Normal for Norfolk.  Why did I say that?  The day has been a disaster, particularly for the Sage.

He went off to Lowestoft this morning, and phoned me about 1 pm to say he was at Mike’s.  Apparently, the bonnet catch on his car had suddenly failed, the bonnet flew up – fortunately, he was in town so was driving slowly – and cracked the windscreen.  He was able to stop, tie down the bonnet, make a hole in the windscreen (that must have been fun, the temperature hasn’t risen to freezing all day) and get back.

I was sympathetic, but luckily Mike was willing to drive him home as I had a governors’ meeting to get to (and chair) for 2 o’clock – though I planned to arrive at 1.30.

The meeting went well, thanks, and we managed to get through Safeguarding training, two staff presentations and a full agenda by 4.30.  Hah!  Nailed it.  I’m getting to grips with this job, I’ll be right up to speed by the time I retire.  Unfortunately, I failed the *time off for good behaviour* test.

There was another meeting afterwards so I didn’t get home until after half past five.  But that was fine.  The Sage then said he was off to fill his van with diesel.  That was fine.  A while later, the phone rang.  The Sage’s van wouldn’t start.  He’d stopped to pop into a shop and the battery seemed to be flat.  I was immediately helpful – who wouldn’t be? – and got straight in the car and went to help.  I stopped, bonnet to bonnet, we looked for my car’s battery … it was in the boot.  Who knew?  There was a turning space just behind, that’s all right, I said helpfully.

My car wouldn’t start.  Flooded the engine, I expect.  I waited a few minutes, tried again.  The car started! and stopped.  Engine still flooded, I expected.  I waited etc.

Half an hour later, my battery was flat too.  We rang Al.

We didn’t know that Al had had a wisdom tooth extracted today, so was feeling a bit sorry for himself.  However, he kindly came straight in and we put the jump leads on his van.  My car started.  I kept my foot on the accelerator to be sure, but a minute later it stopped and wouldn’t start again.

Okay.  We were all on double yellow lines.  We decided to push the van and car into a shop’s parking spaces.  We got the Sage’s in, then started to push mine.  Someone drove up, someone we knew.  He helped.  I made a total pig’s ear of steering – fighting the wheel because without the engine the power steering was off, being pushed so hard that I couldn’t judge my turning space – eventually it was done without mishap and no harm except to my girlie pride.  Al, who hadn’t dared turn his engine off, took us to get diesel because he was no longer confident of having enough fuel to get to work, and drove us home.  He wasn’t very happy about taking us in again with a replacement battery, as he has to leave for work at 5 in the morning and it had already been drained by his attempts at starting my car.  Oh, by the way, a passer-by had tried to start the Sage’s van without success from her battery.

I suggested that I drive Dilly’s car in next morning to take the replacement battery, early because she was going out.  However, Al came in a few minutes later to say that Dilly was worried that we might have an accident on slippery roads, so wasn’t willing to lend her car.  Okay.  We’ll have to take the battery in on foot, in a wheelbarrow, I said.

But I rethought that, after a while.  I mean, really.  A mile and a half on a slippery pavement or road, with a bloody battery in a sodding wheelbarrow?  So I rang my friend Brenda.  Who was out.  So I rang my friend Barry.  Who was in.  Thank goodness.

At 8 o’clock tomorrow morning, Barry will be here to drive us and the battery to rescue at least one vehicle.  And yes, we’ve spoken to the owner of the private car park.  And yes, I do have breakdown cover, but that’ll be the next and last resort, because they take quite some time to come.  I certainly wasn’t hanging about for them this evening.  As it was, thank goodness I made plenty of jolly nice soup on Monday, because we were glad of it tonight.  Plus a big glass of red wine.

Normal for Norfolk, my left foot.  I’m jolly well going to bed.  Goodnight, darlings and, if you have been, thanks for listening.

We went to visit, for a short time, our friend whom I mentioned the other day (in the post I accidentally deleted) who has terminal cancer.  We have promised that one or other of us will call in to see him every day.

I mentioned that the hospital, which has received a fair bit of bad publicity for its care of the elderly following inspections recently, had upset him very much – or rather, an insensitive doctor had.  Apparently, the doctor asked if he’d been told what was wrong with him.  He replied that he’d been told there was a blockage.  “It’s no blockage, you’ve got cancer.”

This bald statement came as a considerable shock.  He was alone, his family had not been invited to be with him and he had no idea in advance of the diagnosis, never mind the grim prognosis.

Nine years ago last September, my mother was in receipt of similar news.  There was no comparison between the way the two of them were told.  My mother had Wink and me with her and we were told with great compassion by a young and anxious doctor who was trying very hard to be as kind as possible.  All the same, it was a huge shock.

You would not think it would have been.  My mother was desperately ill and, only a few days before, I’d said to her GP – and shocked him by saying it – “is it worth her going to hospital?  She would prefer to die in her own bed, I wouldn’t want her to go there and not come out again alive.”  He reckoned it was worth it, and the palliative care she received unexpectedly enabled her to have a wonderful quality of life for her final six months.  However, and I cannot understand it but assure you it’s the case, whilst we expected her to die within days (and had been told that on her admission to hospital), to be told that she had terminal cancer was still terrible news and oddly surprising.  We all clung together and cried.

Our friend is still able to sit in a chair and was reading the newspaper when we arrived.  We kissed each other, I held him, we talked.  I asked if there was anything he wanted me to do, now or later for his wife.  He suggested that I might help most by shooting him, and we all cried.

What do you say?  I said that I loved him and couldn’t bear to think of losing him.  I reminded him of the last time he came round when Chester was still alive, the day before the vet visited.  Chester brightened to see his old friend, staggered over and butted him lovingly in the knees, as he always had.  He smiled, remembering.

Sorry loves, don’t mean to upset you, but I know this will.  I’ll be back to Normal for Norfolk by tomorrow.

The Sage was out most of the day at a funeral.  Please don’t take it amiss if I say that he thoroughly enjoyed it.  He saw a number of people he hadn’t talked to for decades.

That’s how it is though, isn’t it?  Weddings and funerals are where you mostly meet up with old acquaintances, and you reach the age when the latter are the better bet.  For one thing, it’s not nearly so noisy and the service will probably be way shorter.  No speeches and no necessity to dance.  The dress code is usually straightforward, certainly for the men, as women might just be asked to make a point of wearing colour.  There is no requirement to buy a new outfit, however.

Best of al, you meet lots of old friends and, since you’ve all grown old together, you recognise each other, have the pleasure of murmuring “bless my soul, Algie’s aged a bit,” whilst being blissfully unaware that you have too.

It gave me the opportunity for a quiet day.  Housework in the morning, a nap in the afternoon and then I cooked.  A model of domesticity, darlings.  Left me with nothing to talk about tonight, mind you.  Could have been a non-blogging day really, but I thought I’d treat myself.

I went to feed the chickens at lunch time.  Poor things, about half of them were standing about disconsolately in the snow, looking bewildered.  They didn’t come to eat their corn.  Two had ventured further and did, and the rest stayed in the hut.

I don’t think I ever finished the story of the Christmas Eve chicken.  I probably mentioned that we’d been given three young bantam cocks and that she has been mothering them.  In view of that, we were quite upset to be told that her owner had been found, because we didn’t want to have to give her back.  However, it was a very sad story so there was, we thought, no alternative.

The father of a young family died suddenly of a heart attack just before Christmas, and it was one of his half-dozen chickens that had got out.  When told about it, we thought that we’d leave talking to the widow until after the funeral, a couple of days later.  However, by the time the Sage went to see her, she had decided that she couldn’t cope with chickens on top of everything else, and had given them to her neighbour.  She was quite happy that we should keep the extra one.  So all is well here, the hen is laying lots of eggs – one almost every day – and has settled in splendidly.

Snow fell yesterday evening, but most of it arrived overnight, to give us all a lovely awakening.  Fortunately, it was overcast and cold all morning, so when I arrived home from church it hadn’t started to melt at all.  On my way home, I met the family coming down the drive, off for a walk, so I hurried back home to start building my own snowman.

It wasn’t perfect construction snow, because it clumped together but wasn’t easily shaped, suddenly breaking apart unexpectedly.  So my snowman is rather tall and thin.

And then I cleared the snow in front of the door and from the paving, and then I decided to construct a little dog outside the door.

I rather love it, wonky nose and all.

Then I went to join Al and Squiffany, who’d been sledging.  Pugsley had got cold and gone indoors by this time.

They had made snowmen while I was out.  Here they are.  As you’ll see from the light, I photographed them rather later in the day.

It’s been brilliant.

Sorry about yesterday’s post getting deleted. Comes of faffing about on a small screen while watching television and talking at the same time.

I curled up and went to sleep this afternoon, which was a good use of time in the circumstances. What’s annoying about the hours I spend awake most nights is the complete waste it is. I really can’t get up and do anything useful between 1 and 4 in the morning, which is when I’m usually awake, especially at this time of year when it’s too cold to get up unless I’m giving up entirely and getting dressed and on with the day.

Anyway, that’s more than enough of a dull subject. There was a sprinkling of snow last night, barely enough to look pretty, though it did make the day bright, especially when the sun came out. More is forecast, but who knows if it’ll reach here? The Met Office app on my phone, which has recently updated to give all sorts of gizmos, says that the temperature is -3°C … feels like -9°, it adds ominously. It also gives an amber warning of snow, whatever that means. Ah, read the full forecast. Significant accumulations of snow are likely, it says. Oh I say, jolly good. Sunday is the best day for that because most people can either go and frolic or hole up in the warm. The new forecast is impressively wordy actually, which suits me nicely. A picture doesn’t paint a thousand words for me, I’m not a very visual person. A thousand words paint a far more descriptive picture. Or music. Reading music is more than looking at the notes on a page.

Oops.  Sorry, I accidentally deleted that post.  Meant to reply to comments, clicked in wrong place, pressed wrong button.  Um.

Maybe it’s time to hit the bottle.  Pah, really darlings.

If anyone still has it in their feedreader (the non-post has updated to Google Reader), then if you send it to me i’ll repost.  Otherwise, I think that comes down as the first post I’ve ever deleted.  And there wasn’t even any hot gossip which would have been better unsaid.

Several hours awake each night took its toll yesterday.  I cooked dinner, we ate it, I sat on the sofa and was suddenly exhausted.  I slept briefly, then lumbered upstairs, bathed and was in bed before 9 – and didn’t get up until 9 this morning.  Still several wakeful hours, but lots of sleep around them.

I’ve been very impressed by online service this week.  I ordered a new electric blanket from John Lewis on Monday afternoon and, rather than the promised 5 working days, I had a despatch email at 4.30 the next morning (yes, I was awake to receive it) and it arrived yesterday morning.  The Sage’s laptop’s lead stopped working and he couldn’t charge his computer, which was a disaster, darlings, a disaster – off eBay for a whole two days! – so Ronan found me a replacement, I ordered it on Tuesday afternoon (that was from eBay) and it arrived in yesterday morning’s post soon after 9 am.  Terribly impressive, it beats the old ‘allow 28 days for delivery’ from pre-internet mail order into a cocked hat.

I lay in bed this morning listening to the Sage clearing out the fireplace.  It’s one of the pleasant sounds in life isn’t it, listening to someone else working for your benefit?  His too, of course – we both love a proper fire and wouldn’t be without it for anything.  There is a fair bit of work, in the carrying in of the coal and wood and clearing out the grate, but what isn’t any bother is the extra housework.

I did a spot of dusting this morning, and was struck anew by how easy it is!  Dusting is marvellous really, have you ever noticed?  Just a wipe and the dust is simply gone!  A daysworth or a yearsworth, it makes no difference, it’s as good natured as can be and just wipes off in a moment.

I’m a casual housekeeper, I have no hesitation or shame in admitting it.  I don’t like the house to be too tidy.  If there aren’t books and newspapers about, a house doesn’t look lived in and if all the cushions are perfectly plumped up, no one dares sit down comfortably.  The house used to need more cleaning when Chester, my late setter, was alive, because he lounged on the furniture and shed hairs all over the place, which tended to gather in drifts.  So I had to sweep and hoover frequently – and how I wish I still had to.  I’d do any amount of extra work if it would bring lovely Chester back.  Now, I tend only to clear cobwebs away when the dust on them starts to turn brown – and am careful, of course, to leave the spiders, which are my friends.

But dusting is easy as pie, and you don’t even need a duster.  Who hasn’t, when expecting guests to arrive at any moment, noticed a shaft of sunlight on a table showing up the one item you omitted to dust, and swept a tissue or even the side of a hand over it?

Oh.  Okay, well, I have, lots of times.  Anyway, the point is that it does the bizz.

Although mind you, it’s only dust.  Who cares anyway?

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