I weighed Anastasia yesterday and she’s gained 9 grams since I woke her from hibernating.  That’s quite a relief as it took her a week or so to start eating much.  She still mostly eats lamb’s lettuce, but she ate nearly half a rose petal today.  Variety in a tortoise’s diet is quite important.  Did you watch Esio Trot the other night?  I am not usually fussy about detail, but I found the tortoise husbandry bit quite hard to take.  Cabbage is not recommended, certainly not as their entire diet, and being kept indoors with no sun lamp is no good at all for their shells.  And sitting cuddling them doesn’t suit their temperament.  I had to deep-breathe a bit.

I’m sleeping extremely badly at present.  I think it was the realisation that Christmas was over and I had to get back to reality.  I fall asleep, wake after a short nap and then worry for the next few hours.  To distract myself from worry, I can read or play a game on my phone, but the light from it isn’t conducive to great sleep.  Nor is worrying, however.  Last night, I was in bed before 11, asleep by half past, awake again well before midnight.  I went downstairs at 3, cleaned the kitchen, made porridge and a cup of tea, had breakfast in bed and finally slept around 4 o’clock, fitfully, for a couple more hours.

No, this is not good.  I need lots and lots of lovely sleep and I have to think my way through the problem.  For a start, I think I should go to bed later.  I sometimes plan to watch a film on my iPad, but it isn’t happening at present because I’m too tired. I’m even too tired to read a book – yet, if I nap before midnight, I wake refreshed after a short time.  The trouble is at present, of course, that I’m too tired to go to bed late.

The other thing is to crack on and get the damn work done.  It’s going to take ages to do it all, months if not a couple of years.  My friend Sophie, whose husband died after a short illness when he was in his early fifties, told me that it took her four years to get everything sorted out.  The worst was their property in France because French laws were so difficult to deal with (and this was fifteen years ago, I think it’s a lot worse now).  She also was the one who said that emotionally she found the second year worse than the first.  But I can’t think about that and have to do what I can right now.  Today, Al and Dilly kindly came over and helped me with some papers and we found a few more important documents.  There are still quite a number that haven’t turned up yet, but we have a little more hope there.

The good news is that I’ve arranged to go and spend a few days with Zig again soon.  Her daughter is still with her at present, but I’ll go down after that.

The other good news is that I’m really enjoying the dramatisation of War and Peace that was broadcast over ten hours on New Year’s Day.  I’m not sure how I’d get on with the size of the cast if I’d not read it and I do find not giving the correct names is patronising and it brings out my more feminist indignation  – in Russian, a man’s surname is Bolkonsky and his wife or sister’s is Bolkonskaya: Petrov or Petrova – this is not hard to grasp and not doing so takes away any authenticity.  However, I’m not letting it get to me.

I’ve had a splendid idea – well, I think so.  Yesterday, I measured out 125 ml of wine into my glass,  to see how much that actually was.  I was pleased to note that it’s more than I usually pour as a measure.  So today, I did it the other way round.  13.5% wine has 10.1 units in a 750 ml bottle, so I did it the other way round and measured out 75 ml, ie one unit.  That’s slightly less than I usually pour myself, but not much.  Once I get used to the quantity and don’t have to measure it every time (my scales can be set to weigh in millilitres, I’m not having to use a jug), it’ll be a useful check on what I drink.  In fact, I reckon on a bottle of wine lasting three nights and often use a splash of that in cooking, which reduces its alcohol content, so I feel reasonably comfortable about the matter anyway.  I can’t promise not to have the occasional liver-pickling session of course but, apart from that splendid New Year’s Eve party, I’ve only once come unstuck since Russell died and I didn’t drink that much then, I don’t know what happened but it hit me dismayingly hard and I woke up on the bathroom floor at midnight, having not quite dared to go straight to bed, with a sense of shame and a resolve not to do that again.  One learns more from failure, as we tell our students when encouraging them to take risks.  And yes, I know it’d be a good idea to have a couple of nights a week when I don’t drink at all, but frankly that’s not realistic.

i went to a Nadfas lecture today, on the painting of the Sistine Chapel, which was very interesting and splendidly delivered.  As I went in, one of the committee greeted me warmly but rather too sympathetically and a lump rose in my throat – yes, I’d had to pluck up a degree of backbone to go, but not that much and I’d had a couple of brief, smiling chats already.  There’s a fine line in regard to the best approach and meeting it head on is quite all right, except that four months on, maybe a cheerful “lovely to see you, hope you’re doing okay” is a bit more tactful in a roomful of people.  One the way out, I spotted another friend and didn’t catch her eye, I wasn’t equal to the possibility of more sympathy.

The local cyder club is having its annual wassail party and, because it’s on the eve of Burns Night, they’ve decided on a Scottish theme.  The combination of rotgut cider and haggis is too much for me and I’m giving it a miss this year.  The Yacht Club is adding a piper and poetry to their bash the next night – sadly, though I’m rather fond of Burns, I’ve never been anywhere where they’ve piped in the haggis and I never intend to.  I have no idea how it’s come about that a dish of offal and oatmeal is treated with more ceremony than the magnificence of English roast beef, but people can take pride in strange things.  I don’t mind haggis, but I’d never actually choose it from a menu.

The accountant has sent me my tax returns for the year.  I haven’t opened them yet.  That’s the job for tonight, along with a form from the Inland Revenue to fill in, to work out my new tax code. I just have to open three envelopes (yes, that’s how many tax returns to be filed this year: yes, I pay a lot to my accountant) and check figures and sign my name, look up some figures and fill in a form.  I can do that.  It’s not as if it’s difficult, it’s – oh look, I’m just going to open the damn envelopes and find out how much I’ve got to pay.

Oh! This is a low payment year – because of the odd way that the self-employed tax is dealt with, I always way overpay one year and don’t have much to pay the next.  I’ve got less than £1,200 to pay.  I’ve saved up masses in preparation and most of it isn’t needed.

 I have fish for supper and have put a potato in the Aga to bake and picked some Swiss chard.  I will have another glass of wine, in the happy knowledge that I don’t drink more than is good for me after all.  Or not often, anyway.

When I was a child, there was an advertisement, or rather a warning to children, not to go off with a stranger, whatever he said.  It finished with a child clutching an ice cream cone, then dropping it in terror.  I’ll never be free of the sight or feeling – I’ve never told anyone this before, of course – and it scared and horrified me then and now.

I was about the age of some of the victims of the Moors murderers, Brady and Hindley.  They made a lasting impression too.

I have had to go to school Safeguarding training on several occasions and the same awful stories are always brought up: Lauren, Jasmine, Peter, Holly and Jessica and the other little children who were murdered.  That any lessons to be learned are irrelevant to a governor of a secondary school, who needs to know – far more pertinently – about harm done to teenagers means nothing, I have to listen to the failings of social services and sometimes of schools and the wickedness of parents, step-parents or psycopaths, all directed at small children.  I’m due to do the training again and I really don’t want to.  I doubt that the awful revelations about vulnerable teenage girls forced into prostitution will be mentioned at all, though I don’t remember their schools being referred to critically.  If a previously good student starts to show signs of stress, rebellion, lack of progress; we take it seriously, contact the parents, offer help and look for a possible cause.  If anything goes awry with a small child, the school is looked at and criticised if nothing was done to help, but the pastoral role of a secondary school is overlooked by the pundits, yet that’s sometimes the most likely source of help for an ill-treated teenager, or it should be.  Even if a child has always been troubled, help and support should be given and the parents included in that.  

Once one is a parent, one never loses the feeling of protectiveness or an underlying anxiety about the safety of the family.  As they grow up, get life partners and children, one’s mental protecting shield just keeps on growing to cover them all, or one hopes to.

I’ve had Hadrian here for the day and I’ve several emails that should be answered, but they will have to wait until the morning.  I’m off to bed early, didn’t sleep last night.  On the other hand, I’ve listened to a lot of good radio.  Goodnight, darlings.

There seems to be a lot of critical enthusiasm for the second series of a programme called Broadchurch, which seemed to have passed me by, first time round.  Then I looked it up and realised why I didn’t watch it.  Weeza put on Facebook today that she had watched a film called Under The Skin last night, but had been unable to finish it because, well made as it was, the plot involved an abandoned child and she couldn’t take it and wished she could scour her memory.

It’s the new dramatic porn, isn’t it?  At one time it was sexual abuse of children,  or it was autobiographies of people who had been cruelly treated, usually by their parents, in childhood, which then turned to dramatisations of such awfulness.  Now, it’s abduction and murder.  Not real-life cases, however distressing, but fiction.

No, I can’t take it and I don’t want anyone to make money out of it.  I can only sympathise with those who write of personal experiences and hope that they find it cathartic, but I don’t feel able to pollute my mind with horrible things that can’t be forgotten.  I certainly can’t accept using such stuff for simply commercial purposes.

As a subject, it’s hardly new.  Look back to the New Testament and the Massacre of the Innocents, for example, though this was not reported for queasily salacious effect.  Oliver Twist.  Murder on the Orient Express.  But the plot didn’t centre on cruelty to children in these stories, as it does now.

And let’s change the subject and finish with the usual Z good cheer.  Zerlina and Gus were delightful, we had bacon and eggs for breakfast and later made cakes and did lots of good things.  Tomorrow, young Hadrian will be here, and it seems that he’s recovering, so I hope we can have fun too.  Tonight, I ate smoked trout with pasta in a cream and wine sauce and lots of vegetables.  And I’ve caught up on the washing, if not the ironing.

Weeza and co came over for lunch and the children are staying the night.  School doesn’t start until Tuesday, but Weeza and Phil are back to work tomorrow.  So I’m lucky enough to be spending the day being Granny.  We will make cake, certainly.  I also need to go down to the local store – we’re lucky enough to have a place just down the road that sells hardware and stuff, also chicken feed, which is what I need.  I actually need to buy it in quantity, but a bag at a time will do for now.  They sell small pets, rabbits, guinea pigs, birds and fish, so the children enjoy going to see them.  They’re beautifully looked after and the pets sell quickly, it’s not a depressing pet store will unhappy animals.

The frost lay on the ground all day, but it’s due to be milder next week, which is good because I have some roses to plant, which I didn’t manage to do before Christmas.  Zerlina and Gus helped me to take down the Christmas tree today and I rather miss it.  I usually wait until Twelfth Night, being the traditional sort, but even I can’t pretend that the season extends any further, now that even the offices are opening again.  On Tuesday, I’m likely to have little Hay for the day because Dilly will be at work and he isn’t very well – if you remember, he came here for a day a couple of weeks before Christmas and was quite poorly, just lay on the sofa looking unhappy.  Sadly, the same virus, or whatever it is, seems to have recurred.  The whole family has had it, but he’s had it twice.

Gosh, I ramble on.  Um, there must be something interesting…well, no, I’m afraid not.  It’s been an enjoyable afternoon and evening because of having the family here, but not remarkable.  But that’s reminded me of what I was pondering when I couldn’t sleep last night.

I’m being very purposeful and taking any bit of enjoyment I can about anything, planning for the future but keeping it at a nice rosy distance so that I don’t have to focus too beadily on anything specific.  Maybe, in a small way, it’s a bit like someone who has been through an awful ordeal or illness and takes as much as they can from every day, treats each moment as a bonus, lives each day as if it’s their last, and so on.  However, to tell the truth, in the dark moments of the night, I can’t help seeing it all for the nonsense it is.  None of it matters, does it? But there’s no alternative.  If you’re going to keep going, you have to pretend it does.

I watched two films tonight, one was so violently unpleasant that I was startled, the other was a comedy and I was reading at the end, so I don’t know what happened.  I could have spent the time better, really.  Actually, I rather more enjoyed Zerlina’s choice earlier, which was a couple of episodes of Horrid Henry.  I like Horrid Henry, repellent little brat that he is.  Gus chose Fireman Sam and the little boy in that, Norman, is thoroughly annoying.  When he disobediently went to the edge of a cliff, which crumbled so that he fell down it, I startled the children and myself by saying aloud that, with any luck, he wouldn’t survive the fall.  I had to pretend I was joking.  Of course, the fire brigade was called and annoying Norman got to say “sorry, Mam,” to his mother yet again.  I seem to take the plots of children’s cartoons rather too seriously, on the whole.

Bedtime, darlings.  I really didn’t sleep much last night and I’ll be splendidly busy tomorrow.  Goodnight xxx

Dear Spike and Dave were still smiling this morning and they didn’t take shelter – I hadn’t thought they would, but knowing you have the option is not a bad thing, when you have a young child.  They’re now rather hoping for snow deep enough to dig out a camp in, which I agree would be great fun.

So, I made them hot chocolate and then had hardly waved goodbye when my friend Colin arrived.  We were drinking tea when our friend Dave (Dave East, that is) arrived, by arrangement, to measure up for a DIY job he’s doing for me.  That is, DIH, I suppose.  One of the ones that the Sage had on his list for 20 years and more.  He had many good qualities, but he was a starter, not a completer and, since I’m the latter, I always had to exercise patience.

He did too, mind you, but completely discreetly.  I have little idea what about me irritated him, because he was too polite to say.  I don’t think this is a good thing, because I’m fine about taking a hint and I’d simply have stopped or changed or whatever, but he preferred to keep quiet about such things.  I don’t care for rudeness either, I should say, but a nicely-worded explanation is fine.  Or maybe I’m perfect and nothing irritated him.*

So, Dave measured up and we chatted some more and he went off with the wood to do the job.  I had Christmas pudding for lunch (look, it needs to be eaten.  I warmed it in butter, drizzled it with brandy, which I set on fire, and ate it with cream.  This is an excellent way of eating leftover Christmas pudding) and then I lay down and had a nap.  I can only think it’s lack of alcohol, I get sleepy in the afternoons.

Later, I went to the supermarket.  I have to say, the slack-jawed yokels were out in force, mostly blocking the aisles.  One portly young woman with a baby in a pushchair blocked me twice so that I had to go another way, she being oblivious the while; the bread aisle was so full of men staring and wondering what to buy that I had to go and do some other shopping before getting my loaf for myself and one for the chickens; the same young woman took up more than half of another aisle but I was able to squeeze past, carefully easing the wheels of my trolley past the wheels of her buggy – she noticed but neither said anything nor moved to give me room – then, two men blocked the wine aisle so that I couldn’t get past to the bogroll aisle, that had been blocked by two other people.  The place wasn’t even that busy.  A friend posted on Facebook that she had been sneered at by a woman going the wrong way up a one-way street.  It seems that the holiday season has been a bit much for some people.

Tonight, I have played the clarinet, cooked dinner (the lastest last of the Christmas beef) and I’m watching something on Netflix, but I can’t remember its name.  An American series, part one of the pilot.  If it’s good, it’ll last me weeks.

*Absolutely not the case

That is, I hope I’ll still have happy campers by the morning, it’s not due to rain until about 7 o’clock.

Last night, my friend Gill phoned, wondering if Bex might be able to bring Ben round, so that her granddaughter Holly could see him.  Gill is Ben’s owner number 1.  I, of course, am Ben’s owner number 2 and Bex is Ben’s owner number 3.  Bex, being endlessly kind and goodnatured, popped round this morning and so the doggy was in the unusual situation of having three loving one-time owners all in the room at the same time.  He made a big fuss of everyone and then lay down; having walked two miles he was quite relaxed about things.

Bex’s son Spike is keen on camping, even at this time of the year, and she asked if I’d mind him and his dad coming and setting up camp on the Ups and Downs.  That’s fine of course, they’re most welcome, and she suggested that the dog might like to come and sleep with me, on the grounds that he’d probably bark at the least sound all night if he were camping too.

I’m not sure what sort of bivouac they have, but they are tentless, which sounds interesting in January.  I think it’s a jolly good thing though, to encourage the adventurous spirit.  I’ve left tea, coffee and drinking chocolate out in case they are just too cold in the night and would like to come in the house, but I think they’re made of stern stuff.  I’m right out of bacon, but I have eggs, in case they can’t get their camp fire lit in the morning.

Not that my hens are laying at all, I haven’t had a single egg since before Christmas.  They’re quite happy, eating well and not moulting, just conserving their energy.  Or something.  I’ll be overwhelmed with eggs again in the spring and will be giving them away, but now I have to buy eggs.  Tonight, I used up the last of the Christmas beef – or rather, I made a dish with it.  I only ate half, so it lives to fight another day.  Just the one, though.  And the Stilton is nearing its end, soon I’ll only have pudding and cake to go.

I was sorely tempted to have a glass of wine tonight, not for the alcohol but because I had nothing else in the house fit to drink.  I know I’ve banged on about this before, I’ve still not solved the problem.  I drank water with a generous squeeze of lemon juice before dinner, nothing with and a cup of tea after.  Awfully dull.  I don’t feel the loss of alcohol, but I do of flavour.  By 6 o’clock tomorrow, it’ll have been about 66 hours.  That’ll have given my liver plenty of time to process umpteen units of alcohol, innit?

Weeza and Phil had been invited to a party, so were going to ask me to babysit.  Then their friends decided to ask the children too, as all their intended guests had kids about the same age – they could have tea and play and then stay for a sleepover.  So they kindly invited me along (to the grown-ups’ party, I can read your minds, darlings) too.  Next, they thought it would be best if everyone stayed the night.  Now, they are my kind of hosts!

When they moved into their new home a couple of months ago, Weeza was shown round by Sarah and she enthused to me about it and we looked it up, it was still on Rightmove.  It was that house that gave me the idea of moving to a riverside home.  It is a gorgeous house, modern and spacious, with two small islands, a slipway and a boathouse that gives them seclusion from the river itself.  I’d not want anything that large, but the situation is wonderful.

The other friends did the first course, our hosts did the main, Weeza did pudding and took a fabulous bottle of vintage (1977) port that her boss had given her about a year ago.  I provided nibbles beforehand, while the children were eating – olives, chorizo sausage with Manchego cheese, grilled and marinated red peppers with feta cheese, cheese straws.  We also polished off the children’s leftovers – a party that starts at 6 pm and won’t finish until after midnight requires plenty of food.  The eighth at the table was Sarah’s mother, down from Yorkshire for the holiday.

I can’t remember the last time I drank as much as that, it’s a good job that it was over six hours because we all packed a lot away.  By midnight, when the champagne came out, I had to concentrate hard not to have slight double vision, though I know that’s largely because of wearing one contact lens and having different sight out of each eye.  All the same, it was a combination of tiredness and I don’t know how much alcohol.  When we finally got to bed around 2 am, I slept very soundly.  And we hung around for a long time in the morning, eating bacon sandwiches.  Then I went for a walk down to the river with Elizabeth (Sarah’s mum) and her dog and the situation was just as lovely as I thought and has absolutely confirmed my hope of where to live.

Roses kindly fed the chickens and Anastasia for me and asked me in for a cup of tea when I got back.  Later, I had a long, hot bath and then curled up on the sofa and went to sleep.  I’m going to retreat to bed soon with my iPad and watch a film or something on Netflix, to take advantage of the quietness of the day.

I didn’t have a hangover, thank goodness, but I think my liver could do with a chance to recover, so I’m staying off the booze for a day or two.  This is not going to turn into some sort of detox, though.  A few days is plenty.

No resolutions this year, though it’ll be a year to be resolute.

As Vicus would say, love and peace.