I realised that I have not eaten much today. I had the juice of two oranges and a slice of dry bread for breakfast, and at lunchtime the Sage needed me and my car to tow Al’s van to the garage. Al was relieved that it made it home last night. It started to make an odd chugging sound when he was delivering a box of veg and he didn’t really want to have to walk home at the end of a day on his feet. This morning he meant to take it to the garage, but it wouldn’t start at all.
So the time reserved for lunch was spent pushing the van to a place it was attachable to the car and driving very slowly through Yagnub to the garage. When we reached the roundabout (only one roundabout in this town), fortunately there was no traffic for a minute so I simply turned right instead of going all the way round and risking wrapping the tow rope round the Black Dog. After this, I didn’t have time to eat and just grabbed half a slice of ham and an olive.
As a result, I was hungry by 6 and made a little bowlful of olives – black with chillies and green with lemon, flavoursome cheddar cheese and a few mini oatcakes. The pleasured anticipation, as I poured a glass of red wine too, made me realise that I really haven’t been giving myself enough edible treats, recently. Although delicious, it was not quite exciting enough for the degree of happiness I felt.
My book has still not turned up, but I have made a reasonable fist of the minutes and sent them to the Chairman with a confession. I hope he will be able to fill in any gaps. He is a dear man and I have tested his patience twice within a week. I feel very embarrassed. I have suggested that, either I resign and bother the Catholics or Quakers instead of the Church of England, or that he gives me a great deal of annoying work to do at once, for I will not protest. But he probably would not trust me with it any longer.
I called on Dilly and the children. Dilly was giving Pugsley some puréed pear. He mumbled it around his mouth for a while and some was returned to his chin. “I’m not sure how much he actually swallows,” she said. “When he has sweet potato, he makes an awful mess and you can see how much – or little – has gone down his throat.” When he had had most of it spooned in his mouth, his face crumpled and he shut his mouth. Dilly tried another spoonful, but he put his bib over his face. As soon as she put down the dish and took off his bib, he smiled again. I’m not sure that this baby will need to learn to speak.
PS. The Sage has just handed me a letter from Norfolk County Council about risks from Avian Flu. It is, I am happy to say, well written, sensible and reassuring without resorting to ‘we know best’ platitudes. I congratulate the writer.
It says, sensibly and realistically, keep poultry indoors if you can, but if this is impractical, keep their food and water where wild birds can’t get to it. It explains that meat and eggs aren’t going to spread the illness even if it is there to be spread, but wash your hands – you do wash your hands after touching raw poultry anyway, don’t you (yes, obsessively). It gives relaxedly useful advice, but no threats or scaremongering.
Might the BBC learn from them? Might pigs fly?