Dora and I did not escape the house last night until 7:45, by which time, we were both going crackers.
It took me a good five minutes of head-down marching before I even noticed I was still in my slippers. I didn’t dare go home to change in case Stevie said, ‘Thank God you’re back. I’m off to Nick-The-Brick’s.’
It took another five minutes for my shoulders to drop from round my ears, and to let the beauty and peace of the evening seep down my spine.
The sky behind St Ethelreda’s was the first thing I noticed – that beautiful unearthly grey-blue just before dusk proper. There were faint streaks of rose and gold, and birds appeared against it, briefly, blackly.
We walked up Hornton Lane, admiring the tête a-tête narcissus that everyone seems to have planted this year. Their prim neatness seems to make daffodils look gawky and unsophisticated, like leggy school-girls in their first night club.
Snowdrops are mostly over, flinging off their shrivelled petals and waving tiny bare stamens. Nothing very demure about them now.
We turned up Clump Lane, me picking my slippered-way over puddles. Dora shot off, intent on finding squirrels to murder. The light was playing tricks on ordinary colours – the clay of Clump looking its most vibrant orange.
Coming to the top of the hill, I bumped into a Handsome Horley Husband, and immediately tried to hide my feet and bat my eyelashes at the same time. He looked a little surprised, but we had a lovely conversation about the satisfaction of digging veg beds.
I was distracted by the beautiful view over towards the Scout Woods, and left my mouth on auto-pilot, which is always a worry. I tried frantically to remember what we’d been talking about – Spring? Mother-in-laws?
I hoped I’d not said anything inappropriate about beds, veg or otherwise.
A brace of duck called down in the valley, and I realised it was almost dark. Stevie would be dancing with frustration, eager to escape a Small Girl Sleepover party and reach the manly sanctuary of Nick-The-Brick’s.
‘I must go,’ I said regretfully.
Dora refused to leave the badgery-smelling garden of Bramshill Farm. I was too embarrassed to go in and get her. I waved the Handsome Husband good-bye, and slid off on my slippers, praying that Dora would notice and have some sort of female loyalty.
She caught me up at the end of Clump Lane, panting with the joy of her run, mouth wide in Jack Russell grin.
I grinned back, fussing her silly head. We turned for home, my red slippers livid in the half-light.