Country Living

I went off to the country, not expecting an easy time, but at least having some fields to look out on. And that bit worked.

As I arrived all sorts of things that could go wrong did, and a few that couldn't go wrong also did. No surprises there for anyone who has moved. None of the phones worked - one simply refused to switch back on, the other lost all its displays but still received and made calls - they were fine when I left West Bromwich. Ironically BT connected the line, with the number they told me not to give out. The TV signal was virtually non-existent, the shower, which looked new, leaked but didn't produce any more water than a drip. And so it went on. All part of the delight of moving house – and this was my 20th.

The move though went smoothly, which was nice. The movers were packed and gone in three hours; and moved and unloaded in another three. So there was plenty of time to get round to the Bell for supper. On my way there I took a short cut through the churchyard and bashed my knee on an unseen gravestone. No one seems to have thought to put a light on the end of the church.

Meanwhile I tried to get the house into shape. Half the electric gizmos still refused to work and so I had to start getting replacements. But a man came and plumbed in the washing machine and replaced the shower so I could wash and change after a week in the same clothes. And someone else came to put a new aerial on the roof. He discovered that despite an old roof aerial and a satellite dish the coax in the wall wasn't connected to anything which explained the lousy reception. After two weeks of inertia my phone switched itself on. It clearly needed time to get over life in West Bromwich. And I bought a mobile which put calls through to me instead of telling me three days later that I had missed a call which is what Vodaphone were doing. Shame I had just publicised the old number which was now carved into the notice boards. Well I finally took the plunge and signed up for broadband. Seemed Ok; said it was working at 54Mps; but as BT only claimed 8mb I assumed that was just my computer talking to the wireless router. They did give me cables and I would have used the wireless bit for a prospective laptop. But neither cables worked. Said they couldn't get network access. So I went onto wireless and all was well. Well, except for Outlook Express which still tried to connect to dial up and refused all other options. In the end the broadband went down and I had to phone the guy in Bangalore who knows all the secrets of computers, and he said plug the cables in. Then he took control of the computer and reset everything. Possibly he has control of it still.

After Easter was a week when I thought I would have time off but the phone carried on ringing and people carried on calling as usual.

Luckily Dave and Jane came and kept me distracted and I couldn't just go on working as if nothing was happening. So we had some days out and I squashed the business into an hour or so first thing.

We went off to Jeff Wayne's "War of the Worlds" spectacular. Lots of film and sounds and lights (apart from the death ray on the Martian which didn’t fry people as it was supposed to). Dave provided the directors commentary on how the guitarists were missing out a few chords. Justin Hayward wandered about in a daze and inexplicably Russell Watson played the vicar. But we did get a fighting machine descending from the rafters and the music was better than the remix cd. The film was good too, presumably a precursor of a filmed version for dvd.

One of the interesting sidelines to the evening was the impossibility of using the M6 even at midnight. We had queued for an hour to get into Birmingham but that was sort of rush hour so to be expected, but then as we drove away the matrix signs were warning of impending delays to come. Luckily the beginning of the queue appeared just as the A34 went off to Walsall so I avoided further parking on the motorway. Junction 9 was closed as well and so we hardly used the motorway at all coming back.

A month later was one of those Dylan moments. Toumani Diabate has gone electric. Some people did actually walk out, though no-one shouted 'Judas'. Some simply never made it back from the bar after Cheikh Lo's set.

Imagine a rock group centred around a harp. Change the harp into a kora - a calabash covered in cow hide with 21 fishing line strings. Then change the rock into a mix of Thomas Mapfumo, the occasional Latin beat, and a bit of West African Mandinka influence. Add in lots of heavy drumming. And there you have it. But not the chilled out music we've come to expect from collaborations with such as the much lamented Ali Farka Toure. It was a night to rock.

But this was the usual club scene from Friday night in the Le Hogon Club, Bamako transferred to the Symphony Hall. Toumani with his house band, the Symmetric Orchestra. They come from the old Mandinka Empire - split up by the Europeans into an unnatural set of nation states that have never really worked - Burkina Faso, Senegal, Guinea, and Mali. Now united culturally, if not politically. The kora backed by a balafon and often a call and response with the ngoni (a small West African guitar). And a totally mad drummer with a drum strapped between his legs ending every song, no matter how quietly it started, with a manic display of percussion that you don't usually get from the CBSO.

Not that Simon Rattle's wife ever wandered across the stage in the middle of the set and dropped off the stage to take her place at the front either. Though that might liven up the more boring bits of Wagner.

Cheikh Lo had started the evening in similar style. We had been told in the cafe that he was the new Bob Marley. Well no he isn't. He isn't even rasta. His dreadlocks belong to the Baye Fall, a mystic brotherhood within the Mourides [the dominant sect of Senegalese Islam]. From online reviews of the cd, it sounds like we could have done with a translation of the songs. But the Cuban and Brazilian influence in the music and again the heavy drumming in the backing made the point anyway. And there was the guy who seemed to be playing his armpits, till I realised there was a small talking drum tucked away in there, the notes bent as he worked his arm over it.

But where was everyone. No more than 400 turned up, which made the Symphony Hall seem really empty as they were spread over two levels. After all Toumani has just won a Grammy for his last cd. And there was lots of coverage of the tour. No doubt when the Symphony Hall put on their hits from the adverts concerts it will be full. But for an exceptional evening of music the people of Birmingham would rather watch the football. How sad.

The Best Kept Village judges were coming and so I had to tidy up my corner of God's vineyard. One of the reasons for going to the country was to get out into the green shade and enjoy the twittering of the birds and the call of the wild. What I hadn't taken account of was about an acre of garden – three hours just to mow the lawns. The bit out the front on the road was a sort of no-man's land and the council grass cutters missed it out, so I had to do it. And then there were three main areas of grass in the garden which had to be kept down. There was also a paddock at the back which was let out to a local farmer who also rented the field next door (also glebe). The advantage of that was that he cut the hedges not just on his side of the fence but the tops of the garden hedges as well.

Of course as usual at the interviews they told me not to worry about the size of the garden, there were plenty of people around who enjoyed gardening, who would offer help. At first a couple of people did come round to strip out the old overgrown bushes, which were all dumped in a heap at the end of the garden. And three people came a month later to pull down an overgrown hedge which was the first view people, including the BKV judges, got of the vicarage. But the novelty soon wore off and after the judges left I didn’t see any gardeners again. After three years of screaming for help I went down on my knees and begged someone to at least help cut the inside of the hedges that the tractor couldn’t reach. And a couple of non-churchgoers came while I was in church and did it.

It seems to have been a recurring theme throughout, if you need help, look outside the churches for it.

Meanwhile I also hadn't reckoned on the bees (or are they wasps) getting annoyed that I was disturbing their grass. I'm not sure if they are nesting there or just after something off the grass, but the grass was covered with them from time to time and they were really upset with me by the time I had finished mowing. I did manage to avoid being stung though.

The garden was constantly full of birds. About twenty visible at any one time and that usually means there are three times as many hidden away. I did get a glimpse of a barn owl when I first arrived and heard it hoot since. And there was a woodpecker somewhere invisibly attacking the trees.

In sight and very active are the sparrows, house and hedge, a robin or two; some blue tits; two pairs of song thrushes; half a dozen assorted blackbirds and a handful of goldfinches, greenfinches and chaffinches. A nuthatch passed by from time to time and occasionally a wren appeared. The neighbouring village was plagued by starlings and they managed to move them on somehow; so a dozen took up residence in my garden. The churchyard had a rookery and one albino rook visited the gearden.

The birds loved it when the grass was new mown and followed me about digging up insects and picking out the fallen seeds and then carrying off the mowings for their nests.

The bird table was the centre of most days’ activities. They managed to eat everything within a couple of hours of me putting it out. A squirrel tried to get a look in at the nuts but the competition was too great and he backed off. So do the pigeons who terrorise birds in urban gardens but who were so outnumbered that they didn't stand a chance. A couple of collared doves seemed quite at home among the others. On the ground there was a mouse picking up the leavings. Very small and very shy so I can't say what type it was.

There was a programme on Channel 4 about the Patrick Henry College in the States. It was the Christian answer to Yale and Harvard which have apparently lost their way spiritually. Everything, naturally, is Bible based and so, naturally, they support George W all the way; and go off to support Republican campaigns and are being groomed to look forward to a life in politics.

They pledge to give up alcohol, drugs and of course sex.

What they don't give up, equally of course, is the right to carry and use guns. Not to defend themselves against a demented citizenry driven crazy and desperate by capitalist economics, but as protection against the state, lest it tries to limit the freedom of the individual. One student was clear - no state would attempt to control an armed population.

Not sure where that comes in the Bible.

But one outcome of such thinking is the supposed "right" to use arms against other states that might try to control their people. And then when those same "ungrateful" people themselves resist the subsequent occupation, there is the right to use assassination as an instrument of diplomacy.

But then, as St George of Galloway pointed out, does that not give them the right to use similar methods against the occupying powers. Do they not then have the right to assassinate the leaders of the nations that have usurped their self-determination?

No doubt the students at Patrick Henry would fall back on the grace of god. The divine right given to them to determine the future of all people. The delusion of power which has been the keystone of the churches corruption of the word of god through the ages. But isn't hearing voices, especially the voice of god, a sure sign of madness?

So I woke up in the hotel room. Down in Cleveden, spending a few days close to Bristol to see a bit of Dave and Jane. But not too close so they wouldn't feel put upon.

The first thing I noticed was that there was writing all over the pillows. I had noted down all the names and phone numbers of people I had meant to contact before I left and hadn't got round to. The pillows were covered in it. I must have been busy during the night.

And just as I was thinking that there must be a way to wash the stuff off before the cleaner came in in the morning I noticed the sound of his radio, tuned as ever to Classic FM. I mean just how real is that, a male cleaner in a hotel and an avid classical music fan at that.

But there it was. And it was a bit too loud. So I got out of bed to investigate and discovered the door to the room was open. That was why I could hear everything. So it was too late for a bit of surreptitious cleaning. I would have to own up.

But then I noticed a few other odd things about the room. My camera case wasn't where I had put it the night before. In fact it was nowhere to be seen. Neither was my baseball cap - used to cradle the car keys, wallet and small change overnight. They had all gone too.

So there I was facing a day cancelling credit cards, trying to remember the car insurance number as well as explaining why my bed was covered in phone numbers of assorted parishioners.

So I just said, O God, I hope this is a dream.

And I woke up, and it was.

I was given a tile, as I said, when I left West Bromwich.
It told me Jesus loved me. there it was for all to see.

It seemed an unlikely statement at the time.
John said everyone else thinks I’m an arsehole.
It had a permanent place on my coffee table so that anyone who came would know.
Just in case there was any doubt.
I had got used to having Jesus' love around. It felt sort of comforting.
But being on the coffee table is a dangerous place to leave love.
Things get spilt, upsets occur.
And so it came to pass that the time came when the tile needed a wash.
Bring out the best in Jesus love I thought, polish it up a bit.
So off to the kitchen it went with the washing up. A quick wipe down was all that was needed.
But as I wiped, so Jesus' love faded. And now its gone.
All that's left is a plain tile. Virgin white. Hardly appropriate.
And the love that once was at the centre of my table is just a memory.

To get away I went off to Brum to do the Christmas shopping. As usual I didn't need to get much further than Borders, who seem to have every obscure DVD and CD in existence. Except that even they didn't have the Tuvan throat singer mentioned in the Indy last week. So I got mainly what I wanted and went off to Selfridges where I discovered there is now a Pret which does a mug of tea and a Danish for £1.99 which even undercuts the arts cafe at St Martin's.

Some mistakes I can do without. I had just had a birthday. Not a big one. Not for another two years. But nonetheless I was a bit older than I had been. But that is no excuse for Showcase Cinemas to start charging me pensioner rates. Without asking. One look was all it took. I even expressed surprise at getting change. And the cashier simply smiled back at what she considered a confused old dear.

I'm not sure which is worse. Waiting for your own children to be born after nine months of expectation, or waiting for their children to be born. At least at the time I was reasonably in touch with what was going on, if not at the bedside. We won't go into why I missed Dave's first hour.

So my first grandchild was due, overdue, but then Ali never did get a project in on time.
It hadn’t gone easily and the doctors weren’t always helpful. About three months in, Ali spent much of one night on the phone asking what she should do. The following morning I turned up at church having had little sleep, looking the worse for war and hardly able to stand up. One of the more sensitive parishioners started to have a go at me because I had failed to put her concert on the notices. Why anyone would want to see twenty over seventies singing “When I’m sixty four” I couldn’t work out. Anyway, I simply asked her to have a word after the service as I was trying to set things up. And she danced with glee into the choir vestry saying in a voice loud enough for the entire congregation to hear, “Don’t talk to the vicar this morning he’s grumpy.” And they all giggled as I came in. No one asked whether anything was the matter, still less if they could help.

Anyway I didn't know if they were trying to phone but it's always engaged. I go for weeks with no phone calls and then the phone didn't stop. But then surely they would text. Or maybe they haven't bothered telling me because they think I'm not interested, and are all supping champagne without me, or maybe nothing has happened yet.

Anyway I did try to keep the next week relatively quiet so that I could leap into the car and get there asap. But then the diary started to fill up and there was not a lot of space left.

Most of it needless to say was fairly tedious stuff, and there is the inevitable funeral on my day off. So the one chance I would get to spend a whole day with the family is now taken up. There should be a couple of weeks grandpaternity leave available. Though as I never got normal holidays I don't suppose I would have got that either.

In the end it wasn't a conspiracy after all. Shame. It was just the phones at Worcester Royal that didn't work.
The baby was duly born to Alison and Gareth. Though for some reason they have avoided the obvious and didn’t call him Ali G instead he became Samuel Peter.

And the doting grandfather dashed southward after Sunday services to meet the babe. The Worcester Royal made up for dodgy phones by having dodgy parking machines that gave me free parking for an hour.
Sam was in an incubator to keep him safe from my hands, for the first few days at least.
Finally on Wednesday, safe at his home, I got to hold him and, defying all precedent, and all expectation come to that, he stayed asleep.

So that prompted me to put my photos online on Flickr. Well a few at least. At first just a selection of the various photos from my travels and a few of the garden, though because of the way they uploaded it looks as if I have taken apart a reasonably smart garden and ended up with an overgrown tip. Not entirely true.

Well it wasn't quite the horse's head on the pillow that I might have been expecting. But the bird skull on the thyme was the same in a kind of a way.

The council had been clearing out a gully at the back of the house. And naturally they didn't bother to find the rats that lived there. They just moved them on. Into my garden. So all the bird food got eaten as soon as I put it out and the bird's head I took to be evidence that they don't like competition.

They were with me for a couple of weeks and were quite pretty. Sleek brown country rats - photos on Flikr. If there was no likelihood of there being one and a half million of the things by the end of the summer I would have probably just let them be.
But I decided I must "do something" about them. There were a couple of cats around and while I didn't encourage them into the garden, I didn't want to kill them off by putting poison down, which is what the council would do. So at the moment there is an uneasy truce.
They add to the diversity after all. The latest resident is a woodpecker which spent the afternoon building a nest in one of the trees in the corner of the garden. It carried on until its mate came to inspect and rejected his efforts.Which takes the resident bird count to 15 species with another five regular visitors.

I was wondering why none of the bulbs that Ali had given me had come through, but then I spotted a squirrel eating a hyacinth as if it was an ice cream, leaves in hand and licking the bulb before crunching into it.

Meanwhile the pond came back. That is one of nature's wonders. During the winter it was dry. In all the wet weather after Christmas, not even damp. According to my predecessor he called Severn-Trent out to look at it and they confirmed it wasn’t a leak. And then as soon as the drought set in a couple of weeks ago, the water reappeared. Just to add to the confusion.

As usual I went off on my own with one of the singles web sites. And this year was even stranger than last. I was determined to see a bit more of Croatia than just the hotel and so went out for a couple of days on coaches to see the sites. But like Crete last year there was no interest from the others. So I got to know one of the tour guides who discussed anything and everything with me, from Palestinian politics to global warming and George Bush. Much to the consternation of the other tourists who thought she was there to tell them what they were looking at.

At the time we were going up a fjord with fish farming and forests and things. Ivana and I had got into conversation with a Dutch couple about the EU which Croatia may or may not join. And this snooty English woman started to have a go at her because the Russian guide had just given a ten minute description of the fish farm and Ivana had said nothing in English. So Ivana told her she was just to look at the view and take photographs and turned back to our conversation, which pleased the SEW not at all.
On that trip I was joined by two people from the group, a couple of friends who go on holidays together, but apart from that everyone went their own way except for evening meals. There was one "older lady" who didn't leave her room except to go down for meals. She seemed to spend the whole week on the balcony reading. Another couple of people just spent the week on the rocks sunbathing, turning an unhealthy shade of purple in the process.

Then there was the inevitable lesbian social worker who took everything so seriously and frowned at me a lot. And a counsellor called Mary who I am sure I knew many years ago in Hatfield, though I didn't admit to it and she said nothing. She now lives in France to escape the foreigners who live in Britain and has the Daily Express sent out each day so that she knows how right she was to leave.

But Croatia was beautiful and I got around a lot. The Romans as usual have left bits of their buildings lying around for people to trip over. They never seem to finish anything. There is a Coliseum in Pula which stages gladiators, so I kept quiet about being a vicar. But I don't think Russell Crowe was there anyway.

There was also a fort from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. All of the labels were in Croat or German which wasn't much use to me but was more helpful than the Roman museum where everything only had numbers and there didn't appear to be a catalogue. And there was a sad little aquarium in another fort with a sad looking octopus whose picture will appear on my yet to be devised flickr site. One day, one day.

On my home page: Tuesday, June 12, 2007

"You need to cut down on stress and stop getting all upset over nothing, dear Capricorn! Even if, up until now, you haven't been able to figure out what is really bothering you, today you will understand some of the mysteries of your personality, and understand what it is exactly that causes those chronic mood swings of yours. You'll see that you have nothing to worry about!"Well, I knew what had been bothering me over the past seven days, I had been tearing my hair over the car.
One of the perils of rural life is that you are dependent on a car. But at the same time have to negotiate narrow lanes which are shared with farm vehicles and heavy trucks going to and from the farms. One week the road into Stafford was blocked by an accident. The traffic was being diverted one way, so naturally I went the other. I was trying to get to the crem to a funeral and didn't have the time to queue into town - always fatal - more haste less speed and all that.

Unknown to me the traffic the other way was being diverted down the route I took, so I was fighting my way through oncoming traffic on a lane barely wide enough for one car. All went well though until I met an oil tanker. I had to take avoiding action and went for a field entrance. In the gateway there was a fallen branch which wrapped its way around the drive shaft.
Naturally I had to drive on to take the funeral, the show must go on. But then I drove straight to the garage to get a new gaiter (the rubber bit that keeps the grease in) which had shredded in the incident. Should take about half an hour and thirty quid.
But this was Bristol Street Motors. They don't do quick. The part had to be ordered. (It's only a bit of hose held on with jubilee clips). And no they didn't have a courtesy car, phone tomorrow. The morrow came and they had had to put the part on back order, it would be three to five days. To get mobile I used their influence and got a hire car at trade price for a couple of days. The days stretched on, still no part. It had to be ordered from Germany. So I tried another tack and claimed on the insurance - after all it was an accident repair. Ford Insure were great, really helpful. Except they couldn't help.
It seems there are four bits to Bristol Street. The insurance companies deal with one bit, my car was in another. And no, I couldn't push it round the corner. The insurers said they had never seen the like. They had never been spoken to as they were by Bristol Street and didn't know what to do next, but they couldn't pay for the hire car unless they handled the repair.
I booked the hire car out over the weekend.
Then after a week the joyful news that Germany didn't have any parts either. It was on back order there. It could be a couple of weeks. Makes you wonder what they make the things out of if even the factory that makes the cars has no parts.
So I was not my usual smiling self when I turned up to take a service for the clergy chapter. None of them noticed of course. But the churchwarden did. And he did something about it. He phoned his mates to see where the farmers get their stuff repaired and then phoned them to see if they would steal my car from Bristol Street, repair it and drop it off with me tomorrow.
Which they promised to do.
So the car will be fixed for forty quid after all and I am left sitting on a bill for £220 for a week’s car hire from the lovely Nicci at Enterprise.
Of course I have promised Bristol Street that I will return the car to them when the part arrives – which somehow I never got around to.

Luckily it was Glastonbury week (2007). Not that I went, I leave that up to Dave, who crews on the fire and circus stage. But the music was on the telly and on the web, which meant that there was something to watch for a change. And what was also interesting was the contrast between the newer bands who could hardly hold their instruments and the old hands like Paul Weller, John Fogarty and of course Pete Townshend. OK, so occasionally the Kaiser Chiefs and the Killers come up with a decent tune, but they are hardly going to feature on a guitar greats compilation. And Ok I did think that John Fogarty was going to be John Hegarty and we were going to get a bit of Irish. New revelation to me were Amp Fiddler. I would be happy to see them again.

And what was that strange thing being played behind Bjork. Looked like one of the sound boards they use in music therapy, so presumably the musician was just out of rehab and brought it along as he tried to connect back into reality.

I started tennis again. It seemed a good idea at the time. Except that the group wanted to play all evening and as there were five others, they needed me to stay to make up the numbers. So after a three year break I played for three hours. It took me the rest of the week to recover.

Then on the Friday (day off for once)I decided that I should start the garden tidy up. Normally I leave it until the autumn but with about two-thirds of an acre to do so it took a bit longer. There were a couple of patches of nettles that had been annoying me for some time. So I went out armed with fork, spade and scythe, and reduced them to ground level in no time. Then the trouble starts. To get rid of them every last bit of root has to be removed and they had been in there for years and border the field so come through under the fence. So then I had a new set of aches and pains to add to the tennis ones.

I never understand why I seemed to get no fitter but just hurt more, the more exercise I do. Maybe I should go back to sitting on the sofa doing sudoku.

I was buying some bedding for the spare bed. Not that anyone comes to stay but there is hope. But not enough hope to think I won't need the spare bed. It had already been one of those weeks but there was only one person in the queue in front of me with only one item. The answer probably is never to stand in front of me in a queue; something always goes wrong for them. The one item didn't have a label. So no price ticket then. Bbring, bbring. Get the supervisor. Go to check the price. There is another one. But it’s a different colour. So the price might be different too. Tap away on the computer. It isn't there. Might be under another name. Or description. Meanwhile ten people had been served at the other till. Couldn't they adjourn to the enquiry desk and sort it out and get me served? Well if looks could kill. Milk all over town curdled instantly. I moved to the other till. Three people in front. As I drew level with the till suddenly they resolved the crisis. Think of a number and agree it, press the buttons and go. Then: see you could have waited. And the net curtains for the conservatory are too long. But I can't face all that again. So they'll have to do.

But it was the first grandparent Christmas so there was time for Sam to come and cause havoc. I hadn't realised that those push along trucks couldn't be steered. So the Chrissy present went crashing into everything.
Soon the house will have to be a collection of things for a toddler to do. And on my birthday R came and we spent the evening drinking bootleg rum.

I went off to the dentist thinking I had an appointment, but the date they had written on the appointment card was wrong and I was a week late so I had to reschedule. Which wouldn't have mattered if the dentist wasn't back at my old address twenty miles away. So I had a wasted morning.

Anyway on holiday there really was some snow about. And not the UK's overnight sprinkling. This was high up, Balkans stuff. In Montenegro. I had thought I was going to the Adriatic for some warmth and discovered that the tour went up into the mountains, as far as was possible without oxygen. In a crazy bus. Lots of hairpin bends and blind corners and a driver who spent the whole time on his mobile. Needless to say there were the usual predictable complaints from the other tourists. They also objected to the hotel. Since Montenegro is only just opening up to tourism it was surprising to find anything up there at all. And it wasn't too bad. In a 1960s Habitat sort of way. Even the cold seemed to eventually warm up, a bit at least. And as usual the beer was good. And the scenery was spectacular. Lots of snow covered mountains and frozen lakes surrounded by frosted trees. That sort of thing. Which might turn up as a Christmas card if I don't get anywhere else this year.

But of course it was people watching that really made the holiday. There was the Jennie Bond look-alike. With the same regal airs and graces. High maintenance of a high order. Nothing was quite right. Her friend was in a new relationship back at home, or not, on alternate days, and was constantly clutching her phone in case there was a text. Then there was the teacher, a cross between Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders but without the sense of her own absurdity. I had thought that going in school terms meant that I escaped teachers. But no such luck. She went around schools pretending to be Florence Nightingale. And boring the children rigid no doubt. At least that was the effect she had on the tour group. Used to talking down to people constantly for hours, she couldn't bring herself to stop all week. The highlight was when she thought the hotel next door was where Daniel Craig had filmed Casino Royal. Well it was called Hotel Splendide and it was in Montenegro. Trouble was that the whole film was made in the Czech Republic and they never set foot in Montenegro. But that wouldn't worry our P. She is no doubt still telling everyone that she propped up the same bar as JB.

Then in Dubrovnik she tagged on to High Maintenance, friend and me as we headed to a restaurant which boasted it was the finest in the town. When we got in she was surprised that the prices matched it status. The three of us thought it would be a good last day treat before facing England again. Not so P. she wanted the snack menu. They didn't do one. It was £30 before you start and then extras on top. But it was worth it. The best sea bass I've come across.

So back home to the garden. Goldfinches playing in the garden this morning and the more interesting of the plants starting to shoot promising things to come.

Meanwhile I continued to live on my own. After the curious incident of the dog in the night time, (yes I know I’ve taken down that post, I’m still trying to think of a polite way to put it!) I swore never again. But life in the country is a bit isolated and it seemed a good idea to spend time with a real person - ie not a parishioner, from time to time. So I went back on line. Which is a frightening thing to do, have you looked at the websites recently? The Little Shop of Horrors has nothing on some singles sites. Especially for some reason, the Christian ones. Perhaps as Christians we are not meant to go on looks. But they could wash before having their photo taken. At least those that haven’t posted photos of their Latvian au pairs.

I was contacted by one woman from London who had a powerful job in the royal parks, literary and spiritual. Sounded ideal. But the photo seemed out of place. So I Googled what I knew. And there she was in the local press, receiving HRH at a parks do – only a completely different person from the photo on the singles site.

It was the start of the Rush Hour Blues at the Symphony Hall so I arranged to meet one of the people I have met on the net. Who managed to fit me in before going dancing with her other friends. Anyway we managed to find each other despite the website pictures, and went off to the event. Turned out to be one of those fusion groups who combine cool jazz and hip hop. Which probably annoyed in equal measure those who had gone to hear their own genre. But there were one or two songs that really worked. Though they were at their best when they made the singers sit down and the band played on. They sounded like the groups that go uncredited on Crooze.FM. Which is meant as a compliment.

Then Saturday was the big parish walk. Round all four churches. Twelve miles. Though someone had one of those pedometers that counts how many steps you have taken, which showed that we had actually walked sixteen miles. So there must have been a lot of getting up and sitting down and nipping behind the hedges en route. Anyway I spent most of the walk with R who turns out to know J, possibly the best lover I never had in Wolverhampton. They were together at St Paul's in its early days. J let everyone know that she was after me but then didn't do anything about it. Even the lure of lasagne wasn't enough. They are both Jamaican which adds a bit of spice to life, and could be sisters.

R is into opera and looks after the diary of A Very Famous Opera Singer. So we are going off to see an opera together in October. Not Him but he may come here next year. J then met R and told her to lay off me. As J hadn’t been in touch for four years this seemed a bit strange.

The shortly after R found “other things to do” I bought my house in Clevedon and began to look to there for culture and friendship. And for gardening and birdwatching come to that.