I bought fish from the market and chatted to Matt, the fishmonger for a few minutes. I said I’d forgotten it was Thursday, so was glad I’d happened to come into town in time to see him – he usually starts to pack up about midday. I went and fetched fruit and veg from Al and then, as I packed it all in the panniers, he called again “Was it you who asked me for bloaters* a while ago?” No, it wasn’t, but I’d have some if he’d got them, I replied. I love bloaters, they remind me of my Lowestoft childhood – although bloaters are most associated with Great Yarmouth.

He took a pair and started to wrap them. I reached for my wallet. “No, that’s all right, have them on me.” He was adamant and I could only thank him.

Next, I cycled up to the bike shop as my bicycle needed some adjustments. The back mudguard was catching the wheel slightly, as I had one heavy item to take home the other day and a weight in one pannier only must have shifted things a bit. The back wheel needed a tweak too. Matt in the cycle shop opened the door to me. I’d expected to leave the bike while I went to my meeting, but he said he’d see to it straight away. Ten minutes, and he was done, having also oiled the chain and pumped up the front tyre. He put the panniers back on. “Blimey, they’re heavy.” I explained that that was a normal day’s food shopping – we eat a lot of vegetables…” I took out my wallet – “No, that’s all right, no trouble” he said. “Are you sure,” I asked, feeling embarrassed, “it took you some while.” He wouldn’t take anything and, again, all I could do was say thank you.

I trust their generosity doesn’t send them out of business, I’d feel awfully guilty.

*I suspect few of you young people have ever tasted a bloater. They are smoked herrings but, whilst kippers are split and gutted and smoked, bloaters are smoked whole, and the guts give them a more gamey flavour. I’m sure my mother used to cook them whole too, but I take the innards out before I cook them. They are very bony, but delicious. Buckling are also smoked herring, but they have received a hot smoke, so can be eaten without further cooking.

The Sage has just left to catch the 9.17 Diss to London train. It’s blowing a gale and I’ve asked him to phone once he arrives at the station. I don’t think I’ll stop worrying until he arrives home this evening.

I’m staying put right here. He’s gone in my car and I can’t bike in this. I have no excuse at all not to catch up with all my work.

I went to bed early last night, before 11 pm. You know the saying that each hour’s sleep before midnight is worth two after? Well, it needs to be. Whenever I’m foolish enough to have an early night, I’m awake for ages in the small hours. Glad we moved the bed though – a howling wind from nearly 20 feet away is quite different from one right behind your head.

It’s odder than I thought it would be, being on the ‘wrong’ side of the room. I am, of course, on the same side of the bed, but it doesn’t feel like it.

I’ll go and make breakfast now and read the papers. No need for an early start, is there?

The other thing that marked yesterday was a change in position for me, both literally and in my mind. Not that the Sage has any idea of the significance of this, because it’s not as if it *matters* – but there’s some symbolism in there somewhere.

You see, for the past 33 years, I’ve always slept on the side of the bed nearest the door. I can’t remember which side I slept before, because it didn’t matter, but from the time that we had a child sleeping in another room, I’ve always been near enough to get out quickly in case of an emergency. It wasn’t always me who got up, by the way; the Sage took his turn when illness struck (a child wails and the first to wake rushes off to help) but ….. well, I suppose I saw the night watch as my responsibility.

I like moving the furniture around periodically. At one time, I used to do it frequently, and when the Sage worked full-time he never quite knew what he’d come back to. I’d edge a huge piece of furniture onto a bit of carpet to give me some purchase and heave it across the room, or into another room come to that; preferring to do it by myself so that I could try it out and see if it worked and if not, put it back so that I wouldn’t be a nuisance by bothering someone else with my whims. So the bed wasn’t always on the same wall, and the same side wasn’t always to the door. But, right or left, that was ‘my’ side, even when the children were grown up and gone.

This time, on moving the bed, I casually asked “which side?” and the Sage chose left, which is where he’d been already, and so now he sleeps by the door. And I’ve let go.

No big deal, really. Just thought I’d mention it.

What I wrote yesterday, with your thoughtful comments, reminded me of something I’ve been meaning to mention; though it isn’t directly linked, merely a nudge to my mind.

I want to be quite careful not to imply more than I mean to say…you see, although I don’t at all need looking after, and I wasn’t thinking or talking about me in that post, there are things I’ve recently been finding it awkward to do. I can’t carry heavy things in front of me, for example. And it’s brought out a very protective and caring side in the Sage.

I’ve mentioned before that he’s quite a few years older than me, though bouncing with rude health as ever; but I’ve started to look after him a bit more over the last couple of years – I don’t let him up ladders too often but climb them myself, things like that. But now he’s started to look after me. He wouldn’t let me carry the hoover upstairs this morning, for example – or down again (he let me use it, however) and when there were drawers to remove and put back from a chest of, he insisted on doing them all himself. We were moving furniture at the time.

He isn’t overprotective and doesn’t fuss – I’d hate it and it isn’t his way – but I can see that it is quite bringing out the manly caring side, and it’s awfully sweet. You see why I don’t want to overstate this: in no sense am I suggesting that he ‘likes’ having me a bit less capacitated than I used to be, only that he’s remembered how he likes to look after me, when we’d got a bit more used to me looking after him.

Anyway, the furniture moving. Our bedroom is a bit of a nuisance. On one wall, there is the door to the attic, the door to the cupboard staircase (Tudor house, used to have 8 or 9 of them), the fireplace (boarded over – removable board because birds fall down the chimney sometimes) and what was a large cupboard, now a shower cubicle which, between them, take up the whole wall. The two walls at right angles to that have a window in each, one has a large built-in wardrobe and the other has the door opening onto it; both have the uprights holding the central beam halfway along. The fourth wall has the door to the landing. We move our bed periodically from the first (in front of the fireplace) to the fourth wall, which are the only two options. Trouble is, when there’s a gale, the wind whistles down the chimney and shrieks into our ears behind us and keeps us awake. So I decided today was the day to move it from Wall 1 to Wall 4, as the present high wind is likely to continue for a couple more nights. The bed itself is sizable – not unlike this one, if 5″ means kingsize, but ours doesn’t have drawers, or a headboard come to that (it’s the same make and model, but a couple of decades on) but the most awkward thing to move is a very heavy washed Chinese rug, 12’x9′, which takes up a fair bit of the room between the bed and the opposite wall. We have to move the furniture, roll up the carpet, move the bed, pull the carpet across to the other side of the room, move more furniture, unroll the carpet – hoovering all the bits that are usually hidden, turning the mattress and all the other useful things one does at these times. I was going to hold a competition and ask you how many books were on my bedside table (it’s a Victorian commode, actually, but not used as such) but I’m too embarrassed, so I’ll just say that I’m in the process of reading seven of them.

Anyway, the whole job took two hours because I took the opportunity to sort through clothes as well. I’d intended to do ironing this afternoon, but I sort of couldn’t be bothered (I’m minding my language, because Dave is a good influence) so I’ve been listening to music and catching up on blogs. I could have cleaned more of the house, but, well, was that ever likely?

I cycled past a friend, who was walking her dog, and we waved to each other. Several years ago, her husband, who was then in his mid-sixties, had a severe stroke and she looked after him for several years before he had to be admitted into permanent residential care. She still visits him frequently, but has had to rebuild her life.

It can’t be easy, can it? He wasn’t an easy person even before he was ill, but afterwards it was hard for an independent and proud man to accept constant help and support, even from his nearest and dearest. When he first came home from hospital, she was offered help by social services, but she was so pleased to have him home and was optimistic, and turned it down. As life became more of a grind, she wished she hadn’t – it can be more difficult to get help when there isn’t an apparent increased need. He’d lost the use of one arm and was given physiotherapy and exercises to do, but he didn’t like them. She told me that, once, he succeeded in moving his arm, but said it had hurt and he wouldn’t try again; but the best chance of regaining movement is in the first year and if it’s left too long a permanent disability remains. It’s hard to understand why he would rather bear that than go through temporary pain, but it can be easier to criticise than to comprehend.

Eventually, as I said, she couldn’t cope physically and he has settled down into nursing care. And I’ve always wondered how she felt as time went on – is relief tinged or even blighted by guilt? It shouldn’t be; she had done absolutely all she could and still cares for him as much as ever. But friends whose spouses or parents have died after a long illness have found the same thing: that having your life back isn’t as simple as it sounds. It can be difficult to learn to enjoy yourself again.

I found a message on the answerphone when I got home at about 4.30, giving me the hymns for tomorrow. Now, I’d only been out for an hour – that’s a bit late to give the organist the hymn numbers, but I’m easy-going and I don’t really mind. I’m interested to see, however, that I don’t know any of them. It was too late for me to feel willing to go down to the church and practise, and my piano is still away being repaired*

I looked at the music a little while ago and all except the last look quite playable at sight, so I’ll go with it. However, if I don’t know them, neither will most of the congregation. Should be fun, I’m quite happy.

I was chatting to the assistant whom Al has engaged for alternative Saturday afternoons – I hope he will offer him more hours before long, because he is a Good Lad. When I told him I’m a governor at his school he said, with a measure of enthusiasm, “Cool!” He has put his name down for the BTech in Construction at the … oh sorry, I fear the Power of Google, so I won’t say the name … it’s a purpose-built establishment, offering courses in Construction, Engineering, Motor Mechanics, Hairdressing and Catering; all 2-year courses which, successfully completed, equate to 2 GCSEs and it’s run by Lowestoft college for students from Yagnub and Selcceb. We talked about bricklaying, and I admitted an interest in several of the courses, having been shown round the centre. I can cook and I don’t want to hairdress, but the others interest me vastly. I’d love to have a go.

*actually, I suspect it still hasn’t been touched, but there is still 10 months to go before the Wrath of Z is engaged.

I realised that I needed to alter the timeclock so that the church heating would come on early on Sunday, for the monthly 8am service, so I cycled into Yagnub for the key to the church rooms (another story, won’t digress). I discovered that the heating was on, and was told that the Youth Group had something on in the church later.

At about half-past nine, I got twitchy. I had an uncharacteristically unlazy urge to go and check that the heating had been turned off again, so pedalled off to check. It was embarrassing that the Fellow and his lovely wife hadn’t left yet, and I had to own up that I was checking up on them. They laughed at me, which was entirely deserved, and the Fellow wondered if he should have told me about the event. Of course not, I reassured, and then remembered to mention that someone was coming in to check the sound system the next day, so I’d removed the microphones from the safe and left them in the locked vestry (that was the reason for the Lending of the Keys). “Ah,” he said in a ‘that explains it’ voice. “You put them back” He had. He went to get them out again. Lovely wife noted that we are, as churchwardens, two of a kind. I suggested that our control freakery is increasing to the extent that we may never let anyone take over from us.

I can’t remember why I mentioned to him that he is, for blogging purposes, known as the Fellow, but he looked slightly startled. Later, I emailed to explain that I don’t talk about him much, and quoted what I’d previously said (nothing personal and always complimentary).

In other news, Al’s brief slot on Radio Broadland* went well and was noticed, it seemed, because he has been asked to appear again next Monday, and has been promoted from 7.30am to the afternoon show. I trust the publicity will not go to his head.

*Link for Dave, who CBATG.

The hot news for tomorrow morning is that Al will be on Radio Broadland around 7.30, when he will take part in the quiz on Rob’n’Chrissie’s show, ‘Over, Under, Or.’ Apparently, they will ask how many plastic bags Al has saved in the six weeks he has been plastic bag free. He keeps a tally, it seems, and knows. So the question will be asked and his interview will give the answer. This splendid show, which I’ve not had the pleasure of listening to yet, because I’m a Radio 4 girl at heart, is available live on the internet, so you can all listen to him, darlings; assuming you have read this before 7.30 am GMT on Friday.

Otherwise, I’ve been mightily annoyed by the vicissitudes of life, mainly technology, but it’s all sorted now and I have mellowed nicely. My iPod, which seemed for a while to be terminally buggered, is working again and I have finally persuaded the camera and the computer to live together in harmony. A large pine tree, which we were rather worried might fall on the house, has been felled and had a large crack vertically through the trunk, so we’re mighty pleased that we learned from the near-disaster of one barely missing Al & family’s house last winter and cut this down in time.

Dilly is taking on the chin the news that she has carpel tunnel syndrome in her right arm, although it wasn’t actually what she was being tested for – a sort of bonus, really, you might say.

I have done no work today. Nothing. And then I needed to find something, so went through the pile on my desk – I found it, but now have lost everything else. The chronological integrity of the pile has been disturbed and all sense of structure has gone. This means that I’ll have to tidy it all properly tomorrow.

The good news is that I’ve finally got around to putting photos onto the computer that have been hanging around since October, so I’ll finally see my Loire holiday pictures.

I went off to the Year 9 Options evening at the high school, which helps to inform the choices of the unfortunate children who have to decide what GCSEs they wish to take. They have to take certain subjects but can choose the rest, within limits; that is, not all combinations of subjects are available because there are 1000 pupils in the school and timetabling is complicated, but every effort is made to be helpful.

I can’t say anything about Ofsted, because I’m not allowed to, sorry. I did make the Head sit down and eat a sandwich though, which was probably the first thing he’d eaten all day. I didn’t watch him eat it, though I threatened to, but I hung round near his office for a good five minutes afterwards and he didn’t come out, so I’m reasonably sure he had something to eat. I know what it’s like, he’d gone way past hungry, but I explained that I expect him to be back at work within 12 hours and that he should be fit for it. I normally would go down the motherly route, but he’s hardly younger than I am, it isn’t appropriate; nor is flirtatious (unprofessional), so I was simply bossy. I mean assertive.

The children, whom I babysat most of the day, were adorable as ever, although Squiffany was annoyed when I wouldn’t let her watch a DVD at 10 am. She is good at self-control and wasn’t rude or tearful, but stomped off to her bedroom where I heard her muttering to herself crossly. I went through after a few minutes suggesting a walk to the playground with Tilly, and she was pleased with that…later, I suggested that there was a half-hour free for the DVD, so I put myself right back in favour. After our walk, with swing, slide and seesaw, we came home for orange juice and biscuits and a bounce on the bed – I need show little imagination in our recreation. “Biscuit, biscuit” said Pugsley, until he saw the orange in my hand … “Juice, juice, juice!” he corrected himself enthusiastically.

He’s not bad on self-control, either. His mother popped out to move the car seats from her car to mine, and he thought she had gone away without saying goodbye. “Mummy will be back in a minute” I told him. “In a minute, in a minute, in a minute…” he muttered, over and over until he had convinced himself, so he was smiling when she came back and was able to wave her goodbye.

My meeting this morning took place on the further side of Norwich, so the host gave us lunch afterwards to restore us before our journeys home. Therefore, it was getting on for four o’clock by the time I rolled home, where I was greeted by the Sage saying “tea?” Fine man, the Sage. Tilly politely wagged her tail, also saying “tea?” but she was hoping for a meal.

I sat down to peer at emails, one of which asked if I’d be free tomorrow evening instead of a night in the wilds of April…it’ll get it out of the way, I suppose; it’s governor duty. My mind was still full of the business to be done as a follow-up to this morning – but the Sage was waving sheaves of paper. On one was the hand-written catalogue which needed to be typed up quam celerrime and on the other was a message from M, the chairman of governors, asking for some information from a meeting in November. M rang back. I was able to find the notes and email them to her, and we talked through the meetings, remembering more specific details as we went. There’s going to be an Ofsted inspection tomorrow, you see. Just a quickie; one day, with specific areas they are targeting. Fortunately, one of them, which is a new requirement (A Community Cohesion policy) just so headteachers and governors have plenty of work to do, we had not only talked about but put it on record as a target for the year, with success criteria and monitoring arrangements and everything. Hah.

I’ve typed the catalogue, but it’s still to be proofread – and then there will be the condition report and all the photos. Ro will update the website; I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

Babyminding tomorrow, as Dilly has a hospital appointment. I could get up early and catch up with the rest of the work, I suppose. Not very likely, however.