The story of Simon and the Stilton. Simon was our dog. He was named after the Oulton Broad mongrel puppy who came to us, because his previous owners couldn’t cope with him, when I was five years old and who founded a dynasty. Simon II was one of the many dogs my mother had after I left home, when things got a bit out of control and she ended up with 11 of them. It was all a bit much and in the end my sister took Sam and we took Simon II. At this time we lived in Lowestoft, in a very big former Rectory and had two children.

It was Christmas Eve and we were expected at my mother’s house for dinner. I went over with the children and the Sage was going to join us. However, he was late. It got to the stage of him being really late and I was fed-up. I was sure he’d called on friends in a Christmas-cheery sort of way and lost track of time, and that he was taking us all for granted.

Finally, the door opened and in he came. Fortunately, I didn’t greet him with fury but asked reasonably politely what had happened.

He’d gone home to let the dog out before coming on over and opened the front door to discover that Simon had found and opened the Christmas Stilton. It was half of an entire cheese and Simon had scoffed the lot, rather untidily. A good deal was spread over the rug in the hall. The Sage had taken an hour to clean up. He’d then shut Simon in the kitchen, got washed and changed and come on over.

When we went home I found that he’d done rather a good job. There was no smell or sign of mature blue cheese in the hall and the carpet was clean. Simon appeared very happy. We shut him in the back scullery that night, thinking of possible effects on his digestion. And the next night. However, the only effect was on his coat which, over the next few weeks, became thicker and especially glossy.

Two lessons learned – when someone is late, don’t start by complaining. First, say something nice and let them tell you the reason. And cheese is good for dogs. They can hardly have enough of it, even three or four pounds at a time.

A third thing. The Sage was wonderful. He didn’t even grumble about all the clearing up.

I thought of a splendid idea for a post a few minutes ago, then wrote an unaccustomedly sincere comment to Dave and now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Oh dear. Sorry.

Anyway, I went to the Royal Academy today, visited two splendid exhibitions, went to Fortnum and Mason for lunch (my friend A insisted on paying for my lunch, and my cream tea later, I owe him big time and have said I’ll pay next visit which he was quite happy with – this is likely to be Hampton Court in the summer) and arrived home to sausages, bacon, baked potatoes and carrots cooked by the lovely Sage who will be rewarded by a specially affectionate kiss later. He’s out just now. I can’t remember what he said he was going to do.

I asked Derek if he’d like to be our next Treasurer, but he’s pleading age at present. He’s a mere (and very good-looking) 78, which hardly precludes him. However, if he turns me down (not many men have as yet, but it could be I’m losing my touch), I think Dave would be ideal. I’m saying this in all truth. Indeed, if he joined the committee (he’d have to be suddenly – ooh, bad grammar alert – interested in Fine Arts, but he would enjoy it) I’d try to wangle my way back on for another year. This has nothing to do with having or losing touch, I’m actually Telling The Truth.

Oh, the Sage went to see Al, who owed him money for strawberries, mushrooms et al (that’s not the same as Al) and has Paid Up handsomely. I’ve been emailed the contract for my new tenant, which is very encouraging. I have had not information that Alexander, the present tenant, has yet stumped up. He’s a bit of a twat, if you’ll excuse the language or even if you won’t, because the agents will charge for irritated letters and I will sue if he doesn’t pay. I am tough and uninterested in excuses, for his income is at least four times mine (probably five times) and far more than our joint incomes. He’s using a residential flat for business purposes which he has no permission to do and saying he can’t manage personal affairs and his girlfriend did it before they split up, since when he hasn’t opened anything but personal mail won’t cut the mustard. If necessary, I’ll go down and be maternal again. I’m hard to resist when being maternal.

I wonder what I was going to write about? Maybe tomorrow. Mañana, siempre mañana. As they say.

I arrived in church to find it cold. The boiler had not come on. We’ve been in the meeting room for the last few weeks while the weather was cold and this was the first Sunday back. I’d set the timer for the Ash Wednesday service last week, which I didn’t attend as I was in London and I assumed all was well or else someone would have told me.

I supposed that the pilot light had gone out and that I’d have to wobble down the steps in the boiler house to put it right, but when I checked the time clock, it was set to ‘off’ rather than ‘auto’. I altered it and the boiler lit up. It was less than an hour until the service and the church wouldn’t heat up in that time. It would take me all the time available to move everything back into the meeting room. I shrugged, turned on the organist’s heater, and decided the congregation would be chilly.

Eventually, it transpired that the Rector’s husband had helpfully come down at 4 o’clock on Wednesday, found the heating wasn’t on, turned it to ‘all day’ and then to ‘off’ after the service. I showed him Wednesday’s time clock, set to 4.30. He was abashed, poor dear man, and I hugged him sympathetically. It was agreed that only one person really needs to take responsibility for the heating and that the control freak of the parish should be it. So I suppose I have a job for life. I mean, I’d be happy to relinquish it, but that means someone keeping a note of every time it needs altering, doing it and then putting it back afterwards. It’s a 7 day clock, so we can set it differently every day, up to three periods of use a day, and only change it once a week. Obviously, some weeks it doesn’t need doing at all. But I don’t see anyone else remembering when school assemblies etc are happening.

Anyway, it wasn’t that cold and no one complained, least of all me with my electric heater.

Ro, Zain and Claire have gone for a hearty and scenic walk around Bath Hills. I have been getting on with some work – yes, really. Al and family have been gardening and the Sage is talking lovingly to his chickens. They are being very free-range at present (their run needs to be moved as they’ve eaten all the grass and in the meantime they’re frolicking all over the garden) so it takes ages to make sure they’re all in the run at the end of the day. Tilly looked at me, quite clearly asking for her dinner early. I looked back, asking with my eyebrows if she was sure? She said she was. My eyes said she could. She looked hopeful, but didn’t jump up until I took my keyboard off my knees – maybe it’s my accent. Chester used to understand every unspoken word. When I got to the kitchen, I found I hadn’t got any tinned dogfood. A little goes on her dried food, which is dull otherwise. I couldn’t disappoint her of course, so I grated some cheese for her. She didn’t mind at all.

Al and family are coming in for dinner this evening. Roast pork and chocolate cake.