Francais

Leaves are blowing off the trees, birds are being directed into oblivion and I am up with the lark. Off to Brittany for a week. Early flight from Manchester so there will be a few grumpy females parading round the airport.

But not for long. France, here we come. I'll see you in a week. Be good.

CJ xx

Tied to the Kitchen Sink

Jess and I sat in the lounge last night. The farmer and Amy having already gone to bed, my mind still had thoughts racing through it and sleep felt a long way off. The television was on, quietly so as not to disturb my resting husband who was in the room above, yet loud enough that my ears would catch its banter. I cannot remember what we watched. The cat, perhaps, was not interested in the television; so long as I did not move and she was able to stay warm was all she craved. I, however, was cold. So very cold.

Clad in winter dressing gown, my skin still pierced from a low temperature. I stroked Jess who purred softly at my touch, her fur cosy, like silk beneath my hands. The air was still outside. I could sense a familiar feeling as it entered the room, encouraging Jess to suddenly look up. Although no visible being stood at the door, it had become obvious that we were no longer alone. To assure me of my thoughts, the television program paused. Followed by a sound in another room which sounded like crockery being used; the sound a knife and fork makes when one is lapping up their last mouthful of food. And to make me even more aware, not that I needed it at that stage, the wonderful aroma of beef stew drifted into the lounge. An aroma often experienced at the foot of our stairs.

Jess had stayed perfectly still. Her fur beginning to stand on end, she slowly rose from my knee yet did not make an attempt to jump to the floor. I spoke to my guest, enquiring if they had enjoyed supper. My smile may have seemed a little relaxed but it was how my guest felt, perhaps after his stew, perhaps in our company. I could not be sure if I had also sensed pipe smoke but it was brief. I do not know who the guest was but I suspect it was a man of the house from years gone by. His wife would have remained in the kitchen, where she would no doubt have stayed to continue her chores. And as the television returned to normal, the temperature in the room changed to a more comfortable warmth, I thought, "things haven't really changed much have they."

Customer Service

Some of you may know that one of my pet hates is bad customer service. I have been faced with many situations in various shops where assistants chat to each other while serving the customer; it must be very difficult for the assistant to actually focus on ringing up the till. Check ya'change, I always say! I also find it highly annoying when a phone rings and I am in the middle of being served. The assistant turns away to answer the phone leaving me, the customer, waiting like a lemon, wondering if I had made the right decision to enter the shop at all. A bit of courtesy, a smile and good manners go a long way.

So when I see bad customer service happening to someone else I wonder whether it is the customer's fault for being difficult in some way or simply the assistant, who is rude and may benefit from a course in customer relations. Take today for example: I was in a queue at the checkout in a well known pharmacists. One I use regularly. Two tills were being operated; one by a lovely, friendly face, smiles and thank you's all round and the other, by a sour faced makeup-caked miserable twenty year old who was obviously totally pissed off to be helping behind the till. Perhaps it was beneath her qualities. Perhaps she felt she had been torn away from the glamour of perfume and cosmetics.

She was serving an elderly gentleman who was wearing an hearing-aid. He was doing his best to understand the strop behind the counter as she asked him why he had not chosen a drink instead of two deserts which would have made his food bill slightly cheaper. To be fair, she was doing her job in helping the gentleman save money. However, her attitude was beyond, in my view, disgraceful. She spoke to him as though he was utterly stupid. It was clear she had no time for the elderly or those who might be slightly impaired in any way. The man, bless him, did not understand what she meant and I watched as she shrugged her shoulders and said, "well, I can't help you then." She rang in the amount, told him how much and he asked her to repeat it. She said, "I did say you should have got a drink instead of two deserts." She literally snapped at him but the man had not heard first time round. In the end, he smiled very sweetly, took one of the deserts back to the fridge and picked out a drink, taking it back to the counter. Sour face rang that in, held out her hand and took his money. Then she looked at me. My eyes bore into hers. She never smiled once. Nor did she say please or thank you. At any time. The man smiled all the way through the transaction. She made a few excuses and left the till and it made me wonder whether she had just been filling in during a particularly busy spell.

The gentleman left the shop, probably a little confused at what had just taken place. I moved forward to the nice lady, we exchanged smiles and hello's. I placed my basket on the counter and as she started to unload my shopping I just could not resist it. Expressing my disgust at the girl's attitude I went into full flow. Should Amy have been older she would probably have walked away with embarrassment. The nice lady went slightly red and commented that she had not seen or noticed the girl's attitude but I made sure I got my message across. I think I might be turning in to Victor Meldrew. But I just cannot stand bad manners, bad customer service and miserable shop assistants who think they are better than you. It does not matter, in my view, how tired the assistant is, how pissed off they are at having to "muck in" or how frustrated they become at a customer, they should always smile and use manners. It doesn't take much. There's plenty venting time at the end of a shift. Don't these people realise that we, the customers, are paying their wages?

Spider Jack

My poor child came running into my bedroom at 5.10 this morning announcing in rather dramatic fashion that a spider was on its way down her wall and making a bee-line for the bed. The farmer carried on snoring. I was awake anyway, having had the worst nights sleep for a long time, what with harvest and weather, school and holidays on my mind. I had started to think about sleeping pills at one point. So, the spider; I jumped out of bed, wondering if the farmer would awake in my haste and hurried out of the bedroom, my little drama queen in tow. "Take me to it," I said, not quite sure what I could do. Usually a job for the farmer, he hadn't come to bed until 2am due to cutting barley so I could not fore shame to disturb him.

Amy sleeps with her lamp on and I imagine would have been terribly shocked to see the huge black, eight-legged creature with eyes as big as saucers and shoes from Clarks traipsing down her wall. It is my own phobia that has heightened Amy's fear of them, something I really am not particularly proud of. I went into her bedroom. Apart from pictures, stickers and various drawings which litter the walls, no spider was in sight. Now, it would have been much easier to tuck Amy into the spare bed but as we have been entertaining friends all weekend they were already in there. No room in our bed; I knew I had to play Tarzan.

"It could be in the bed," said a frightened little voice. Curling my toes and face up at the same time, I pulled back the duvet. Lifted the pillows, threw teddies and toys from the bed on to the small amount of floor that was visible. Nothing. I knew that I myself would never be able to sleep in that bed knowing that a spider was in my vicinity so there was no way I was going to expect Amy to. "Try behind the picture," said the voice. "Which picture?" I asked. "The Hannah Montana poster," the voice replied. This was it. I carefully peeled back the blutack. Revealing one corner, then the next and then..

The picture fell to the bed. And the spider ran. "Oh bugger," I said, rather clumsily in front of my eight year old extremely vulnerable and very easily influenced daughter. "You swore!" she told me. "Get some toilet paper," I said, my voice raising a little. Amy ran off to the bathroom returning with a small piece of tissue. "Not enough, I need lots more," I insisted, my voice raising even more. By this time, Jack the Lad had moved onto the next wall and seemed to be standing still, probably wondering why he had been disturbed mid-sleep. I heard Amy in the bathroom, the toilet roll being turned and turned, no doubt leaving no paper for whoever was first to rise.

She came back with ample sheets. I took them from her and put them over Jack. This was where the spider came to its unfortunate end. Down the toilet. I flushed it. Please swim off, I thought as I made my way back to Amy who was now quite happy to settle down and go back to sleep. Unable to cope with the farmer's grunting any longer I decided to stay and keep Amy company in her bed.

But first I needed the Loo.

Superstitious? Me?

My dad came through yesterday, I know it was him because of the strong aroma of aftershave that I could almost taste. He was always a one for scent, his cleanliness was second to none. We used to make comments about it, saying there was no point in wearing perfume because his aftershave just drowned it out. I have been talking to him a lot lately. I go through spells when I need him, then other times that I just feel comforted by his presence. Amy is growing up so fast and would have benefited from my dads experience in life, she would have enjoyed his banter and revelled in his attention. Life can be so cruel sometimes. I asked him to hold me last night, as I slept. As it happened, the farmer decided to snore me out of bed and I ended up in the guest room. My dad rocked me back to sleep. Perhaps my dad wanted me all to himself.

I cannot be sure but I think he joined me on a recent walk I took. For many years I have been superstitious, worried when seeing only one magpie, unable to walk under a ladder, looking amongst millions of clover for one which might have four leaves. Amy wanted a race, just to the end of the driveway where we tend to walk on the farm. She is sensible enough to know that should she go any further it could be dangerous due to a car turning into the farm. She therefore stops and has, over time, called it "the finish line". On this particular walk, I found a little energy from somewhere and began jogging, rather pathetically, towards the finish line knowing full well that Amy on her scooter would easily win. I reached the line, leaning against the gate which leads into our first barley field. We only stayed at this point for a few minutes when I decided to start heading back to the house.

It was at this point when I looked down towards the grass verge. Clover covering most of the area my eyes could see, I stood and stared, not quite believing what I had found. By accident. I know I am a nutcase, a barnpot, a complete head-in-the-clouds-last-cake-in-the-shop kind a'gal but really, a four leaf clover, when I was thinking about the fact that I could really do with a miracle. (I'll tell you about that another day.)

So tell me, are you superstitious? And if so, in what way?

Still Heart

She stands at my bedside. Her malteser eyes become overwhelmed by tears, her face sad. She looks at me, a toy elephant clutched in her hands. I suddenly feel warm. The coldness that had earlier hypnotised my heart disappears, leaving only the deepest love a mother can feel. She hands me a note, screwed up, once hidden in a velvet trunk. I read the note. I bite my lip. I place the note on the bed beside me. She pleads with me for forgiveness; on behalf of the record that repeats its words, day after day. The empty space to my right suddenly needs to be filled. I pull back the covers and pat the bed. Her tears flow, relief washes over her as she learns of my mellowing thought. She snuggles into my chest as I stroke her head, gently wiping away tears which now run freely down her country-rose cheeks. I confirm all is well. My love can only grow stronger yet my heart breaks as I realise once more, the child did not understand my fury; my longing to teach her right from wrong. I cry. She does not witness my tears for it will make her heart break too.

She asks for the drink which sits next to my bed. Her tears cease. The words begin again. The fury has been forgotten. The note discarded. I let her have five minutes, just to ensure normality has been resumed. Then I take her back to bed. The place she had been ordered to after such hurtful vocabulary escaped her childish lips. I tuck her in, kiss her, hold her tightly and kiss her again. We assure each other of love stronger than the Universe. I move away, towards her bedroom door. Granddad awaits, his hand poised, ready to blow the final kiss of the day. She cannot go to sleep until this gesture of love has been achieved.

It gets to me sometimes.

Orange

Amy asked if she could do some homework. I did not refuse. I wondered if she might be missing the routine of school and the structured days. I remember attempting homework once. I cannot say I remember doing any. Which could have had a bearing on my average qualifications. At the moment, homework to Amy seems to be a novelty. She rather enjoys showing off her skills and of course, I lap it up. I am so proud at her keenness to learn and her incredible ability to remember what she has learned. It makes my job as her mother, all the more worth while.

I wonder about her future. Everyday. Some say I shouldn't. Should just get on with living day by day and not worry about the future. How many times I have heard people say "it's what's here and now that's important, the future is ages off," is too many to mention and I can tell you, it does not make me feel any better. But how can I? How can a mother not think about their child's future years, about whether their child will be happy as they grow? I know Amy is happy now and I have no doubt she will be happy in the future because I will do my best to ensure she is. But it is those years ahead in an educational environment that I dwell on most. Her ability to cope in a building that is guaranteed to overwhelm any pupil, let alone one with autism who cannot cope at a children's party where only 15 boisterous heads play musical chairs.

Her current school has few pupils. The main reason I chose it as a foundation to Amy's academic future. The next school which has been looked into, has triple the current amount. High school has around 900 pupils. I, myself, would never cope in such a crowd. Is it fair to expect anyone else to? Especially when one knows it will be nigh on impossible for them to cope. One reason why I worry. So many other reasons spring to mind; reasons that I hope I will deal with when and if they arise.

Spending quality time with Amy during these summer holidays has been and is still, completely wonderful. Each year I see a change in her behaviour, a part of her that has grown and made new discoveries about herself. She has started to ask questions that I find almost impossible to answer. "How do you make babies?" I cannot remember does not quite cut the cloth. "I wish someone would tell me." One day, I will. "I really want a brother or a sister." Have an apple instead. I do not feel ready for such adult conversation with my eight year old daughter. This time, I need support.

But I am not one of those people who can go along to parent classes, talk about my daughter's problems to a bunch of folk sat in a circle and then share a laugh over coffee and a custard cream. I have tried. When Amy was first diagnosed I went to several classes all of which I found no help at all. Every parent was just interested in talking about their own child's difficulties, they could not have cared less about the person with the autistic kid sat to their right. It was a kind of competition as to who could talk the most. You got a few people who did not speak at all and one or two who never kept quiet. And then there was me. An in-between. I wanted to share my story, I longed to tell the strangers who had breezed into my life all about my little girl who doctors said would never have an imagination and would never make decisions. But I couldn't. I did not feel comfortable because I knew it would all be forgotten by the time the kettle had cooled.

I tried talking to the local Health Visitor who was more interested in the view out of our kitchen window. I tried discussing things with the doctor but they kept looking at their watch. My mum does not understand because she does not want to; not her fault, she just won't accept that Amy is autistic. My sister has problems of her own and my brother, well, he thinks Amy will be fine playing football with her cousins on the road when she has no road sense whatsoever. And so I shall go down the route to finding a professional, again. Someone who will understand Amy and appreciate my questions, not just answer them. My big girl deserves the best start in life. And I have every intention of giving her that. But somehow, I cannot see her trying to find her way around a building with a timetable and a bag of books. That is why I worry. Her future is bright; I will give her that too, if it is the last thing I do.

Cropped

Snatching moments here and there. That is what harvest is now becoming. The million dollar question: what will the weather be like today? I wish the Crystal could show me but we desperate farmers have to resort to standing at the window, looking up at the sky, hoping for an accurate forecast. Take Monday for example. The farmer got the combine ready, her engine raring for activity, and actually managed to guide her through the Rape field at midday. It was four o'clock on Tuesday morning when he guided her back to the shed. Two tea breaks, a few convenience stops and the odd stone removal. I left a lasagne in the Aga at 9pm Monday and he ate it at 1pm on Tuesday. That is what harvest has now become.

Should the sun have graced us with her presence, the farmer would have finished the Rape field on Tuesday and moved on to the Barley fields. A part of me was relieved that the clouds covered our once blue sky and showered our crops. To have a lucrative business is one thing; to have a healthy farmer is another. You need the latter to make the first. I cannot drive the combine and even if I could, someone would have to look after Amy. And as I am her main carer, in more ways than one, I guess it should be me. And do you know what? I would not have it any other way. The farmer is happy when he works. He enjoys cutting Rape at midnight, a field lit by giant head lamps. I have tried to persuade him to take it easy, to get more help, delegate a little. But for almost forty years, he has done it himself, with a little help from his father of course and a small amount from neighbouring farmers. Who am I to change that? His wife?

He turns sixty next year. He will not thank me for telling you that. But if you met him you would understand why I fell in love with him. And I plan to really spoil him for his special birthday. I have not decided yet what my plan will be but I have considered the John Deere factory in Illinois. He mentioned he would like to go at some point in his life and God only knows, as much as I, that he deserves this opportunity. I will need to get him a passport and make the arrangements myself, accommodation, flights etc but I feel I need to do this for him. I want to do this for him.

In the meantime, I think I am going positively odd. No comments on that remark, thank you. I now have a TARDIS in my office. Standing at around 6ft 2" high it is big enough to fit the Doctor quite comfortably. Perhaps his head may protrude a little. I cannot help but let my imagination run away with me. Of course it was bought for Amy. But it is a great place to hide. And I quite enjoy looking at it, with just a tiny glint in my eye.

Ayebydan Seil

I kept getting that feeling of deja vu. Whenever I looked around the cottage, inside and out, it was as though my heart had rested there once, long ago. My sense of home became overwhelming; could I have been remembering a past life in a surrounding such as the one I had become so familiar with? As I lay in bed at night my mind would race, thoughts scurrying through in an attempt to work out why I had been fortunate enough to learn about such an enchanting place. I tend to work back a while; recollect how it was that I came to make my decisions. I had been introduced to good living, kind people, a world close to my own. It was a night during the week that I awoke at 2am. Our ensuite bathroom had two doors, one leading from our bedroom and another onto the landing. As I began to make my way back to bed the landing-side door opened, a heavy latch being lifted to reveal my favoured mirror. It took me a little by surprise and kept me awake for an hour as I lay upon my pillow, listening for any further unexplainable events. The same thing happened a few days later.





Our friends once more introduced us to a beautiful place, on the west coast; Oban. A wonderful fishing town with a harbour worthy of a ream of film. Large ferries docked to take those who wished to sail to the nearby Island of Mull. We walked around the pleasant town, dining in an upstairs cafe on toasties and hot chocolate with marshmallows. Then we moved on to the nearby Sealife Sanctuary to find fish of all shapes and sizes, young and old. The main attraction were the seals; two born at the Sanctuary and one rescued from the terrors of the ocean. All three creatures adored being the centre of attention, having hoards of visitors watch as they cleverly caught fish from a guiding hand. It was a wonderful place, full of nooks and crannies; woodland walks and a play area from where we had difficulty prising Amy away. And of course a gift shop; our hunger for knick-knacks drove us to the counter with an armful of goodies. In her element, Amy talked of the fresh faces and wide eyes which had pierced my camera lens, a love of exhibition to those who wished to see.




We had taken the usual toys with us and of course Doctor Who dvd's. Neither of us got by without being able to watch David Tennant at least once a day. But there it did not matter if we missed the long coat and scruffy suit. Too much beauty surrounded our vision and apart from the Wednesday when it rained all day, I could not have cared less about my obsession with the Doctor! Nor could I have cared less about television. To go on holiday and spend it doing something you can do at home kind of defeats the object for me.


Good food was on the menu every day. A cosy pub overlooking the beautiful Falls of Dochart in the heart of Killin served a wonderful meal and there, I tasted my first haggis. Perhaps not something I will make a habit of eating but I left a clean plate and enjoyed every bit. The pub was soaked in atmosphere; a huge inglenook fireplace where an elderly dressed mannequin sat rocking in her chair was the focal point as one entered the room, a real fire bursting with flames to add warmth to a dimly lit corner. Good company was part of the deal as conversation continued in its quest to cement a friendship.



I could not believe it when I awoke on Saturday morning. A week had passed so quickly, as it always does when one is getting older. We had done so much, seen so many incredible sights, spent quality time in good company, played with two adorable dogs, eaten good food, walked for miles and spent a fortune. I was relaxed. I felt content, yet sad to be leaving that wonderful place. But I looked forward to the serenity of home. I had missed the farmer. I had missed the dogs and the cat, the pony and the hens, and of course the sheep. I had even missed the aroma of my cherished farm. We look forward to returning to the cottage again next year, a little part of home etched upon my heart.

Braw Ben

"Welcome to Scotland." Laughter filled the car, excited cries from every angle drowned out the humming noise of the engine.

"That didn't take long." A little disappointment in her voice, Amy needed clarification that we had only just gone over the border, another two hours driving lay ahead.

It did not matter that we met a traffic jam en-route. It did not matter that at one point my windscreen wipers were going so fast they almost took flight. The journey, on the whole, was a good one. The mountains beckoned me on, at each corner, each junction. Endless arms reaching out to draw us towards their imposing beauty.

Miraculously, I found my way to the holiday cottage in which Amy and I were to spend the week. White. Stone. Hidden. I could not describe it at first glance for all I could see was a vision of what a holiday cottage in the Scottish Highlands should look like. It was there, in front of me, waiting for my awe-inspired reaction to store up thoughts, preferably finding the right words. We were greeted, as I knew we would be, by a welcome embrace, an immediate warmth wrapping around our hearts which was to become the scene set, for the forthcoming week.

An entrance hall; latched pine door leading into a large kitchen and dining room. My eyes caught sight of the beautiful farmhouse-style table, sturdy and inviting; a large vase of wild flowers had been placed in the centre. A staircase leads to a home from home landing boasting a large mirror with potential faces. From the kitchen to the living room, bright, homely and warm. Two sofas captured me once I had found comfort after the long drive. Ornaments and souvenirs scattered about the room, books in abundance littered amongst shelves; information leaflets, maps and that all important cottage manual.

French doors open onto decking which houses a large table and chairs, all conveniently covered by a dark green parasol, a camouflage in luscious surroundings. Beyond the decking is a lochan or a large pond. Small fish explore the surface causing a tiny ripple in their leaping bid. I could have sat looking through generous sized windows all day, my own bid to seek out the deer which roam freely in the ancient forests. Two large en suite bedrooms occupy the first floor, both comfortable, yet I was drawn to the lightest room, the one where water falls can be constantly heard, where my forest view lay in wait. I counted three red squirrels playing contentedly, running up and down trees, feasting on a bird table within only ten feet of my camera.

The mountains left me speechless. In sight of Ben Lawyers and close to Ben Lyon, I became captivated by their impressiveness, my eyes could hardly look away. I found myself constantly focusing on any moving object, wondering if I had finally seen the most beautiful of all. My longing to capture wandering deer was met with disappointment however, perhaps I shall look harder next time I go in October. But to see all the other wonderful sights made up for the lack of deer. Hamish, for example. A huge Highland Coo (cow), old in years yet still enjoying much deserved attention as he patrolled a paddock fence. He is well looked after but whether I feel he should have been able to explore more freely remains for me to ponder. He seemed quite happy when we stopped by his life.

Our friends introduced us to the amazing scenery of Ben Lyon. I took us in the Land Rover, at one point wondering if we would make the journey ahead as I had to reverse for an oncoming pickup. Hair-raising twists and turns with drops beyond ones imagination prevented me from taking my eyes off the road. Eventually we arrived at a quietly located cafe and gallery where we tucked into cream teas, listening to nearby sheep dog trials. I thought about Sparky and Molly. They would have loved it but I imagined Sparky would have thought nothing of swimming across the loch which separated sheep dogs from our clotted cream scones. Perhaps Molly would have reservedly waited; food or work. A difficult choice indeed. A pleasurable night was enjoyed by all when our friends kindly cooked Amy and I a roast dinner. Wine and conversation flowed whilst Amy played and cuddled with the couple's two dogs, lapping up mutual attention from the cat with the loudest meow I think I have ever heard. Such beautiful pets, loved and tended by doting owners.

I was desperate to spend a day in Pitlochry and Dunkeld where the farmer and I spent our honeymoon. This time I was able to show Amy where we had stayed. An adorable town with the usual Scottish souvenir shops, and of course the kilts. I could not resist a glance or two at some of the local shop keepers as they paraded their calf muscles to the young maidens. I thought about asking what they covered but moved onto a jewellery shop instead where I bought Amy a silver signet ring; she was fascinated with a fan, wondering if it might still work should her tongue be caught in its mechanism. One eye on a tray of silver, the other on Amy, we finally left the shop to return to the car and our cottage in the trees.

To be continued.

I have put up a slideshow if you should wish to view some of our holiday shots.

On High

Thought I might tell you about the amazing place where I am currently staying. But it warrants more thought than I have time to give. It needs me to explain why I have fallen in love with its beauty; why I feel drawn to its warmth. I want to tell you about the exceptional creatures which roam the mountainsides, how they pose attentively, their call echoing through the valleys of this stunning landscape. You should read about the elegance of what would otherwise be seen as wild and unkempt, yet here it is perfect; justifying silence through birdsong or a trodden twig, trampled on by Glory himself.

I would love to share this vast piece of paradise with you. But please do not tell others; it should be kept a secret. It needs to be hidden away from destruction, fenced off, made a national treasure to only the eyes that will appreciate its magnificence. When I am here, home still surrounds my heart. I cannot miss my own Heaven, for I am encased in someone else's. We have already done so much; yet we have only seen a small part of this staggering part of Scotland. I look forward to the rest of this holiday as I continue to soak in splendour.

CJ xx

Red

The door to the dining room was ajar. An open invitation to a curious collie. Sparky hovered in the kitchen for a while then thought about exploring elsewhere. Her usual inquisitiveness took her out of the kitchen and towards the open doorway leading into the dining room. She stopped. Crouched. Cowered almost. A low growl sounded in her throat as she stood transfixed on a carpet in an empty room. Her teeth barred, she barked. Still watching the same space, still frozen. I walked passed her into the room. Standing in the empty space that she seemed to fear I looked at her. Her eyes did not move. Her ears sharp, hackles rose, she continued to bark.

Her sixth sense had witnessed the display of activity that I so often feel drawn towards. She would not step inside the dining room. Her paws stayed clear of the busy red carpet. I left the room, encouraging her to follow. She did. Returning to her same spot only seconds later. The growling started once more followed by barking, the tone she uses when someone comes to the door. It is loud, offering warning to strangers. Perhaps she felt the entity which occupied our dining space was indeed a stranger. To her. Not to me.

Sat on her sofa, the old farmer's wife sewed patches on jeans. Her glasses resting on her nose; she tried hard to concentrate in the poorly lit room. Her cigarette burned in an ashtray which rested on the arm of the sofa, ash and burnt out ends littering the little glass dish. The curtains a heavy red velvet, still hung at the windows, open to allow in the best of sunset. A large sewing bag sat beside her, needles and pins stabbing a tiny homemade cushion. Dark material lay upon her lap. And at her feet, a red and white collie rested, eyes closed from the hard work of the day. His name was Bob. He was a working sheep dog, together with being a firm favourite of the old farmer's wife. They walked together, from dining room to kitchen; she reached for her bake in the Aga as he stood behind, hoping for a slice to fall his way. It had once been Bob's territory. His evening place had been next to his mistress, his head had lain upon her feet. She had often reached down to pat him, remind him of his importance in the household. He needed no reminding. I could see how blessed he was, how loved and treasured he had been. Now Sparky's territory, perhaps she could see it too.

Just days before he passed, Jim (the old farmer) reached out his hand in a bid to touch something he cherished. "What are you doing, Jim?" I asked him. "Stroking Bob," he replied.