This is the auction we went to. The collection being sold – Lots 1-128 – belonged to someone whom the Sage had known for many years; indeed, he’d sold him a dozen or so of the pictures. It was a lovely collection; mostly of East Anglian painters and mainly land, sea and river scapes with a few still lifes and flower paintings. The ones I liked best were the Tom Smythes and the Campbell Mellons, and I’ve a soft spot for John Moore and Eloise Stannard. I also liked the Seago, which was Lot 128, but that was certainly well beyond even our wildest splashing-out range. In fact, we put in a bid here and there (not in the thousands) but didn’t buy anything.

Now I see the prices online, it’s interesting – the auctioneer mostly said if something wasn’t sold (and most pictures were) but sometimes, if a piece doesn’t meet its reserve, one doesn’t exactly broadcast the fact. The most expensive pictures were ‘sold’ for £88,000, but we didn’t believe it (the estimate was £100,000-£150,000) and I see that the lot has been announced as selling for £85,000. That means that they didn’t meet their reserve, the auctioneer tried to push them up against the reserve (this is legitimate, but pushing it once the reserve has been met is not, it’s totally unethical) but then spoke to the buyer and the bidder and brokered a sale after all at the lower price.

If you don’t want to look through all the prices, I should tell you that this was by far the most expensive lot and most of them were in the hundreds or low thousands. You might still protest that this is a lot of money for a painting but don’t look at these fairly low-price collectors, look at the people who blow thousands, or hundreds of thousands of pound on a party or a holiday or millions on – well, anything really. It’s easy come, easy go to them.

We saw a lot of people we knew. One chap said “hello” and I greeted him in return – it took a second to think why I knew him. He used, before his retirement, to be our MP. I always liked him. He was a very good constituent MP and was always willing to come to local events, even when he was a cabinet minister. Once, he came to open an extension to the village school. He was Secretary of State for Education at the time and he spent some time finding out my views on various current education matters. I was vastly gratified, the next week, to hear him in the House of Commons repeating some of the things I’d said. I’m not for one minute saying that I influenced his thinking, maybe I (with others) reinforced it but it was, in my experience, typical of him. He listened to people and considered what they had to say.

We also saw our good friends A & A, who used to have an art gallery in L’toft. They bought the house we lived in when we got married, and still live there 34 years later. A was with the Sprout* and me on our first visit to London together, the one that made us realise just how much we were starting to like each other…

Among the staff who were taking telephone bids was a man whose face I knew, but I couldn’t place him until A hissed “That’s him off the telly!” Indeed it was; someone who’s often on Fl0g 1t and similar vaguely antiquey sort of daytime programmes (did I mention that the Sage was once interviewed as an expert on that programme? It’s been aired at least 3 times, which makes people think he’s a regular). I can’t find a picture – it’s kraM yecatS (sorry, but I’d mislead unfortunate Google searchers by bringing them here). He is a proper antiques expert though, he’s not just doing it for show on daytime TV! The auctioneer was the woman mentioned in this article, who was excellent and had both authority and considerable charm.

All in all, then, a most enjoyable couple of hours. The pictures were all hung in the saleroom so I was able to have a good look before the sale started. Afterwards, I left the Sage having lunch with A & A and nipped off to have a quick look round the shops, but I wasn’t very tempted. I bought a pair of trousers and a top, but that wasn’t much considering I was in quite a buying mood. It would be silly to buy many clothes, in fact, as I still have weight to lose. Only one size down as yet, and a stone. 14 pounds. 6.4 kilos. It’s going though, and missing lunch isn’t a bad thing once in a while.

I only saw a few of the Norwich elephants (scoot over to Dave’s blog if you want pictures) but I wasn’t awfully impressed. They look better in the photos, I thought. Quite effective as street art, and I’m all for people being engaged in art – maybe they are a bit too spread out. I only saw a few of them as I didn’t have time to go all over the city centre.

*He became the Sage when he wisely married me

Three meetings, each on a completely different subject, today, as well as meals on wheels and playing the organ for a funeral. It was all spread over 12 hours. I’ve got minutes to write from two of them tomorrow.

The Sage went to view a sale in Norwich. When he showed me the catalogue, I wished I’d been able to go too. I invited myself to go with him to the sale itself, tomorrow. No plans to buy anything, but we’d like to see the auction and besides, the Sage knows the vendor who was a keen buyer of pictures at his own auctions in the past, back in the days when the Sage was a full-time auctioneer, before he chose his tiny specialisation in semi-retirement.

Since we’re going to be in the centre of Norwich, I’d like to spend a bit of time pottering around, but I bet the Sage will be keen to get home again. He’s very purposeful, my husband.

I’ve been giving tips to the Sage on how to win an argument and look good too – that is, not appear to play dirty.

I don’t know whether to hope he’s taken it in or not. If he has, I’ll have to up my game somewhat.

I’ll still outdebate him though. I’ve got more on my side than words.

Salad tonight, with smoked mackerel, which I have lovingly filleted to save my darling boys the trouble. I took the food through to the dining room except the potatoes, which are still cooking. I laid the table. The sounds must have filtered through to Ro in the room above (it’s not his bedroom but has better wireless reception than his room). I heard clattering on the back stairs. “Sorry” I said, “five more minutes”. Moments later, the Sage’s hungry head poked round the door. “Sorry,” I said, “Five more minutes.”

I just need to make the right noises and they appear. It’s like putting the kettle on, which works without sound with the Sage.

I didn’t mention, yesterday, that Al has found his Queen! There are pictures of childbirth on his bee blog too, which is not nearly as not-for-the-squeamish as it sounds. All awfully exciting.

We’ve decided to put a fence all around the 4-acre field in front of the house. We used to let a friend graze sheep there, using electric fencing, but she got a proper (meaning, it brings in an income) job some years ago and since, it’s just been cut for hay. It was cut a couple of weeks ago and there may be an aftermath, depending on the amount of rain we get this summer. After that, we’ll lend or let it for grazing again – sheep are best as they nibble the grass very short and their little hooves don’t damage the ground while they fertilise it nicely at the same time. Horse owners pay, on the other hand, but horses aren’t good for pasture as they only eat some of the grass and their droppings should be cleared up as they won’t eat near them and they encourage rank growth and weeds. I dunno. It’ll all work out. Our charming Polish couple have heavily cut back the privet hedge around the tennis court and more undergrowth needs to be trimmed (no birds’ nests were injured during this operation, we checked very carefully) and then they will dig the holes for the posts. A farmer friend will lend his post-hole borer.

The farmer friend is Jonathan, by the way, who had that horrible accident with his foot a few weeks ago. He is doing very well now and determined to be back in the saddle, tractor-wise, before long. His paperwork and accounts are all very well up to date now, as he didn’t do nothing during his recuperation.

Anyway, Jack and Barbara (I know, I expect they have Anglicised their names for our benefit) rang this morning to say it was pouring with rain where they live and what was it like here? It was fine at the time, but rain was forecast so they didn’t come over. It has bucketed down since, so just as well.

You know, if the PM wants to complain about food waste, he might start by looking at supermarkets which reject perfectly good but marginally “too big” or “too small” produce from farmers, which often has to be dumped. You’d really think he would have more important things to think about. Indeed, that sort of thing is important, but not at a strategic level. He is trying to pass the blame to us and to distract us from what’s really going wrong with prices and his government of the country.

I understand he chartered an aeroplane to go to the G8 summit conference in Japan. If that is so, it seems awfully wasteful to me.

Of course, the whole drama about “one third of the food we buy is thrown away” is not even accurate. I remember distinctly that when this report first came out a few years ago, it was said that it was not possible to differentiate between wasted good food and vegetable peelings, bones etc which were inedible. So if you bought a chicken, roasted it, ate all the meat and threw away the carcase or boiled it up for soup and only threw away the bones, you’d still be chucking about a pound of organic matter away, which would probably be about a quarter of the total weight. I’m not saying that people don’t waste food – and indeed, I think it’s better to know when you’ve eaten enough and stop, even if that does mean food is left on the plate – but that I don’t believe it’s anywhere near what has become the standard suggested amount.

There’s not a great deal wasted here, in fact, because Tilly and the chickens eat much of the scraps, other vegetable waste goes on the compost heap and we use up most leftovers. But sometimes things get thrown away, as well as the inedible bits. And I can do without a politician who has been promoted past his level of competence patronising me by telling me how to housekeep.

You know, I do recommend churchgoing if you’re getting a bit het-up. Of course, it may be the stress of churchgoing that hets you up in the first place, but it calms you down too, especially if you stop and listen and think about it a bit.

The flowers from last week were falling about a bit, which meant a fair bit of picking up after I’d carted them down the aisle and into the kitchen (this may be a v. old church, but we have Mod Cons) and I had brought along some foliage – random leaves, feverfew (can’t remember the Latin) and alchemilla mollis (can’t remember the English) and a bunch of sunflowers and a bunch of chrysanthemums and decided to refresh the best of last week’s and make two arrangements into one. Not, in this case, aided by two bored toddlers, it went pretty well and looked good when reinstated on the reredos behind the altar.

At the same time, I was getting things ready for coffee; filling the urn and a kettle, switching on the hot water, putting coffee into cafetières, getting out mugs, sugar and milk, putting out biscuits, tables and chairs etc and the usual unlocking of extra doors in case of fire, and – oh you know, stuff. The usual.

The Fellow* suggested that we sit near the front to encourage the minister, rather than at the back to keep an eye on the congregation. Most of the hymns were much too high for me, which did not put me off but probably hurt his ears rather. I explained, afterwards, that an organist would rather hear someone singing badly than have no response at all.

Anyway, splendid sermon, with the excellent suggestion, tongue in cheek as it was, that we might get Results if we offered Hard Cash to children to come to Sunday School. Seriously, I’m all for it. Get ’em in first and they’ll feel the benefits in due course. I’m not up for indoctrinating little children and I’m quite uncomfortable with the hardline religious stuff as preached to people who don’t know enough to argue and question, but it keeps me going when nothing else would and exposure in childhood has done its bit all through life.

*My fellow churchwarden, who is a darling.

Update I’ve reread this and realised I gave the wrong impression – I didn’t actually go to Sunday School as a child, I went to church as our mother liked to keep an eye on me. I went there once though with a friend and found it a bit too friendly and clubby for me. I think that was my morose and solitary personality at fault there though.

I have the Fug Girls to thank for this divine piece of film. If you think the dancing is good, wait until you get to the singing. And the trousers – I have no words to describe the trousers.

Tonight’s barbecue was steak. The children had burgers because they prefer them, but they are proper butcher-made burgers, not some mass-produced nonsense with cereal fillers in them. When Ro arrived home, he said that he wasn’t very hungry and a steak would be a bit wasted on him, so he had burgers too.

Ro is taken out to lunch by his bosses every Friday. They like a meal out and, as he’s their only employee, he goes with them. They would like to employ someone else, but they haven’t found anyone else as good as Ro (this is true, not proud-mummyishness; I’m not saying that there is no one as good as Ro, but that he fits into the company very well) so they just all work hard. Today, they went to an Indian restaurant and the portions were generous (as are Ro’s employers) and he was hungry. He works late on Fridays to make up for the long lunchtime; they don’t ask him to but he wouldn’t take advantage, of course.

There are going to be two funerals at the local church next week – I’ll be playing the organ for both of them. One is for a lady, in her 90s, whose husband died more than 30 years ago (he was considerably older than she and did not die prematurely) and she will be buried with him in the double grave. The gravedigger hoped that he’d be able to bring in his small mechanical digger, but the Sage said he’d phoned to tell him he was afraid it would have to be a hand job. A hand job takes a long time and is hard work, he explained.

Dilly and I caught each others’ eyes and snorted with laughter. The Sage didn’t understand why.

The other funeral is for David whom I mentioned a few days ago. We’re busily harvesting produce from his garden for Al to sell; it is in respect and friendship to his memory that we don’t want to let it waste and his family have a lot of other clearing up to do. Dilly and I will go along at 8 tomorrow morning, pick flowers and lettuces, then go and drop them off at the shop, pick up the carpet cleaner from our cousins whose business includes letting out such equipment and be home by 9 to relieve the Sage, who will have been babysitting, to tell the Polish people what needs to be done.

“Walker says you’re a cancer; I just think you’re a ‘flu.” Crying Drunk, by the Old 97’s (sic). Is it any wonder that I love ’em? Add that to “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have designs on you” and “I won’t tell a soul except the people in the nightclub where I sing” – Designs on You – and you won’t be surprised that I play them over and over. Fabulous. The guitar riff on Stoned would be enough to win me over in any case.

It’s a beautiful day. I’ve picked lettuces, sweet peas, gooseberries and artichokes for the shop. I’ve cycled in for my shopping and been to the library. I will take the papers, the books, a glass of wine and some smoked salmon and go and relax on the lawn.

I’ve been eating little but fruit and yoghurt this week until the evening, but today I feel completely self-indulgent. It’s too hot to work in the garden and too fine to work indoors. As I cycled, I thought of a subject for a post, but now it’s all planned in my head, it feels that the job’s done and I don’t really need to write it down any more. Maybe later. Possibly.

Cheers, darlings

I went in to the fish stall on the market today. I thought a barbecue would be good and I’ve bought whole sea bream all round, with salmon for the children. I’m not being mean, I think they’ll balk at the bones. Everyone was out today and I stopped for several chats. When I was spoken to by name, the fishmonger remarked on it. “We called our foal Z” he said, “after my wife’s grandmother. Her show name is S1lver L1n1ng.” I said gratified sorts of things about both names. It transpired that the mare, the foal’s mother, had died during the delivery but a live and healthy foal was some consolation. I asked how it was being brought up – apparently, someone else’s mare had borne a sick foal that, after operations, was not going to survive, so it was replaced by the newly-born Z.

One customer was also buying for a barbecue, but some of the fish cost more than she was willing to pay. Then she said that her dogs were very fond of scallops, so she often bought them for a Sunday breakfast treat. I admitted that scallops are a treat for me, never mind for dogs.

Last night’s barbecue was a success – Ro’s idea, Dilly made salads, Al bought the meat and rolls, I provided a range of drinks, with cutlery and china and the Sage did the cooking. We remarked on Ro’s powers of delegation, as well as of suggestion.

Squiffany politely asked me what I’d like to drink. “Wine, please,” I said and then, after it was poured, “Cheers”. She was rather enchanted at that and toasted the whole family. “Cheers, Granny, Cheers Daddy” – you get the picture. Pugsley repeated the salutations. Cheers every time anyone raised a glass took up a fair bit of the evening.

Just off for some Governor training. 20 years experience is by no means enough not to need to keep updating one’s knowledge.