In praise of fields

I’ve been a little lax with this of late. A conjunction of events, some of the “dear boy” variety. In many ways the most significant cause is the most mundane – our 15 year old fridge freezer has become unreliable. It has not lain down and died, like the good and faithful workhorse it is. No, it has developed an end of life crisis. When Keith and I went off for a few days leaving mum and the (in his own mind if no other) heir apparent in charge, the butter went soft, a gentle eau de nil fur infected the fruit and the tang of the brie went from yum to yuk. The day after our return it seemed we were back in business, butter fit for bricklaying. Allegations of user error were stoutly rejected. Perhaps it missed us… Then, on the day the plumbers came, the milk went off. Rinse and repeat. I put my foot down: with our constant stream of people fixing things that have fallen off the walls we can’t have unreliable milk. It was agreed that a fridge that wants to work part time and “find itself” Monday to Wednesday was not for us. A period of research followed when an identical replacement was sought, bought, then unbought and then rebought with a better discount. Delivery was arranged and then unarranged and then rearranged. It has yet to arrive….Tuesday is the latest estimate. Old unfaithful has upped its game in the interim but its fate is sealed. The FO of FAFO is imminent.

Poor excuse you say, a woman can type inanities whilst her husband shouts at John Lewis. Indeed so, and this is a skill I have perfected over many years. BUT the old fridge freezer must needs be emptied and, whilst most of it can head straight to the big bin, the frozen peas and my secret stash of ice cream must be rehomed and the big freezer is full of frozen fruit awaiting jamification. And so it came to pass that for the last few days I have been glued to the Aga with the jelly pan set to scary boiling. I have despatched half of the mirabella plums, blackcurrants and Victorias and the kitchen table is covered with unlabelled jars which I really must do something about if Christmas is not going to involve everyone getting mystery preserves. Yes you are all getting jam. I don’t care if you are on a diet – adopt a thin friend.

More of concern, Keith has injured himself. Somehow against all the odds a trip to the football and a beer festival has ended in disaster. After skilfully avoiding fisticuffs in the stands and dancing on tables incidents, disaster struck in the shower the next day. A full day in the A&E queue followed and the invalid returned with his embroidered finger bandaged up cartoon style. With a stiff upper lip my wounded soldier only tarried on the recuperation sofa for a day and went off to Edinburgh for important meetings and a big dinner at his favourite restaurant afterwards. This left me two whole days to myself without brow soothing, snack bringing or fire laying. Even with the jam making you might think I could squeeze out a paragraph or two. However, Lachlan’s plans to take the dog camping had to be rearranged and so Lyra stayed with me. This is not normally an issue but we are trying out a new bionic, and more importantly dog proof, cat feeder. It has a sort of MacDonald’s Arch at the front, the cat sticks its head in, the arch recognises the chip and the lid over the food lifts. Pingu has cracked it but Dobby regards the device as the work of satan. So incensed is he that he has started to retaliate by eating the dog’s food. This is, of course, poetic justice. Anyway, to reduce the hissing, spitting and scratching which ensues I have been taking Lyra for prodigiously long walks over the fields so that she is sufficiently spark out afterwards not to notice our resident cat burglar.

And this is why everything slipped out of my control. It wasn’t the walks themselves, it was the clarifying effect of the fields of winter sown wheat. There is something about the lines of fragile green shoots against red black earth. The way they mark the contour lines of the fields clears my head: a raked zen garden stretching out as far as the eye can see. In that space of silence there came such a riot of voices and images and answers to annoying anachronisms that poor Lyra had to sprint back and I spent the non jam making portion of the last two days finally, FINALLY, getting past the tricky middle bit of the novel I’ve been writing since lockdown. Now don’t get all excited – it remains a piece of utter nonsense, requires copious rewriting even after that will doubtless get no further than a shoe box in my wardrobe – but the end (or at any rate the end of the beginning for I have the sequel on the go as well) is finally in sight.

And so, in a very real way, a fridge, a freezer, a cat, a dog and a field ate my homework.

In other news I’ve been to Lindesfarne, made the Christmas soap, three kinds of harissa stuff with the chillis, bottled some pears, decanted the pear and rosemary hooch, baked a pie and enjoyed what might be the best baked potato the world has ever seen. You are now bang up to date.