’s a group of voluntary committee members running a society for the study of fine arts. We each have a specific job, but we all have input and take an interest in each aspect. In addition, I’m the youngest there by at least ten years and so don’t gain any gravitas by my white hairs and eleven wobbling chins. In short, I haven’t, up to now, done very well (except when I give the vote of thanks at the monthly lectures where, unexpectedly, the members enjoy me).

But now I’ve received the okay, I’ll demonstrate just how stern and focused I can be. And you know how scary I am when I do that.

I feel a little rattled. Not that the day has gone badly; the opposite, indeed, but I find the need for perfection a little stressful. I typed up the list of lots for the catalogue this morning – the Sage kindly brought through trays of china for me to write down their description. I used to write it all on a notepad, but it’s too easy to make mistakes – much more reliable to type it straight away. All this took nearly four hours, by which time I felt edgy and irritable, and realised that, apart from half a small melon, I hadn’t eaten anything. So I suggested an early lunch and put a frozen pizza in the oven.

After that, came the laying out of the catalogue which would be no trouble if it were not for my deep and abiding hatred (unreasoning of course) of M1cr0s0ft Bl00dy W0rd. I shouted and swore at the computer, as is usual on these occasions but it was finally done and went off to the printers.

Then the photographs for the catalogue. This went very smoothly. I like taking pictures of things that don’t move. I’m rubbish at animate objects. Unfortunately, soon after I’d put them on the computer, it crashed. Now, this doesn’t happen often, but when it does it can take hours to get it going again. I don’t, of course, mean hours of continuous trying, but if it won’t restart in a couple of goes, it’s best to just leave it unplugged for a while and then go back and spend the next half hour cajoling it.

So, down to the greenhouse, sowed more seeds, watered, thought anxiously about all I’ve got to do in the garden in the next ten days before I go away, and back to the house, where Al and family were arriving to be friendly and sociable. For today is Al’s birthday. My little boy is 31. My little girl’s birthday is on Wednesday, by which date she will be in Venice, for her beloved is whisking her off for a mid-week break.

Off went the Sage to the photographer to get the pictures done (what a nice bloke, he’s quite happy to receive them after hours to make a start tonight, as he is taking his family for a day out in Cambridge tomorrow and we want them back by Thursday, before the Bank Holiday), I cooked dinner and then I started to sweet-talk the computer. After a while the Sage came and politely enquired about an item finishing this evening on eBay. What on earth does a one-computer family do on these occasions. In this case, “Ro, can you help your father please?…” He was just in time to bid, but didn’t win the piece. An auctioneer takes such defeat with good grace “At least I’ve run it up a bit, the buyer didn’t get a bargain.”

I’ve spent the last hour getting things ready for a meeting tomorrow morning, though I haven’t finished yet because I needed – NEEDED, I tell’ee – to stop for coffee and whisky. There was only a half-inch left in the bottle. I poured out half of that and would like the rest, but I’ve had enough this evening and should demonstrate self-restraint. For the same reason, I am ignoring the bar of excellent chocolate which is shimmying provocatively within easy reach of my right hand.

You might think I’m being surprisingly improvident, letting the whisky bottle run almost dry, but I did buy a new one last week. However, last night, Ro realised he hadn’t bought his brother a birthday present….Al was very pleased. “At last, someone who knows what present-buying is all about,” he said provocatively.

I feel better. Candlelight, whisky, coffee and a rather lovely CD, which was given to me by a particularly delightful gentleman friend, of Sviatoslav Richter and Benjamin Britten playing Schubert piano duets, have soothed me and I shall finish my work, read a cheerful book and go to bed. Unless my rising spirits persuade me into a few more hours of frivolity of course, which is never impossible.

It’s a full moon, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why I feel mercurial. Oh, no that must have something to do with Mercury. Why I feel lunatic? Hm.

It’s a warm and comfortable place to be, under my toe. I told the Sage he has worked hard enough today, poured him a drink, given him a kiss and a dish of cheesy biscuits and assured him that we’ll get the catalogue ready to be printed by lunchtime tomorrow.

I’ve got to type up three pages of catalogue tonight and the rest in the morning, when he will be sufficiently rested to describe the china.

Is a couple of glasses of wine the best preparation for accurate typing? Of course it is. I might even add a few cheery asides (no I won’t, professionalism will come to the fore, as you might expect, knowing, for you know me very well, that I only pretend to be fluffy).

I can hear you (or is it just the Voices??) asking what the Sage has done, to be so tired? He and Al have been working on Squiffany’s climbing frame. Today, they put in the steps. They had already done the first floor, so Squiffany was invited to climb them. I didn’t see it, I was working in the greenhouse, but she was thrilled and excited. Lucky little girl that she is, to have her daddy and grandad take so much time and trouble for her. I think she will appreciate it more, seeing it go up bit by bit.

Anyway, I’m roasting a freerange chicken with potatoes, parsnips, sausages and cauliflower. All of them local. I’m a lucky girl too. Hah!

Oh, by the way, does a double-yolked egg, if left to hatch, produce two chicks or one confused one? I’ve never heard of twin chicks and Ro thinks that the production method of eggs doesn’t allow for two embryos to be implanted, even if there are two yolks. I ask because we had one this morning, the first I remember from any of our bantams, from one of the black pedigree girlies. It was a huge egg. The Sage says that she doesn’t lay all that often. If I were her, I’d resolve never to lay again. She’s just two years old, which is a few months older than commercial freerange egg producers keep them to.

Anyway, I’m off to flirt with the Sage. He deserves it.

I don’t know if this is the sort of thing that of course everyone knows already and I’m just easily impressed, but this entertained me mightily.