It’s always a good idea, on the hottest day of the year, to spend a couple of hours in an Aga-warmed kitchen, jointing, boning and marinading a chicken, ready for the barbecue. Why can’t I just go and buy steak or sausages like most people*?

With luck, however, I will not be called upon to cook.

And I’ll have a splendid bowl of chicken stock. And bits for Tilly, who will be happier today than she was yesterday.

Yesterday, she decided to roll in a fresh cowpat and was bathed by the Sage in water from the hose. I use tepid water from the tap. He also used liquid soap rather than shampoo. I didn’t say anything, I was appreciative that he hadn’t left the job for me to do.

Today, Tilly has been eating cowpat instead. Her breath is a bit stinky.

I finished the book I’d been reading and mused on the possible explanation for why, at present, I’m finding so many novels difficult to get through. I’ve always read voraciously, until the past year or so. I concluded, tentatively, that many books just aren’t good enough. They may be well written, but with clunking plot-holes, or they may not be written well enough, but they rarely grip me any more. For the same reason, I watch very little television fiction now.

This particular book, for instance, was by Tracy Chevalier. It was written as if in the voices of each of the main characters, and she dealt with that tricky matter rather well. It was engaging and, having read most of it in bed, I brought the book downstairs to finish this morning, which was a good sign. However, like just about every work of fiction set in the past that’s written nowadays, the spirit of place and time missed the mark and this irritates me considerably. The writer had researched, in some depth, the conventions of burial and mourning in Edwardian England (she described the niceties of mourning dress in slightly boring detail) but she missed the mark with the upbringing of middle-class children, and there were several incidents that jarred.

Similarly, I have never forgiven Ian McEwan for making Briony understand the explicit sexual language of the letter (which would never have been written, nor could the mistake have been made over its delivery) which was the pivot of the plot of Atonement. Everything about the vital parts of that story simply could not have happened and so it made nonsense of the whole convoluted story, however well it was written.

I’ve just (no honestly, I’m having it now) had a revelation. That bloody book did it. It’s been ever since I read Atonement that I haven’t enjoyed reading fiction. Unless it’s preposterous fiction, that is. I can suspend disbelief like an acrobat, but I can’t deal with being tricked.

*I don’t care for supermarket meat is why**

**Please correct to ‘is the reason’ if your grammar-loving sensibilities are wounded

Several things come to mind, to be written – including a meme that I have volunteered for over at Ally’s. But a meme will take a day or two to do and there are things that can wait, so I’ll write about the day.

“OH HOW UNUSUAL” you chorus. Pfft. Just like any other fucker, as you should know by now.

Squiffany was invited to a birthday party this afternoon, so I looked after Pugsley. It was a very easy afternoon. He was asleep when I arrived at 1.30 and he didn’t wake until nearly 4. My kind of babysitting. I read the paper – I appreciated this article, which I think illustrates something that many parents understandably lose sight of, in their too-busy lives. When I first started to look after Squiffany it was something I had to relearn.

I mused about what a damn good parent my daughter-in-law is. I can say it with no boasting, for there is no credit to me. Al is a fine parent too, in fact, and I always knew he would be. He is eight years older than his brother, and, for both him and our daughter, it was love at first sight for their baby. I may have said this before, but it’s worth repeating – once, talking about sibling relationships, I asked Ro (the youngest) if he remembered quarreling with the older two. He did not, ever. This says a lot about all of them. Ro is, off them all, probably the least volatile in fact. If he did get cross, as a little boy, he’d storm off saying “I’ll be lonely then!”. He’d disappear to his room for a while, then come back and apologise. Once, I had a letter saying ‘sorry I was such a scuzz’. The other day, in fact, we had rare ‘words’ and, afterwards, he came and said he was sorry, it hadn’t been my fault he was (rightly, we agreed) upset and he shouldn’t have taken it out on me. I agreed that he shouldn’t – and saw him overcome the impulse to argue that – but that I understood. He’s a bit more sorted than any of us, and sometimes finds our chaotic household a bit hard to cope with, but it’s good for him really.

Anyway, why did you let me digress? A hard stare would have brought me back to the subject.

At half past four or so, Ro came to the window with a message from Dilly, that she would be late and please could I give Pugsley a cheese sandwich for his tea? I invited him in, and a minute later he came in the room. Pugsley greeted him, then looked at the window, where he had last seen him, then back again. I gave him a pink teething ring. “Red” he remarked. I do not know if that was just a good sound or he recognised, more or less, the colour.

He tucked in to his cheese sandwich happily, later. Dilly says that, at present, he can’t quite manage a spoon but doesn’t want to be fed, so finger foods are a sensible option. He had had lots of vegetables and fruit at lunchtime, so I gave him fromage frais to finish – he had that happily from a spoon (if you ever wonder about the inbuilt sweet tooth that babies have, taste human breast milk and you will wonder no longer. Of course, for this, you either have to be lactating or on rather good terms with someone who is).

Eventually, we ran out of things to do. His latest interest is putting things in things. It reminds me of Eeyore, the honey pot and the balloon (I’m sort of assuming you all get the reference, tell me if not). I suggested we go and look out for Mummy and Squiffany returning. He held out his arms to be picked up (I picked him all up, not merely disconnected arms) and we went outside. As we reached the garden gate, Dilly drove up in her car…

We went back in the house and talked about our afternoons. I got up to leave. I bent to kiss Pugsley. “Say ‘bye bye’ to Granny” prompted Dilly. “Bye” said Pugsley. A first! “Bye bye” I replied. “Bye” he repeated. I kissed Squiffany good bye. “Bye” they both said.

Al just came in to speak to his father and added, to me, “We’re just about to have dinner, but we haven’t any wine…” I had half a bottle in the fridge “or you could have a bottle of red.” “This’ll be fine, thanks – but what about you?” “That’s all right, I’ve already had the first half, that’s enough for tonight.” He grinned. “Maybe I’d better remove this from temptation all the same.”

Children. No respect.

Kenny calls round on a Friday morning, to say hello (especially to the children) and to pick up his pension. He worked for us for 22 years, from retirement until, at 87, he couldn’t manage it any longer. He is, in many ways, as well as he ever was, but he is in constant pain from his back and he can’t walk very well.

A few years ago, he started to use a mobility scooter. He let me ride it and I happily set off down the road. The (then) Rector drove past and I waved … the look of dismay on his face was wonderful and I arrived home to find an email asking what was wrong with me, that I needed an invalid chair.

Recently, Kenny bought a new nim cart, as they are called in our family (because they do not go vroom vroom, they go nim nim. Yes, all right). He let me drive it, which was most exciting. I went zooming down to the church and back, practising u-turns, wheelies and hand signals (yes, there are indicators, but using fingers is much more fun).

On my way back, Billy passed me in his own nim cart. He looked at me strangely. He probably thought I was travelling under false pretences.

The Sage and I went to the first (to us) of this year’s Snape Prom concerts. Delightful it was. Not highbrow or heavy, but thoroughly enjoyable. Two Mozart Divertimenti and piano concerti by Haydn and Beethoven.

In the interval, we bumped into our friend Abe. He was on his way home from London to Southwold and had stopped off, economically of distance, to go to the concert. He is the image of President Lincoln except for a slightly less craggy visage and grey hair and beard.

The two Divertimenti were for strings only and the orchestra stood. One of the violinists wore, beneath her long black dress, the most fabulous black patent leather stilettos. I was vastly envious – though they would not have suited me. One would need long, slender feet, and mine are short and average, like the rest of me. Audacious to wear 3 or 4 inch heels while playing the violin, standing, on a public stage, and nicely understated to wear a long dress so that few people would notice.

I had a cup of coffee during the interval. I think it had been brewing a long time – it was strong and very bitter. I like strong black coffee, that feels as if the saliva is being sucked from your mouth, but this was too bitter even for me. I had to add both milk and sugar.

The Maltings is such a lovely setting. I wanted to take pictures to show you, but there were so many people about that I didn’t care to be stared at, for once. Another time, I’ll think of it before the concert.

During the interval (yes, it was a busy fifteen minutes, I get about when I have a mind to) I moved the car for a quick getaway. I find it mildly annoying that they keep the places nearest the entrance for those who come latest and send us who come for supper to the furthest reaches of the field. So I shift the car and make a quick getaway.

Welcome to Samyuktha and Freya, who were both born last month and to Ab’s grandson, as yet unnamed, who was born in Norwich this morning.

Call me a sentimental old bat, but the joy of welcoming a baby never diminishes. Two more dear friends are expecting first babies next month – you are always in my thoughts, darlings.

An exceptionally wet July, wasn’t it? Record-breakingly so. June hadn’t been much better.

Yesterday, the Sage and I were putting in the last of the leek plants. He dibbled the holes, we poured in water, I had the plants ready. After a few minutes, we gave up. The soil was so dry that the hole would not stay open long enough to wet it. I had to put the sprinkler on for an hour or two before the job could be finished.

It’s a wonder anything grows here at all.

I have the feeling that it’s time I revamped my canapés. I’ve been doing the same thing for a few years now and (apart from the fact that sausages and smoked salmon sandwiches will never go out of favour with the wary nibbler) I need new ideas. So I asked El – who attends, and often organises, the sort of Do where these fripperies are served.

I like making canapés. I like eating them too, as long as they are delicious and not all stodge. I know many excellent cooks who find them a fiddly waste of time, but I can lose a happy few hours fiddling and enjoy making them look pretty and taste good.

El has kindly sent me some menus (no recipes of course, but it’s the ideas I want) from various venues that do Dos. Many of the hot nibbles are a bit messy, though.

Spoons!

So I have bought lots of these

So now all we need is a party.

It just so happens that four of us have birthdays in September…

(the camera and the computer seem to have reconciled their differences and are on speaking terms again)