I went in for the papers after church and arrived home just before 9.30. The Sage was on the phone being sympathetic to someone (a friend of a friend; we’ve met her sister but not her) who has come over from California to visit her mother who is very ill. I was on the way to the kitchen to put the kettle on when the other phone rang. It was Andy, who was due to play the organ at today’s 11 o’clock service. “I’ve just been called out,” he said dolefully. “I’ll play, no problem,” I said. He’s an undertaker – well, someone has to be and he’s a very helpful one, but he’s often on call at weekends. My mother died in the early hours of a Sunday morning too, and the undertakers arrived by 10am, only a couple of hours after I rang them.

So I’ll be off again as soon as I’ve had breakfast, to run through the hymns before everyone else arrives.

The good news is that the sun is out. It broke through the clouds shortly before 9.10, as I was on my way to fetch the newspaper.

I fell asleep on the sofa, while watching Have I got news for you – only for ten minutes, but I’m still sleepy. I should go to bed, but I’m a bit reluctant as I’m not good at the early night. It’s such a pleasure to be asleep before 11, but then I might be awake by 3 and not able to nod off again.

Anyway, another day ticked off and I’ve the whole of tomorrow afternoon free. If the weather is a damn sight better than today’s, I’ll take the newspapers out on the lawn to pretend to read them, and actually sleep all afternoon.

I apologise for not putting up the books I read last month in May’s Book Binge. I took some of them back to the library, having carefully written down their titles and authors, and have mislaid (no, not lost, I just don’t know where it is) the card they’re written on. I’ll look tomorrow, in between coming home from church and flopping on grass or sofa to sleep. I’m wondering how memorable were those library books, if I can’t remember even what three of them were.

Right, I’m off to bed. I’m an exciting Saturday night companion, don’t you think?

I’ve given up a bit on keeping the plates spinning – I’ve just balanced them very carefully and am hoping they stay there until after the weekend. All this week’s jobs have been done, I’m reasonably sorted for tomorrow’s wedding and after that (bearing in mind I have to be in church at 7.30 on Sunday morning) I’ll start thinking about next week. I’m slightly tetchy this evening, so will keep out of the way in here for a bit so that I don’t say anything I’ll have to apologise for.

Damn. I’ve got to send an emergency email to the PCC. hang on, I’ll be back.

Right, done that. It’s about next Tuesday – didn’t think I should leave it until Sunday.

I read in the paper yesterday that a friend’s father has died, and another friend’s mother’s funeral notice was in the paper today. He had been extremely ill and had outlasted his strength several weeks ago; but his daughter looked after him to the end. She (the mother) was only 70 and I didn’t know she’d been ill. I’m very sad for both families – and sorry that it means two more funerals to go to.

I’ve just had one reply to emergency email, which offered help. How lovely people are.

I had to see a friend just outside Norwich this afternoon, so took a back road or two to cut out the ring road. Unfortunately, I came upon a whole twinkling of police and various emergency cars, had to turn back and make a five mile detour. When I returned an hour or two later, there was a great deal of sand strewn all over the road, so it must have been a collision in the rain. One never sees the accidents one has come upon reported in the press; it’s always other and often minor ones, so I suppose I’ll never know what happened; but then it’s none of my business anyway.

Remembered to reply to another email. I’m not so good at switching off. And another. Damn. Or good, less to do later.

Sorry, you’re getting an insight into my mind. This is what it’s really like being me. When I apologise to my family for the horror of it all, I remind them that they’re lucky really. They just have to live with me. I have to live with BEING me.

I’ll listen to the Old 97’s until I feel relaxed and gentle.

I’m still well, I only have to last another 30 hours and it won’t matter nearly so much, except that next Friday is vital, and this a 9 day bug. Hm. Whisky. I’ll broach the Laphroaig, as no germs can live through that.

PS – I just bobbed back to the Kitchen Witches, to cheer myself by reading their happy news again – they’ve had their first baby, a lovely little girl – and I read all 39 messages of congratulation, and I feel very cheerful and a bit emotional. Things are still good, when so many people care and lovely things still happen. Best wishes to all three of you Kitchen Witches.

Mood transformed, I’ll drink my whisky and go and kiss my husband. Have a good weekend, darling friends.

Steady rain today, which is getting heavier. I stayed in bed late, to be woken up by the Sage calling cheerily up the stairs that he was just off to fetch the asparagus. He received a reproachful answer (and apologised later, when he arrived home) and I dozed off again. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Dilly, wanting me to let Kenny (ex-gardener, who will be 88 this month) not to call round today, which he often does on a Friday to see the children, in case he catches the Bug. She also wondered if we had any Weetabix, as Pugsley was asking for it.

I dressed hastily and went through with the Weetabix. Pugsley was sitting crying in his high chair. I held up the packet. He stopped and, as soon as it was in his bowl, dived his spoon in, even before milk was added. He ate two, but before he had finished Squiffany was through, asking to watch the scary film. I looked quizzical. “Ghostbusters” admitted Dilly. “I didn’t feel up to doing a thing with them yesterday and they’ve seen all the children’s films we have, and you can only take so much CBeebies.” “Scary film, scary film!” chanted Pugsley excitedly. Evidently, the love affair with Labyrinth is over for the time being. I wonder how they’d take to Some Like It Hot?

I spent today in Ely. If you don’t know it, it’s not far from Cambridge, in the fens; that is, marshland; although a good deal of drainage has taken place, Ely is still, technically, an inland island. It’s famous for its cathedral, which is impressive without and lovely within, and also contains a museum of stained glass which is brilliant. We had a guided visit and it was so interesting. The cathedral tour was ably led by a lady in her 60s, I suppose, who was quite portly but had slender and shapely ankles and calves (look, these things matter) and the museum tour was taken by a young academic called Rosie, who was very knowledgeable and answered all our questions.

I arrived home at 10 to 7, just in time to belt down to the church to join in the preparations for the wedding on Saturday. They are so happy and in love, does my old heart good to see them. They’ve invited me to the wedding reception – I hope my posh frock fits; it might be a bit big, I’m looking forward so much to the wedding that I’m forgetting to be terrified, which is not wise. I’ll practice assiduously all tomorrow morning and be note perfect. We’ve established the length of the voluntary that will greet the bride – it needed to last about 30 seconds, but not sound as if it was cut short. I’ve abbreviated and then cut out a chunk and gone to the coda…if I knew how to record on to the computer without larking about on YouTube, I’d give you a tinkle, but I don’t.

Anyhoo, the family are, apparently, much better, but have cancelled this weekend’s trip to London, for fear of passing on germs to Weeza – she can do without a stomach bug at 7 months pregnant. I am keeping up my alcohol consumption, which I (and the Boy) reckon to be the best protection against bugs. Not having eaten much for a few days, my system has ground to an entire halt, which is not to suggest that the squits would be in any way welcome.

Dilly isn’t quite better after all, so I took Squiffany to her nursery school today. She looked very sweet in her little red and white gingham dress, clutching her blue book bag. It took me a few minutes to persuade her car seat into my car, as I haven’t shifted it for a while, but we arrived on the dot of 9. Several other little children were trotting towards the gate with their mothers or daddies or, in one other case granny, and it made me, unreconstructed 60s hippy chick that I have never realised I must be, a little sad.

Some years ago, there was a move away from uniforms. Most primary schools, apart from the private ones, gave them up altogether and so did some high schools; or at least there was a colour scheme rather than an actual uniform, but the mood has shifted over the last ten or fifteen years and now most schools have uniform. But these are 3-year-olds and the reasons for a uniform – that it promotes a sense of unity and pride in the school, tidiness, minimises competition for the newest and smartest clothes, makes the pupils more identifiable, etc, don’t really apply here. What it did for me, as I watched these little identically-dressed tots trot in through the gate, was to indicate that they were part of the system, losing their individuality, expected to conform; and I think they are simply too young to have to learn that dreary lesson. At least, for painting, they still use an old shirt of their dad’s, round the wrong way with the sleeves shortened. Won’t be long before the parents are expected to fork out for a regulation artist’s smock, I daresay.

Since then, by the way, she has developed similar symptoms to her mother, brother and her (now recovered) grandpa. Ro, Al and I are looking at each other in some trepidation. It would be most inconvenient for me to be ill any time before the 23rd, when I have a few fairly free days. Any time is very awkward for Al, especially if I’m not free or able to take over the shop, and any stomach problem gives Ro terrible migraines.

A few more things ticked off the list and I’m winding down nicely. Today’s meeting and lunch were fine – I decided at the last minute; that is, about 5 o’clock yesterday evening, that hot food would be much simpler than cold and so it was. The Sage was on fine form at lunchtime, which was lovely as he wasn’t well for a week – one of those bugs which goes around making a nuisance of itself; Pugsley and Dilly have had a milder version of it over the last couple of days, although they’re better now too.

After everyone had left, at about 3.30, I said that I was going to see how Dilly was and opened the door. A strong whiff met me – Tilly, emboldened by the fuss everyone had made of her, had been and rolled in a cow pat. She was miffed when I wouldn’t let her in. I did after a while, to feed her, but then shut her in the porch while I went to play with the children. Later, I had to go to another meeting (and found myself taking the minutes, boo) so cycled cheerily past the Sage and Ro, who were just directing Tilly towards a bucket of water and some shampoo, and I apologised insincerely but truthfully for not having time to help. Now, she is lying beside me on the sofa with a sweet-smelling and glossy coat. She’s probably mortified.

Ro’s car needed some work done on it before it passed its MOT – since it stood him in at some £450 two years ago and he spent about £100 on it last year and £150 this, he feels he has been doing rather well at cheap motoring. He wishes he could bear to go to work by bus, but it just takes so long – the last few days has reminded him how dull it is to spend an extra hour and a half on his daily journey and how short the evening is after he gets home. He came home early this afternoon so that he and the Sage could fetch the car. I spent £40 in the local Co-op yesterday (wine, mostly) to get him a 4p-per-litre-off voucher – I suppose they put it on to take it off, but with diesel at £1.30; that is, £5.50 per gallon, he doesn’t want to drive any distance for cheaper fuel.

D’you know, I think I’ll have an early night. Goodnight, darlings.

The chap from the Barn Owl Trust has called to check our owl box and see if it’s inhabited. There are owls around, but I don’t know if that’s where they live.

I went, a few months back, to an information day about church maintenance – I learned a lot about gutters and drainage – the general principle is that if you keep your gutters and drainpipes in good nick, that’s most of the repairs saved, except major structural ones, and many of them are caused by water in the wrong place anyway. Most of the questions were about bats in churches. Their droppings are very acidic and can damage, for example, marble monuments and wooden furniture, and pews have to be kept covered apart from service times, too or else people will sit on batshit and be displeased.

A local church (not in our village) has a big problem with bats – they are protected, of course, so nothing can be done to risk injuring them. Apparently, it started when the big house (the Old Rectory, in fact) next to the church caught fire. The bats had lived in the attics and, displaced, they moved into the church. They hadn’t lived at the Old Rectory that long, in fact. A barn in the next field had been converted into a house. It seems that this left the bats homeless, until they found a new place to live…

There are a lot of bats about here, and I like them very much. Occasionally, one will get into the house. Of course, they can avoid you and there’s no risk of being divebombed, but they are very small and impossible to catch and creep into the tiniest of cracks behind furniture, so it’s hard to get it out again.

Anyway, about the bats in churches. One person said they had found the answer. They left the lights on overnight for a few weeks. This didn’t harm the bats, but they didn’t like it much, so they moved out. Once they had found somewhere else to live, the lights could be left off again.

Report back on the owls. A startled tawny owl flew out, but it was just sleeping there rather than nesting. There are pellets around, so it’s evidently a regular roost. They were quite encouraged by this, as it’s the first owl they have come across today after a morning of box-visiting.

I met a woman a couple of months ago – she was charming and friendly but quite the biggest fact-dropper I’ve ever met. In a few minutes, and quite irrelevantly to our conversation, she had let me know the origin of her surname (far posher and more ancient than it sounded), that she was not only a Doctor but a retired hospital consultant and that she found it ‘psychologically interesting’ when people she knew came across her serving coffee (in her capacity as a volunteer) as they were so startled to see her out of her social milieu and working in a servile capacity.

I met her again a few days ago and this time she showed me her late husband’s medals (she just happened to have them on her) and told me that he had spoken six languages, dropped into the conversation that her car had a 3.2 litre engine and referred to another friend as Dr *John Smith* … PHD she added.

The harder she tried, the more I became fond of her, in fact, because she seemed really quite needy, though she would be horrified to know that. The first time, I’d been amused – and marked down that she may have been a consultant, but she was not a surgeon or she would have dropped the title “Dr” – surgeons are rather too grand to need such a handle to their name. This time, I wondered why. She is attractive, well-spoken, obviously a ‘lady’ but maybe, now that she doesn’t live in London and doesn’t have the status of her job, feels she has something to prove?

Friendly and charming as she was, she showed no sign of recognising me, however. Now, whoever would forget me?