I have told the story before, which doesn’t surprise me at all.  Here and here.  I’d said, the previous day, that it was about the time of the anniversary of our engagement (not now, but when the posts were written) so that prompted me at the time.

And, having joined Twitter a while ago but never used it, I have been prompted by Rog finding me there. Bring it on, darlings.  If you use it, please let me know and I’ll follow you, or whatevs.  I’m not quite with it all yet.  But I find half measures a bit dispiriting, so now I’ve made a start I’ll use it.  I’ll find a button to put on the side so you can find me too.

I spent a couple of energetic hours in the garden this morning, which was a very good thing. For more than a week, I’ve been mostly sitting down. And I’ve hardly been sleeping, which is probably a consequence of that. It all looks a lot tidier now, although that’s a relative term. Those of you who have visited here know both that there’s a fair area around the house and that it was pretty scruffy to start with.

This afternoon, the Sage was going to visit our dear friends Arthur and Avery. To my pleased surprise, he suggested I come along. Togetherness isn’t quite the Z and Sage way. I had a brilliant time – the Sage was sorting out his ID at the bank for a while, so left us – Arthur had never quite appreciated that he had been the witness of the Sage and I first getting together … can’t remember if I’ve ever told that tale, but if not I’ll come back to it … but we had a very entertaining reminisce – and this carried on once the Sage returned. Then he produced a huge carrier bag containing three of the four pictures he bought at Bonhams on Thursday. I had asked to see them, but he said he had taken the main one to the restorer, and fobbed me off. I understood this afternoon why he had asked me. He wanted to unwrap them in front of other people. He had bought two watercolours and a charcoal drawing on a whim, unseen, and funked discussing it with me one to one. I have no idea why, I wouldn’t have grumbled, except to ask where they were to be hung. I don’t know why he wouldn’t show me the oil painting before restoration, or maybe just cleaning, either. I’ve seen enough paintings to appreciate potential.

If I’m sounding a bit miffed, well I am. Not that he bought them, although why he has this compulsion is beyond me, nor that he’s secretive, because I’m well used to that. It’s just because it rather detracted from a lovely afternoon with some of our oldest friends.

In talking to A and A about that first meeting, I realised something that I’d managed to forget. In May, we will have been married for 39 years. I’d succeeding (whilst knowing last May that it was 38) to leave out a year, and tell people that this was the 38th. I suddenly feel terribly, terribly old.

Tonight, the Sage kindly cooked dinner. I’m now sitting by the fire, bathed, pyjamaed and dressing-gowned. Quite relaxed, but feeling terribly, terribly old.

It wasn’t really a difficult day, it just felt like it for a while. The Sage had done a valuation and wanted me to type it up, and a couple of publications are to publish pictures from the sale so needed to be sent the photos, so I did all that, and then I took a break to read the paper, so I was in a relaxed frame of mind when I set off for the interviews. I think I will only have one more next week – unless it’s been held over until after Christmas, and I’m quite glad of that. I’ve not been involved with all of them by any means, only the more senior ones.

I had my phone in my jacket pocket on silent, but felt the buzz when I had a call. So, when we had a few minutes’ break, I had a quick look and there was a message from the Sage. I rang him back and he wanted my signature. I had to say that I couldn’t possibly be available for an hour, but to come along after that. To cut a long story short (and it was a long story, the whole thing took a couple of hours), he had slightly cocked up on the bank transfer front and mislaid a chequebook – or possibly a replacement hadn’t arrived and he needed me to help out because he’d made out a fairly large cheque on an account that couldn’t cover it. This was easily dealt with because there was plenty in another account, except for two things – one, that we had to go to the next town because the bank in Yagnub closes in the afternoon, and two, that I next received a text from my tenant saying that the boiler had stopped working. Oh, and three, actually – I was in the middle of interviewing for a new head of faculty. I felt the tight band of stress around my head.

 Of course, it was all fine. We went and got the bank sorted out, and the teller was very helpful although there was some unfamiliar paperwork involved. Then I went and phoned the boiler chap and asked him to liaise with the tenant and get the boiler repaired. I texted the tenant, of course – as I had done, reassuringly, in the first instance. And the interviews were fine.

And now it’s Friday night (thank you, AQ, for telling me I’d lost a day), and all I have to do over the weekend is get ready for Speech Day on Monday. It’ll be fine. What’s to go wrong?

 PS  Mourad the boiler man has just phoned. A new boiler is needed. £1,900 and something. Oh well. What was I saying about there being enough money in the bank? Christmas at the Zedary might be a bit quiet.

Still the good news is that I’ve already got my new iPhone.  They can’t take that away from me, as the song puts it.

I didn’t exactly do any housework today, by which I mean dusting and hoovering and so on, but at least I cleaned the kitchen.  I’d woken up sometime after 2 and knew immediately that I wouldn’t sleep again, so got up after a while and used the quiet time to sort out files on the computer, which I’ve been meaning to do for a while.

This evening, I went to the Winter Concert at the high school, which is where all the students taking individual music lessons perform, solo or in groups.  If they are learning an instrument or singing, they are expected to join a band of some sort.  There are several peripatetic instrumental tutors, but only one music teacher in school (although we will be appointing another one for next September when we gain two extra year groups) and she gives up nearly all her spare time, breaks and lunches, to open the music rooms for practice and extra tuition.

What strikes you more than anything is the enthusiasm and love of music among those young people.  It’s a complete delight and really heart-warming.  We had some brilliant musicians in the past few years, who now have moved on, and there’s a bit of a gap, but it’s rapidly being filled.  I was genuinely impressed by the ability of some of the pupils.  There had been some boys with fine singing voices and now the Man Band has been replaced by the mixed-sex Rock Choir, with a majority of girls, and there are not so many classical instrumentalists at present, although they are coming along, but there are some amazing guitarists.  One band, really quite stunningly good, is only Year 9.  I’d assumed they were older, I wouldn’t have expected such ability or assurance from 13-year-olds.

A friend who works in Aberdeen texted me to say, first that he wasn’t able to get home from work because the roads were closed, then to say they had been opened, but he was being diverted because of floods.  We had a sudden sharp downpour at about 6.30 and it’s still very windy, but nothing like the weather in Scotland and northern England.  I haven’t seen the news tonight, I know there’s a lot of power lines down but I hope nothing worse.

And now, I’m having an early night.  Not an early start in the morning which is good, I might get some washing on.

And tomorrow, I must remember to post a picture of Gus.  I’ve got Weeza’s permission.  It’s fabulous.

Today has been absolutely splendid, my darlings.  Not that it started so well.  I woke around half past midnight, feeling overly warm (and I’m not old enough for the hot flush yet, dear hearts, so it wasn’t that) and realised that the Sage had gone to sleep with the electric blanket on.  I was too dopey to get up, so I edged to the far side and went back to sleep  – and was woken at ten past one by the burglar alarm.  Sadly, the Sage wasn’t.  So I got up, checked for burglars, didn’t bother to check for a mouse or spider but turned the bloody thing off.  I got back into bed, realised the sodding blanket was still on, got out and turned it off, which woke the Sage.  I heard him fumble (at the blanket controls, darlings, please get a grip) and said tersely that I’d already dealt with it…and played iAssociates and other fripperies for the next couple of hours.

Things improved once I’d slept and woken again.  And then I went to visit Weeza and Gus – who was all smiley and gorgeous … well, so was Weeza I suppose … anyway, eventually she went to get Zerlina from pre-school and then I went into the city, as we say about here.  Only, of course, with a glottal stop.  I went down the ci’ee to do some vital shopping.

I do like the Chapelfield mall.  I’m not exactly a shopping mall woman, which won’t surprise you – more a corner shop girl – but it has a good feel to it.  I didn’t know where to go, so went to the place that tells you, touched the screen appropriately, and a helpful young man appeared – as if by magic, my loves, like in Mr Benn – and asked if he could help.  “Is there an O2 shop?” I asked (knowing there was, I’d checked online).  He looked pleased.  “Just along there on the left, the shop before the Norwich and Peterborough.”  “I need to get a key cut.”  “That’ll be Timpsons, slightly further along on the left.”  Darlings, I was dead impressed and told him so.

I got my keys cut by Garth, who was charming and asked what my plans were for the day – no, not in a dodgy way, just conversation.  I told him.  The lady waiting to be served enthused about her iPhone.

The girl at O2 was able to tell me my average phone, text and internet use, which was jolly useful, but they didn’t have iPhones in stock.  So I toddled along to my second home.  And I was welcomed, made to feel lovely by people who understand and have come home with a beautiful 32GB iPhone 4S, which is already making me happy.  I was also happy to find that I can transfer the information on all my apps to it (I’d be gutted if I had to start Angry Birds from scratch) and also keep it all on the old one – everything but the use of the phone itself – and that in due course I can pass it on to the Sage and he can dump his HTC (or rather, sell it).

So then, I took the new keys back to Weeza, checked they worked, gave her one and kept two for us (I have got a key of hers but can’t find it right now) and cuddled Gus and chatted happily to little z.

And, by the way, I’m so glad that Zerlina likes good food.  She ate strong Cheddar, black olives and chorizo sausage for her lunch.  She will never be wary about new tastes, and I think that’s jolly fine.

That was a long day.  We started interviewing at 11.15, finished sometime after 3 and our deliberations lasted a very long time.  They were good interviews, it was a hard choice.  The Sage is in London at a picture sale today – I’m not expecting him back until around 10.  I can’t be bothered to light the fire, so am sitting in the unheated study with my coat on.  Yes, darlings, I know.  I’ll light a few candles to warm myself by.  I’ve been too tired to move until now, but I’ve just fetched myself a glass of wine and I’ll make some dinner in a few minutes.  Toast and Marmite or an egg I expect.  I had salmon and broccoli bake at school for lunch, it was jolly good and I won’t need much tonight.  Poached egg is the most cooking I can face, anyway.

Weeza put a brilliant photo of Gus on Facebook earlier, I’ve asked if I may post it here.  Highly amusing.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to Norwich and see them.  My phone contract is up next week and so I also need to sort out a new one.  That’s as far as I have got in the planning stakes.

I’m sorry, those of you to whom I owe letters (I think there are four of you, at least).  I’m not going to write them tonight either.  I really have to switch my mind off for a bit.  I’m planning to watch a DVD and read a book.  Simultaneously, of course.  I can’t just watch tv, it isn’t possible.

Darlings, if you are wondering why I really should skip a post once in a while, I think this shows it.  Really, quite uninspired.  All the same, it’s good to touch base with you.  Does that make me needy?  Eek.  Or too reliant on habit?  Worse.  I don’t do routine.  

Still interviewing.  So I haven’t really anything to say there.

This evening, however, the Christingle service at the village church.  I was put in charge of the microphones.  Judicious turning up and down of volume, and playing a CD when required.  I was right at the back of the church, and all the singing that happened seemed to be at the front.  So, duty called and I swelled the volume at the back.

I’m no singer, you know.  I can hold a tune, I suppose, but I’ve got limited range (I had a throat operation more than 25 years ago and have used that as an excuse for D to be my highest point, under protest, ever since) and I can’t project a lot.  My speaking voice, that’s different.  I can boom across a crowded room, if necessary (but only if, darlings).  I can’t pretend to have a lot of interest in singing, personally.  I prefer an instrument to speak for me – which probably means, to hide behind.

My mother, who had a perfectly good voice, was very shy of using it in song, and that must have influenced me.  But now, I am humble enough to show confidence, even when misplaced, and so sang aloud.  Al and co came along – Hay was perfectly sweet and smiled at everyone until he finally fell asleep when the Christingles were lit and the lights turned off.  The church was packed.  It was lovely, even though I’m not wildly happy about religious indoctrination for small children, you can’t count Christingle, any more than any other part of the Christmas story, in that vein.

And that’s about all, my dears.  Tomorrow, interviewing for an assistant SENCo.  Six candidates.  They all look good on paper.  Another tricky one, then.  Good luck, as I say at the start of each interview.  It’s my job to ‘put them at their ease’.  Me, darlings.  Heh.

Crikey, I’m having a bit of a moment here.  Being taken right back to when I was a tiny Z.  And I was tiny too, a whopping great baby (nine and a half pounds, darlings, you’d never believe it) and then I seem to have just stopped growing after a year or two and I was this little blonde thing whose clothes just hung on her.  Do you remember, how mothers used to always dress their daughters alike?  I remember one particular red dress, we had one each.  Mine lasted for years, and soon after that I grew into Wink’s, so there I was again.  That dress marked my childhood.

Anyway, that’s not what I came to write about.  When I mentioned the Mole song the other day – I know, I was shocked to find how bad it was, there is nothing to redeem it at all, not even as a novelty – it reminded me of my first two musical loves of a popular nature.  And so I looked them up.  First, this ditty.  I’d have been two.  I know what I liked, it was the marching rhythm, which would have appealed to a toddler, and it was also the lyrics.  Lay down your arms and surrender to mine.  I thought that was incredibly witty, such a clever play on words.

But the this one was my next love.  And, playing it … goodness, I’m in heaven.  I still absolutely adore it.  I can’t manage any sort of critical evaluation, I’m 1957 Z, in love with Perry Como all over again.  I kept the record for years, until Weeza, as a very small child, callously chucked it on the ground, where it shattered, along with my heart.  To be fair, this has been on her conscience for her whole life and she bought me an LP of his, some years ago.  This was on the B side of the original, which is quite nice, but it’s Catch a Falling Star that will forever be Z’s song.  *Sigh*

Another year passed, and my sister bought this record.  You’ve got to agree, it beats the sodding Mole song.

And now I’ve got to look up the divine Perry on Spotify, so that I can play Z’s song whenever I want to.  I’m serious, you know, I’ve gone all tingly.

Events overtook today’s intended post, so that will be inserted another time.

We were going to Norwich today, to meet the Sage’s sister June, Weeza and family and Ro.  However, I had a phone call from Dilly (she and co weren’t coming because it was the school’s Christmas fair).  There was a cow outside their bedroom window.  O K.  The Sage was out.  I went out to investigate, and Whisper was there, quite calmly eating lawn.

I should explain that it’s only Big Pinkie who has a name, the other cows now come with just a number.  So we select a name for that season’s cows.  Last year was Scarlet, this year is Whisper.

I went and said hello and she showed the whites of her eyes in a mildly alarmed manner.  Since she was near beehives, I didn’t want to worry her, so I gave her several pieces of apple and she calmed down.  Cows like apple.  Pinkie was bellowing worriedly for her to go back to the field, but Whisper showed no inclination to return.  It was beyond me to drive her in the right direction single-handedly, so I left her to it until the Sage got home.

And then Pinkie got out.

Anyway, the Pinkster is a wise old cow and very placid, so the Sage and I pointed her in the direction of the gate and she went home.  Whisper nearly did, but then veered off down the drive and ended up on the road.  Fortunately, an oncoming car stopped her from turning towards the village and she went past the church and down the lane to the further end of her field.  Pinkie was making quite a noise, anxious for her friend to return home.  It took quite some time, but in the end, half a ton of cow jumped over a three-strand barbed wire fence and ended up right where she had come from.  We mended the fence, shut the gate, washed our hands, jumped in the car and, thanks to a place in the car park being available right by the entrance, were in John Lewis by the restaurant right on time.

This evening, we went to a quiz at the village hall.  And we did pretty well, considering there was a round of 20 questions on Christmas hit tunes that we didn’t know, and came third.  Guttingly, Al and Dilly’s team came second.

And so, my darlings, to bed.  An hour’s sleep last night and then a short doze in the morning does not do the Z wrinkles any good at all.  I look positively wizened.

With thanks to Tim.

I’ve led something of a charmed life and have had hardly any mishaps.  My sister, on the other hand, always seemed to be the unlucky one and has a number of scars.  I can pretty well itemise mine.

The first dates from the time I was picking roses for my mother, using scissors rather than secateurs.  Unfortunately, I absent-mindedly left the index finger of my left hand just behind the stem of a rose and I nearly succeeded in cutting a sizeable chunk out of it.  The scar hardly shows now, however, being hidden among the other creases of my knuckle.

The second, I received in my early teens.  I hated organised games.  I’m not a team player, frankly, and was less one then.  I have little or no competitive spirit and was an independent little soul.  If I were a child now, I’d probably be tested for autism, so blinkered was I.  I put it down, now, to shyness and short-sightedness.  However, there was one unfortunate day when I actually made an effort in hockey – surely the ghastliest game known to schoolgirls, not least because of the short pleated navy skirts we had to wear, which made the slightest lass look hippy.  I was short and small, but reasonably nippy, and I dived forwards – sadly, so did a tall girl called Leonarda (I remember her surname, but it would hardly be fair to mention it here) who probably lifted her hockey stick a shade high as I dived a shade low…my mouth got in the way.

I was so polite, you know.  I was taken off to be sorted out, blood streaming from my mouth, and left the premises at the end of the day with a thoroughly fat lip.  I turned my head as my mother drove up and got in the car, so that I could tell her what had happened before she saw it and was horrified.  I have a scar on my lip, but I doubt you’d know it was there.  I can feel the scar tissue, but sometimes can’t see it myself.  Remarkably and thankfully, my tooth was completely undamaged.

The worst other thing that happened to me in childhood was a sprained wrist.  Honestly, I was either very careful or extremely lucky.  Maybe the one goes with the other, but I give credit to my guardian angel.  You may scoff all you like at any of my religious beliefs, but never say a word of doubt concerning him.  He is there, literally.  It’s not even a case of belief.  It’s a fact.

Nothing else ever went amiss with me until I was around thirty years old, and then I ran up against Thumper, as one of our rabbits was unimaginatively called.  He was brown and a bit stroppy.  I was feeding him in his hutch, put some food in his bowl, then reached to put the rest in, and he bit me.  Little beast.  I have one scar on my right hand where the lower incisors went in, and another long one where he raked down my hand with his top teeth.  I smacked him and never fed him again without gloves on.

That was it, you know, until I had my hip op.  I did have an operation on my vocal cords, but there is minimal scarring there (I wasn’t allowed to speak for weeks, darlings, can you imagine? until it had healed) and you’d have to put your whole head in my mouth to look for it, and that would block out the light.

On the other hand, I’ve got a shedload of moles.  The one under my right arm is known as the Mole that Lives in a Hole.  Back in the day, my sister teased me about it and I was quite sensitive.  Now, I’m quite fond of it, only hoping it never turns squiffy.

Here you go.   Let it never be said that music in the ’50s was anything but totally crap.