A Catch Up

Bussie is still not eating – apart from about three biscuits last night – and has a lost even more weight poor darling, so I’m taking him to the vet later. I only hope he hasn’t got another infection from that s**ing cat that got him in the fight in the first place.

Later, at midday to be precise, when we’ve changed and slapped on a bit of make up (Himself looks wonderful with a bit of lippy and mascara) we’re going to a wedding – well, it’s officially a civil partnership, but as they presumably have the same service that we did in a registry office, who’s counting? I must remember to take enough hankies – I’m bound to sit there blubbing.

But to start with the weekend. Av and I got some sarnies and spent the afternoon walking along the South Devon coastal path from Maidencombe back towards Teignmouth. It was very hilly but a wonderful way to catch up on the last few months (without other halves) and the weather was warm but not sticky, not a breeze anywhere. The sea was eerily flat, only broken by the occasional water skier rippling the surface.

It was so strange walking without Mollie – because I never do, now. But she was there with me (she would have loved the walk), and I could almost see her prancing ahead or stopping to sniff and chase, looking back at me with ears pricked, saying, ‘Come on, Mum.’ When we got to a road, I bent down to put her lead on, was surprised to see her not there. My girl. My pal.

The following day, after a mushroom stroganoff at the local pub that night, we went to a nearby animal rescue centre as that’s going to feature in the next book. I was hoping to interview the staff there and find out more about how it’s run, but we made the mistake of seeing the animals first. They have an amazing selection – dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, geese, ducks and all sorts. I was OK until we got to the kennels for the dogs to be rehomed. There I started reading the reasons why we were there – through cruelty, neglect, because they weren’t wanted.

Well, that was it. ‘I can’t understand how anyone could be cruel to animals,’ I wailed as we left the building, the hopeful barking ringing in my ears. I couldn’t bear their looks of desperation, the questions in their eyes.

Dear Av hugged me as I sobbed my way out of the kennels. ‘I don’t think you’d better to your interview now,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea and I’ll put you on your train.’

Now that’s what I call a wonderful friend. We go back some years, Av and I, through countless heartbreaks and the occasional triumph. Through several men and two husbands (one each). She now lives in Dorset so we don’t get to meet very often, but she is a great friend and a rare person. She is also one of the few people I know who still looks beautiful when she’s crying. Sickening if I didn’t love her so much.

Sitting on the train was wonderful – for two whole hours I could please myself so I did some of my course, then sat and read the paper, eavesdropped and made notes for the new book. No phones ringing, no sick animals to worry about (well, not on the train) and I loved it.

I think I’ve got a new character for the next book. She was sitting in the opposite aisle to me, so I had to be careful about not turning to stare too much. She was tiny and very neat, in her early 80s at a guess, her sprightly face lined and carefully made up with a rather curious shiny foundation. Her eyes were clear and surprisingly young and despite the wrinkles, inside that you could see the face of a twenty year old shining through.

She wore a thick zip up brown cardigan, a twill cotton green skirt with thick mesh tights and sensible brown lace up shoes. Her crumpled thin fingers clutched each other as she talked, animatedly, to what looked like her daughter opposite. (Same bone structure, same eyes and nose.) Her voice was high and clear, with a strong Cornish accent but her daughter, by contrast, seemed older and tired. She lacked her mother’s sparkle – or perhaps she’d been worn out by her.

So - what shall I call her?