Before I put in my contact lens today, I could read the screen at either distance equally well. I’ve tried with one eye, the other eye and both. Isn’t that splendid? My brain simply adjusts patiently and makes the best of things. And, after experimentation with a lens in (which I wear in my right eye), I find that my left eye does the reading, but the right eye helps out with focus as I get further away and gradually takes over as necessary. I still can’t tell as it’s happening though, it’s all quite automatic.

I know that this would not work for me with glasses. Once, I took my glasses out of my bag to put them on to drive home after dinner with friends. As I put them on, my sight blurred and I thought I was getting a migraine. One of the lenses had dropped out into my bag – fortunately, I had a knife with a very small screwdriver and I was able to repair it, but I simply couldn’t see normally with one lens of my glasses.

My in-laws had an elderly live-in housekeeper – she’d originally come as a general help, and nursemaid to the year-old Sprout and she stayed on for the best part of 50 years before retiring on the death of Ma. She had lost the sight in one eye, by the time I knew her, from a cataract. In those days you had to wait until it was thick and opaque before it could be operated on. By the time Hilda reached that level of sight loss, she said that she had got used to it and chose not to have an operation. She had one lens of her glasses obscured and managed with one eye. However, years later, when she was about 70, I suppose, she suffered a detached retina and lost the sight in her good eye. She took it in her stride, had the cataract removed from the other eye and simply switched useful eyes. I have no idea how she managed to do that, but she never even mentioned any problems.

Yes, well, you don’t get three posts every day. Just lucky St Swithin’s day, I suppose. It hasn’t rained, by the way, which I think means nothing at all. It’s if it rains that it means 40 days of rain. Not that this happens, literally.

Um. Oh, I remember. I was leaning forward a bit on one elbow, reading blogs and I shut my left eye and the right was all blurred, though when I shut it and opened the left again, it was fine. Then I sat upright and put out my arm, so that I was reading the screen at the correct arm’s length distance, and the left eye was blurry and the right eye was clear. I slowly moved in, with both eyes open, and I couldn’t tell at which point the left eye took over the reading. Isn’t that interesting?

Oh. Well, I’m interested.

Anyway, I spread good cheer all round the village this afternoon. There were 7 prizes for the hanging basket and tub (of flowers/vegetables, not bath tubs) competitions and another 6 lucky draws (no not lucky drawers) for the voting slips. One of them was my grandchildren’s (I didn’t draw them, I got a Respected Local Personage to come round) but I thought they’d prefer a toy and some beads to the £15 voucher for the local haberdashery.

Afterwards, I biked round distributing prizes. I made a monumental cock-up at one point when I put a £20 voucher (aren’t local businesses kind?) for the lovely local place to eat through the door of the neighbour of the person it was intended for. I had to go to a friend’s house (I hadn’t taken my bag so had no pen or paper) to write explanatory notes for both. What a little plonker I am. When I got back to the houses, Donna was in, so I was able to explain and advise her to await the return of the prize from her neighbour.

Everyone was happy of course and a couple of prizes, it turned out, were going to relations of village people who live Elsewhere, so I was able to pass all of them on. I sent in a lovely spreadsheet with all the voting figures, added up and averaged (as some people had occasionally got missed off the voting by someone who hadn’t got round all the village), and the names of the winners, to the editor of the village magazine, and all I have to do now is give the entrance money to the treasurer.

Right. No more tonight. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

A few evenings ago I received a slightly unfortunately phrased email, which I didn’t reply to as I suspected that the writer didn’t quite mean to say what she said. The next day I had an apology. She didn’t mean to say that she thought I (and a few others) were trying to build an exclusive group etc, it’s others who think that.

Didn’t quite cut the mustard as apologies go, really. It raised more questions than it answered and now I’m wondering who on earth doesn’t think I’m perfect just as I am.

So I left it another day, as I was a bit tired and it was approaching midnight, and I wrote back the next morning and explained rather more fully the nature of this proposed group and that in fact the wish is not to keep people out but to get more in – those who don’t join in already because the more formal committee can put people off contributing. I assured her that no apology was needed, I hadn’t taken offence, da-di-da, you know – which is true; frankly I don’t care. I can be offended, but you have to put a degree of effort into it.

Anyway, then I got another long email of explanation, and oh Lord, it’s fine, really. I’m just glad it isn’t my bother.

Emailing is just too easy, you know. I said much the same thing when I was exchanging emails with that lady who got worked up because I decided not to join her Latin class – you will dash off an emailed note saying things you would not say if you had typed and printed or hand-written it. Emailing doesn’t feel like writing a letter, but it is – and to make matters worse, its recipient can snap back and exacerbate the whole thing. You can get a bit carried away with the cleverness of your prose, or your feelings of irritation or indignation can make you give a snappy answer, because emailing is an odd sort of communication, between writing and speaking. If you say something, your tone of voice or the reaction of the person you’re speaking to colours and can smooth the message you’re giving.

It’s not the first time I’ve had such an experience from that particular person, and if she does it to me she will have to others. She explains and tries to put things right afterwards, but her initial reaction is often inappropriately strong and I wish she could realise that and not press the send button until she’s thought about it a bit.

The telephone rang at ten past eight. I had only just got up so I left it to the Sage, who had been up for ages, to answer. When I came downstairs, he was on the phone again, to a neighbour.

You remember that I told you, the other day, about a young bullock that got out into the lane and then broke into our field with the cows? Its owner came and fetched it back, but this time a whole lot – 14 or something – broke out and ended up in the road, so someone rang the police and they rang us to ask who the cattle belong to. The Sage told them, but said that the farmer won’t be home at this time of day, so gave directions to the farm as well.

Then he rang Ermintrude, the neighbour, and they had an enjoyable grumble together.

The farmer is a very pleasant chap and everyone likes him personally, but this sort of thing happens regularly and he is very casual about it. A couple of years ago, his cows kept breaking down our fence to get in with our cows, which had more grass – they waded through the river, which was not fenced in as it’s where they drink, and across the footpath. The fence has needed regular repairs ever since. These very young bullocks are fenced in, but they’re like any gang of little boys and will get up to mischief and it needs a good fence to hold them. The farmer – shall we call him Bartleby? – won’t give out his mobile phone number and says “that’s for me to use, not you” so you can’t tell him quickly when there’s a problem.

Anyway, the Sage, being a sensible sort of fellow and not wanting the cattle to cause an accident, has been down to keep them safe in the lane until Bartleby arrived. They put them back in the field – but Bartleby hadn’t brought a hammer or staples to mend the fence. So it’s held together with baler twine for the time being.

A day at the high school, interviewing in the morning – we had a real difficulty in choosing between the top two candidates as they were so very, very good and our final deliberations took an extra half hour; not because we disagreed but because we all had the same level of difficulty and for the same reasons, so no one was trying to persuade the others. In the afternoon, I went to a music lesson and played the Djembe drums, which was jolly. I then had an end-of-year chat with the music teacher, which was useful and governor-appropriate, and ended in my offering to continue to go in weekly next year two, not because I feel obliged but because I enjoy it.

Nothing in the diary for tomorrow, which is just as well as I’ve things to catch up on.

There’s a bit of a quagmire on the field because there’s a leak in the water pipe where it connects to the house supply. It was only renewed last year – I’m not sure that it’s the new bit that’s leaking, but it’s in the same area. Nearby, there’s a tank which provides drinking water to cattle, with a ballcock so that it automatically fills up. The bogginess is all around that. Several weeks ago, a chappie from the water board came out, agreed it was their problem and it would go on the schedule for repair. After a reminder, they came, but by that time it was all so wet and muddy that they couldn’t be bothered to investigate properly and sent in a report that the problem was with the tank. Someone else came out today and fortunately the Sage happened to see him, and went out to lift the manhole cover and prove that it was their side of the supply. So he agreed that they have to do it. It’s not an awful leak, but there’s a real mess around there now and, even if it’s only 3 or 4 gallons an hour (let’s say, I’ve no real idea), that’s a lot over 6 weeks or more. Fortunately, the field being sandy soil on gravel, it will drain quite quickly once the pipe is mended.

The festival is finished, the church has been undecorated, except for the flowers and the treasurer is counting the takings (well, if I were she, I’d leave it until after dinner). I have the tub and hanging basket competition to count the votes for of (sort out the grammar yourselves, darlings, will you?) and then there will be the prize draw of the voting slips, because we have such generous sponsors that we can give a prize for everything.

Dinner is cooking – I wrapped a pork fillet (tenderloin, if that’s how you know it) in bacon and shoved it in the oven, scrubbed some spuds and put them on to boil, cut up an out-of-season (Lord knows what country it came from) butternut squash and rubbed it with olive oil and bunged that in the oven, rejected the idea of picking veggies out of the garden and got some sweetcorn out of the freezer instead (total convenience food tonight, you see). Then, and only then … 0:-) … I opened a chilled bottle of wine and poured myself a glassful.

Ooh, and I arrived home to find a verbal invitation to a wedding next month. I’d known it was happening ages ago and knew we were to be invited, and that sort of relaxed attitude is fine by me. It’s the sister of the girl whose wedding I went to in Madras three and a half years ago. This time, it won’t be in India – booo!!(!) – although 6 weeks notice might be pushing it for that I suppose, possibly, especially as I will have a very small new grandbaby by then – just as well, I’d be so sorely tempted, however hot it is out there in August. Anyway, I rang back, gave Auntie my address and we’ll have a written invitation next week.

Right. I expect dinner’s about cooked. You see how much I care? I write to you before I eat. Greater love hath no Z than this.

went fine. A mild and brief shower, just when the high school’s wind band was entertaining us, but they played on as their sheet music started to curl and it was over in a couple of minutes – the rain that is. From then onwards, it was a fine day.

I showed Norfolk village granny credentials by strolling along, burger in one hand, pint of beer in the other, pushing Pugsley in his pushchair with a couple of leftover fingers.

Dilly and Al went to the local theatre this evening and Ro was babysitting, so we took our dinner through to keep him company and then the Sage went to do whatever Sages do on a Saturday evening while Ro and I watched a film. We took the Mac with us, as it enjoys the company. Besides, Al and Dil have been having a major springclean and their television is temporarily in their bedroom and the Mac is much bigger than a laptop, almost as easy to transport (I exaggerate) and better for two people to watch films on. Hot Fuzz. Haven’t seen it before. Chortled happily.

When we came back, Ro carrying the computer (screen and comp are all-in-one), I with the keyboard, mouse, tray of dinner plates etc, newspaper and bits and pieces, we discovered that the Sage had gone out without telling us or leaving us a key. I went and asked for the spare key. Al had it on his keyring. Al was in the bathroom. Then he couldn’t find his keys. He searched, with no useful result. Dilly glanced and found the keys. “Not her fault” I explained. “It’s what women do and men don’t.”

Being small-minded and of a teasing frame of mind, I have left the key in the locked door, so that the Sage will have to knock when he gets home. I hope that’s soon actually, as I’m quite tired. Unusual for me to think about going to bed before midnight; I don’t like to miss the best bit of the day – well, one of them – but I was up early. And will be tomorrow.

Of course, when the village has a fete (no point in putting in the accent unless you’re using Safari as your browser, which probably none of you is) it doesn’t just have a fete. It has a Beer Festival. It’s no wonder that it goes down such a storm. From morning until night and on into the small hours (midnight at any rate), we Party On with the best of them.

Today, I played the organ for David’s funeral and then went back to the church in the afternoon to decorate it. I bought all Al’s flowers yesterday, cut swathes of greenery from the garden and did lots of flower arrangements. The church exhibition’s theme this year is ‘Childhood Memories’. I took a liquid theme as I grew up by Oulton Broad and wrote about (with a photo of mini-me) messing about in boats, my early fascination with newts and the winter of 1963, which was incredibly cold, with ice so thick on the Broad that cars could drive on it.

The Sage’s earliest memories were of the war. So that’s what his display is about.

I finally lurched home, limping on both feet, at about 6 o’clock, or possibly later. We’d planned to have a barbecue but the weather had turned showery, so Dilly cooked dinner for us all, which was lovely. She had come to help me in the church and the children were angelic, until Pugsley started to become uncharacteristically fretful at about 5ish, at which point it dawned on us that he’d missed his afternoon nap. He kept his patience, with an effort, until she was ready to take him home. He then went straight to bed and to sleep and missed his dinner. We wonder if he’ll wake up hungry in the middle of the night.

A registered envelope arrived this morning, addressed to me. The Sage signed for it, and was highly curious to know what it was. It’s Ro’s ticket to the Latitude festival – I’m so annoyed with myself that I didn’t buy a ticket for myself too, when I was getting his as a present, because I thought he’d hate to have to go with his old mother. Since, of course, they have sold out.

I also received four free light bulbs from British Gas.

I also had a dividend cheque for £19.55.

Dilly has been offered a part-time teaching job next year, and has accepted it.

Gordie wondered if it was quite ethical for an auctioneer to run the bidding up to the reserve, rather than let it finish at the point where there is only one bidder left.

Right – well, first of all, most items have a reserve; that is, a price below which the lot will not be sold. Put it this way – if you went to a car dealer, wanting to sell your car for £2,000 and he only offered you £500, you’d probably not sell, would you? Especially if you still owed £1,000 on it. You would have a figure in your mind for negotiation, but there would be a point at which you could not sell it unless you were completely desperate – and if you knew it was worth the money and he’d be selling it on at a profit, you’d keep bargaining for a realistic offer, or take it home again.

When you send a picture to an auction, you own it until the fall of the hammer and you are under no obligation to sell it for less than the sum that you and the auctioneer have agreed it’s worth. You will also agree with the auctioneer if there’s any flexibility on that. For example, let’s say there’s £100 reserve, but someone bids £95. If the auctioneer takes it to £100, another bid actually pushes it past the reserve, so he probably would let it go at £95.

For an auction to work, there needs to be at least two people bidding. But let’s say you are willing to pay £100, but no one else is bidding. It is acceptable for the auctioneer to point down and take bids ‘off the book’ until the reserve is reached – but not after. This is up to the ethics of the auctioneer – if he knows that there is someone in the room who might pay more than the reserve, he must not take advantage of that, but let the piece find its own level in the bidding. Nor may he use a commission bid (that is, someone who has left a maximum bid with him) to bump up the bidding past the reserve. The Sage is always cautious about leaving bids unless he trusts the auctioneer because not all of them are completely scrupulous about not using commission bids.

So far, you think that as a buyer you are being manipulated. But look at it from the other side.

Gordie and Z are friends with an interest in pictures in common and they go to an auction together. Gordie really likes the Seago and says so. Z likes it too, but she wouldn’t dream of running the price up high for her friend, so she says she won’t bid until he drops out. Fair enough, but it would not be fair on the owner of the picture that the price is artificially low because two friends have done some private negotiation.

Between friends or colleagues this is one thing, but among dealers it’s a different matter. And this is where you need a skillful auctioneer who knows what things should be worth and has valued them correctly with a realistic reserve. An auction ring is illegal, but regularly used.

A group of dealers gets together and agrees how to bid to get lots for the lowest possible price. The designated bidder buys the items and pays for them and afterwards, they all get together and have a private auction amongst themselves. The pieces are resold, the buyer is reimbursed and everyone shares the profit – except the former owner who didn’t get the value of his pieces, and the auctioneer who earns a reduced commission – and, arguably, deserves to, you might say. Well yes, if he only takes live bids in the room and then lets it go, but if he’s allowed to bid an item up to its sensible reserve, it won’t happen; or at any rate, to a much lesser extent.

Of course, at the sort of auction we went to yesterday, this sort of thing would not happen. There was no question of any dodgy dealership at all and, although the room was full, there was also a whole tableful of people taking telephone bids. No question of collusion and quite a few private buyers, because I saw them. The sale went well because it deserved to; it was, genuinely, a private collection put together over many years, of very attractive and appealing local pictures. It was very professionally conducted in a relaxed atmosphere. I thought it was lovely that the vendors had chosen to sell in Norwich rather than send the pictures to London and I think that paid off, in that there were so many private collectors as well as dealers.

I think I may have given you the impression that there is only ever one person bidding – that’s not so and it’s all the more fun when there’s spirited bidding in the room. Some people are willing to come in at the start and others prefer to wait and see how it’s going (if the auctioneer gave up as soon as no one bid, these people would never come in, but they might bid strongly once they get going). If I want a piece I bid promptly (if I can get a bid in edgeways) and remain determined, bidding again as soon as I’m taken out. I know perfectly well that I’m not going to get it for more than a bid less than the guide price or estimate (unless I’m very lucky and the reserve is well under that; an unlikely circumstance) so I don’t mind if there’s not another bidder – though there may well be and it’s more fun that way as there’s an extra element of competition. I fix in my mind the price I want to pay and the price I will go up to if I must – though if there’s really spirited bidding, I might think ‘hm, maybe I’ve undervalued it a bit’ and go a bit further if I can afford to. Always remember to add on the auctioneer’s commission and VAT on the hammer price, and check if there’s any extra tax on the item itself. There may be if it’s being sold by a dealer, if it’s been imported for sale or if the painter is still alive he’s paid commission every time his piece is auctioned.

If you go to a general auction sale and there isn’t a catalogue or it’s just a printed sheet, there may be no reserves and everything is just sold as seen.

I’ve not been clear enough – let’s go through it carefully.

I go to an auction and see a tea cup and saucer that is just what I want. And the estimate is only £200-£220 – what a bargain that would be! The bidding starts at £80 and goes up steadily until it reaches £160, but then the other bidder shakes his head. He doesn’t appreciate fine china, it seems. The auctioneer looks around for another bidder, but he doesn’t see one. There am I, all hopeful and keen and ready to continue bidding, but the reserve (the price the seller has said that the bidding must reach) is higher than £160. It is normal practice in any auction house for an auctioneer to continue as if there is another bidder (this is called ‘taking bids off the wall’). So, he says “£170”, I bid £180, he says “£190”, I put my hand up again for £200 and then the auctioneer continues to look around – but if there is no other bidder and the reserve price has been reached (that is, he has bid up to the reserve), he will bang down his gavel, and the cup and saucer becomes mine.

Sometimes, it works the other way. No one wants to start the bidding and then the auctioneer will probably offer a lower starting price. Then, when I’ve put in my bid, he will point at his book to indicate that he is bidding against the reserve (that is, running up the price because my bid is still lower than the price he can sell at) until someone else is encouraged to start bidding; then he’ll take my bid alternately from the other person’s in the usual way. I’ll probably be overcome with excitement and end up bidding more than I meant to for the cup and saucer.

Of course, more often there are at least two bidders and it isn’t necessary to do any of this. But if the auctioneer waits ages, anxiously, for bids, it absolutely kills the atmosphere and there’s a good chance that hardly anything will sell. That’s why a good auctioneer is worth his weight in teacups.

Anything more you would like to know, Gordie and Dandelion? Or TMI already? Query anything I’ve said, by all means.

It’s always when you’ve been pottering round for a bit and not putting your face on that things happen. At least I was dressed. I rarely come downstairs before I’m dressed as it’s the sure prompt for a small and orderly queue of people to come to the door and embarrass me.

Anyway, I did this and that and was just thinking of putting the eye in and the face on when the phone rang. It was Daphne. A cow had just walked past her door going towards the road. I thanked her, said I’d go and see what I could do – I was just putting in the contact lens when Dilly rang. She gave the same unwelcome news, but added that she didn’t think it was one of ours as it was very small and she thought it was a boy. I started to cuss the neighbouring farmer – a charming man but an annoying stockman – who is really quite careless about keeping his cattle in his fields. Then I got on my bike, clutching a stout walking stick in one hand and whizzed off towards the church. There was no sign of a cow or bullock. I went up the road some way, in case it had gone into someone’s garden, but couldn’t see it. I went to look down the footpath alongside our field and there were two large cows talking to their cousins which were still in the field. They were well down the path and I went home to get some rope to close off the path.

I also spent three minutes slapping on some make-up. Vain? Merely considerate of other people.

The Sage came home. I suggested that he might try to remember taking his phone with him in case I needed him and told him the situation. We agreed that he’d go across the field and I’d go back to the path in case they went the wrong way.

No more drama, those good girls were peacefully grazing, the Sage found where the fence was broken down and I walked them back to the opening, and they returned home. I’d noticed the cause of all the trouble though; a small bullock which was nuzzling the cows hopefully in a “will you be my new mum?” sort of way. He really was quite small and I feel sorry for him. Evidently, he’d got out of his field, got lost, nearly went on the road, then saw the cows and pushed his way through the fence. Then they went through the gap. We left him there with the cows – the farmers can sort it out.

It was 10.45. I went home and had a substantial breakfast, as I’d not eaten yet, of black coffee, plain yoghurt, dry toast and (this was what made it more substantial than usual) a banana. If it weren’t for the quantity of wine I drink (though not normally for breakfast) I’d be tiny already.