Oh, before I forget, the list of apple and pear varieties

Pear –
Conference
Concorde
Doyenne de Comice
Williams

Apple –
Bramley
Fortune
Early Wilson
Rev Wilkes
Katy
Cox’s Orange Pippin
Spartan
Norfolk Royal
Worcester Pearmain
Russet
Charles Ross
Suffolk Pink
Howgate Wonder
Laxton Epire
Freyberg
James Greave
Granny Smith
Ida Red
*unknown variety, grown in customer’s garden*

I was a bit late in this morning, as the envelope I’d thought contained my papers for this afternoon’s meeting didn’t and it took me ten minutes to find it. Well, to be strictly accurate, the Sage finally found it. But Eileen had done what she could, which was a great deal but didn’t include putting up the shelves as she’s several inches shorter than I am and it’s all a stretch for me.

In the afternoon, the chairman and vice-chairman were re-elected. This could have been worse; I could have been *promoted*.

Tim was absolutely lovely and got in everything while I counted the (meagre) takings. Half yesterday’s – but yesterday was a good day. It balances.

Ro came in and asked if he could help with dinner? “Ten minutes late?” he wondered. But no, I found him a job preparing carrots. He wondered whether to prepare the whole bunch. I pondered. “I’ll eat three” I said, “do what you think for Dad and yourself, oh and I’ll eat a couple more while dinner’s cooking. Would you like some cheese on a corn cake, I’ve just had some?” “Oh, it wouldn’t be fair to tempt you.” “That’s all right, I won’t be tempted. I’ll have carrots.” So he prepared the carrots for me and I prepared the cheese for him and poured us each a glass of wine. But I was greedy. I didn’t stop at two or three raw carrots (he’d done the whole bunch after all).

When I turned round, he snorted with laughter. “It is a bit Edward Carrot Hands, isn’t it?” I admitted. “That’s what I was thinking, you’re holding those carrots out like fingers.

Al is a little better now, but still feels a bit woozy, not surprisingly as he hasn’t eaten for a couple of days. I have offered to go in in the morning and he can see how he feels and maybe come in later to work. If he were employed, he’d certainly take the rest of the week off, but the self-employed don’t have that luxury. On the other hand, they are their own masters, and that’s worth more if that’s what you value.

Whenever Dilly or the children, all of whom are in contact with school and pre-school children, catch something, Al gets it too, only worse. Since we all caught a nasty infection back in the spring, he’s caught anything going and gets it worse than anyone else. Today, he was scheduled to be home with the children anyway until 4 o’clockish and he took a duvet on to the sofa and let Squiffany look after him and her little brother.

“Daddy’s got a bug” I said. Pugsley, who has discovered the joy of language and being cheeky with it, said “Daddy’s got a spider. Daddy’s got a scary spider. Daddy’s got a fly, yuck. Daddy’s got a big black beetle. Daddy’s got a wiggly worm. Daddy’s got a creepy crawly”.

I blame his father. He always did have a way with words.

I offered to go in and take over the shop from Tim, and Al must have been feeling rotten, as he agreed. I had a meeting in Norwich first, so I did a bit of shopping before I came home (clothes! Little clothes in yet a smaller size!), heated up some minestrone for lunch – yes, there’s still a good quart left – and cycled in to the shop. Lovely Tim took in the notice boards and the pumpkins to save me time later.

D’you know – Al is selling 19 different varieties of apples in the shop at present, all of them not only English but grown in Norfolk or Yagnub. He’s also selling 3 or 4 varieties of English pears. I think that’s pretty damn good.

A friendly customer stayed chatting until nearly half past 5 and it was 6.30 by the time I arrived home, then took the takings and the list for tomorrow through to Al, had my offer to open up tomorrow accepted, came indoors, answered a comment on the other blog, printed off various papers and left for the next meeting. I got home half an hour ago to find that the Sage had cooked dinner for me.

Apart from writing up notes from tonight’s meeting, sending a couple of emails and getting ready for tomorrow afternoon’s meeting (a third committee, none of them connected with another), I shall relax for the rest of the evening. Unless there is something in the newspaper to annoy me.

Oh, by the way, the reason I find all available background colours too bright has just occurred to me. Macs are bright. It’s a deliberate ploy to impress potential customers.

Have you heard about this? I wouldn’t have if it were not for the fine blog of Stephen Collins, who is a most excellent cartoonist and who kindly sent me a Christmas card of one of his cartoons last year because he offered to, via the blog and I boldly said ‘yes please’.

I’m putting in a few bids, it’s for a very good cause and there are no extra costs – the envelope comes mounted and framed and postage is free, and all money bid is going to the charity.

“The Radio of Damocles” said Ro as he came into the room. I’d just put iTunes on shuffle (always a mistake) and I thought for a moment he was talking about ‘Making Plans for Nigel’ (XTC) which happened to have just taken over disconcertingly from Sidney Bechet. But he was right. I had a radio hanging over my head.

This house has thick walls and can’t receive a digital signal everywhere, and recently I moved the table a bit (and can’t move it back or the printer lead won’t reach the computer) and I had had to hold the radio up when I wanted to listen to it. But there’s a hook in the beam, so finally that was where I put it to receive a good signal. But I turned it off when Any Questions came on, as there’s too much dissension and bad temper and I don’t want that in my life.

I decided to make soup and cycled in for the ingredients. As I came home, there was a dove in my path – there’s only a few yards of cycle path, but a car must have hit it and spun it from the road. It was still alive and its wing fluttered. I couldn’t leave it and stopped and got off, wondering how much force was the minimum I needed to use (awful to make it suffer worse, but what would cause bloodshed, almost as bad? Sorry). Between my stopping, and picking it up, it died. I put it over the fence in the long grass.

Certainly a sign of winter, however sunny the day had been, when I feel the urge to make minestrone. A substantial soup, followed only by baked potatoes and cheese. And now, as I sit here, coffee. Next, I will cuddle my dog and read the papers.

So, I had a meeting in Bury St Edmunds today, which was due to start with a sandwich lunch at 12.15, with the formal part at 1 o’clock. It takes about 45 minutes to get there and I had to allow 10 minutes to park and walk, so I had plenty of time to do this’n’that before leaving. However, it was a bit of a surprise to notice it was 5 past 12 and I hadn’t dried my hair yet. I started aiming the drier at my head, then realised I had all the papers to print out for the meeting – anyway, I was still in the car by 20 past so that was all right.

Or so it seemed. Every slow lorry in Norfolk and Suffolk was being taken on the A143 today and most of them were in front of me. I was patient, as what’s the point in belting past one when you can see half a dozen more in front going no faster? A few miles from the Bury bypass, a police car came up behind, lights flashing. We all moved over as far as we could, and a few minutes later came to a car stopped by the side of the road, a police car behind it, with the offside front wing stoved in and an elderly woman in the passenger seat. In the next field there was a yellow Air Ambulance helicopter – but the car didn’t look badly damaged. A couple of hundred yards later, on the other side of the road, a car was off the road, tipped into the ditch and against the hedge. In the next few minutes, two more police cars and two ambulances sped past from the Bury direction. I couldn’t help thinking that they just didn’t need all those police officers and paramedics, but I suppose better too many than find yourself wanting. Anyway, I was quite glad I hadn’t left home much earlier and I was even less inclined to overtake.

I socialised purposefully before the meeting proper, and then one of the items of business was for each chairman to give a verbal report. Darlings, there was a veritable plethora of chairmen; twenty-four of them, although one was a Chair of Chairs and gave his report later. Since my branch of the society starts with W, mine was the penultimate report and I chatted away happily for a few minutes, enthusing about what we’d been doing in the last few months and … oh you know, how I usually talk, but I was actually saying something and not just waffling. As I stopped, with a mention that this year is our 20th anniversary and we’re celebrating at the Christmas lecture and we haven’t finalised the arrangements yet, but it’s highly likely that there will be Cake! – the Chair of Chairs said “thank you, Z, that was delightful.” Oh I say, I thought, and I thought I’d been talking too long.

I had taken the precaution of wearing a bright pink shirt, which I’d ironed specially, so that I would be highly recognisable too. Hah.

I went into town to get some vegetables and arrived in time to help Al pack up the shop and then went to buy some wine. I opened a particularly nice bottle the other night, and discovered that I drink less when it’s good wine, as I sip and savour rather than cheerily glug, so I spent more than usual with the reasoning that it would cost no more per night as it would last longer. When I got home, I toasted nearly the last of the loaf I bought yesterday (what happened to the rest? I wondered) and cut it into snippets and put on bits of the cheese and terrine and took it all, with the wine, into the drawing room to cheer the Sage before dinner. I was very cheerful, which is also good, because it encouraged him to kiss me. Later, Ro came home, so I toasted the very last bread and did more snippets for him. He was frightfully impressed, and asked what was for dinner. I told him about the organically-farmed salmon and said that, as it was delicately flavoured, I would poach it in a court bouillon. “Huh?” “A court bouillon. ” “Yes, I said ‘huh?'” I told him that I would cook some vegetables and herbs in water and then cook the salmon in the resultant broth. “Right. You mean stock then.”

Well anyway, I used carrots and shallots and fennel, and separately poached more carrot, spring onions and the rest of the fennel (because they were neatly sliced and lightly cooked) and then cooked the fish, arrayed it on the vegetables and then reduced the stock (okay, Ro, have it your way) and added saffron and butter for a sauce.

The cheese stall on the market is awfully good. I bought a piece of Bleu de Basque which I’ve had before and awoke a most overwhelming cheese craving then (yeah, bright, aren’t I, to buy it again?) and also decided to try a hard mature goat’s cheese from Swaledale. He cut a piece for me to try and it was delicious. The same people also make ewe’s and cow’s milk cheese; I will try them another time. He also cut a piece of a blue goatsmilk cheese from Ribblesdale (I think) which he described as like Roquefort but less salty and that was wonderful too. I bought a loaf of bread and a pack of biltong, which he said a friend of his makes, and then noticed the coarse pork terrine, so of course couldn’t resist that either. I’m so greedy. I thought it was £12 well spent, and bore it home in triumph, along with some salmon (farmed, but organically, with no colouring fed to the fish), a couple of whole smoked mackerel and some mussels. The Sage is not fond of mussels, so I cooked them for my lunch and tried just a little of the terrine while the shallots were cooking. It was delicious. Really, like home-made. The pork was chopped rather than minced and quite chunky, the terrine was lined with bacon and the whole thing was succulent, beautifully seasoned and I’ve not tasted any terrine so good since my mother used to make them. After I’d eaten my mussels, with some of the bread, I decided it had really been a very virtuous lunch, so ate a little cheese as well.

My diet is totally stuffed for the weekend. I won’t be able to help myself. Or rather, I’ll keep helping myself until it’s all eaten.

Okay, enough about babies, a moment of weakness only.

I had some twinges of anxiety this afternoon. I went to get petrol – oh, I say, it took less than £60 to fill it up, when it had cost me £65 until recently. The fact that it was £40 when I bought this car 3 1/2 years ago is a passing happy memory. Anyway, I stood there, nozzle in hand, pondering how to pay. I had cash, but if I spent that, I’d only have to go to the cashpoint sooner. Credit card or debit card? I’ve been hammering the credit card this past month, spending money on the London flat and since I won’t receive any rent until the agents have taken out their commission, the Sage will probably insist on paying the bill – well, he may have to, in fact, though in any case he hates to think of me being short of money in case I have an extravagant whim (I very rarely do, but he enjoys it when it happens). So it seemed less than polite to stick him with paying to fill my car too. I decided on the debit card. Only it wasn’t there.

I keep a few cards in a pocket in my purse, as I am using quite a small bag at present which isn’t large enough for a wallet as well as all the other necessities of a woman’s life – 8 sets of keys, a corkscrew, screwdriver, Oyster card (I’m not planning a trip to London any time soon), diary and so on – so I don’t have to switch things round too often. And whatever else gets taken out, the debit and credit card don’t. And I wasn’t exactly sure when I last had the missing card. Not for at least a week. I imagined my bank account being emptied. I considered phoning to get it stopped. I pondered whether I could have left it behind when I used it last. While doing all this, I paid for the petrol (credit card, sorry, darling xx) and decided that the odds were I’d dropped it at home.

And when I got back, some three hours later, so I had.

I bought a new waterproof coat in Norwich for cycling in during the winter. It was very boring. I also bought a new diary. That was positively depressing. I shall, in the next few days, spend some time filling it in with meetings already booked.

It is so interesting, observing a baby. Zerlina was 7 weeks old on Monday (if only I could be arsed to label posts, I’d be able to track this and look back, but I really can’t be bothered after all this time) and today I was left in charge for a while because her mother had an appointment.

She’d just been fed, but was a little windy, so I held her on my shoulder while she waited for some relieving burps. After they had happened, I put her on my lap and talked to her and smiled, and she smiled back and replied. That is, the sounds she made responded to my voice and, to a degree, mirrored it.

When I’d arrived, she was asleep and Weeza, who was holding her, gave her to me while she got ready to go out. After a while, Zerlina woke. She gave such a double-take on discovering she was lying on me and not her mother as she expected. Her bottom lip stuck out and wobbled, though she didn’t cry.

These changes have happened in a week. I hadn’t expected to be responded to so early, which shows how soon one forgets.

She is now 8 pounds, 8 and 1/2 ounces. Still, at nearly 2 months old, not the birthweight of Phil and Lisa’s baby, but she’s outgrown her first lot of tiny clothes, bought hastily by her other granny and is growing steadily, and feeding and sleeping well.

Do you ever, I wonder, write a post and afterwards worry about what someone will think if they happen to visit your blog for the first time on that day?

Oh. Just me then.

Several of us on the committee had been on the visit to London last week. At today’s meeting, we were talking about how it had gone (this is not just chat, this sort of discussion is part of the meeting) and it was observed that a fair number of men have rather fallen for me.

I was embarrassed, but it’s true. I seem to appeal to the over-70-somethings.

One delightful gentleman arrived half an hour early to claim a seat on the coach next to me. He was one of the first in the coffee queue – I was the other side of the room chatting – so he could get me a cup of coffee. Another approached and blurted out, well, I thought he said I looked lovely, which was startling enough (simple black trousers and jumper) but J said he said I was lovely, which is probably a bit worse. Fortunately, I was manifestly more taken aback than gratified, as a first reaction. Gracious thanks as a second, if you are wondering.

I’ve explained, this is what happens when you are chairman, or rather chairwoman (but I don’t think that is a word unless used by the Chairwoman herself; that is, Katy’s lovely mother [if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, sorry, neither of them blogs much nowadays so I don’t think it’d be helpful to link]) of the committee, so I now expect a small queue hoping to supersede me next summer.

It’s a funny thing that all of the lovely men who read this blog are younger than I, most of them by a considerable margin. I should like to reassure them that I do not expect romantic adoration. Raucous laughter is, I agree, more likely.