9 March

I have just been to a parent’s assembly and have a horrible feeling that I have been breathing fumes of garlic and wine over half the school. I had a lunch with some lovely friends, which cheered up my Friday and made me immensely grateful for the little community that we have built up here. Many of us sitting round the table at lunch are incomers, and were lonely and in need of friends when we first planted ourselves in the country. Others have been here all their lives. All of us have been blown off course, one way or another, by the arrival of children, or by the unexpected twists and turns of life. All of us were looking for something to help oil the wheels of our lives, so clogged with minutiae, and we’ve found it in our friendships, helped, of course, by the odd bottle of wine and the occasional birthday lunch. Looking round that table, I am aware of so much talent, which I am sure could apply to any group of women. So many varied abilities and backgrounds; actress-turned-chef, entrepreneur, teacher, museum curator, doctor, artist. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (I’d probably be the beggar woman). Not all are working, many are raising families, some are starting small enterprises or nurturing talents and interests. Not all of us had glamorous jobs and many are glad to be pottering quietly in the country; others regretful that opportunities have passed them by and still looking for their place. Being women, we all tell stories against ourselves; we tell of our failures and disappointments with humour, but we feel them nevertheless. There is no-one overselling their talents, or attempting to stride the world like a colossus, as so many men feel compelled to do. We have our faults, though, and before long we ease contendedly into gossip; nothing too malicious or unkind, of course, just a satisfying reminder that while the rest of the world has it’s shortcomings, we, of course, tight in our charmed circle, are perfect. In my working life, I often worked in a ‘man’s world’. I love male company and don’t always thrive in women-only situations. I’m aware of the exclusivity of circles, and of the segments within them. But times like this remind me of the strengths of our friendships and that female communities, somehow, always spring up when you most need them.

We drive away from town down old green lanes to the school. It still surprises me, even after years of country living, how quickly and easily you leave the town behind and plunge back into nature, down roads that have been tracks and lanes for centuries, maybe millennia. For once I’m not driving (I’ve only had two glasses but am hopeless at lunchtime drinking) and I’m rarely a passenger, without responsibilities in the back seats, able to gaze out of the window. We cross ancient (flooded) fords, driving through countryside in all its washed and sparkling glory. The verges, streaming after rain, are crowded with aconites, snowdrops and early crocuses. Coltsfoot explodes in a sulphur-yellow frenzy under trees. Winter jasmine climbs onto the roofs of cottages. Amazingly, the hawthorn is out, with its promise of May. There are fat ruby buds on the black branches of the lime trees which form an avenue on the village green. You can almost hear the buds breaking open. I rush to greet my own buds, who are breaking into their lives with such vigour. Unfortunately for them, even a small amount of alcohol makes me gushingly, and embarrassingly, affectionate. At exmoorjane’s cyber party, I’d be the one weeping in the corner, telling you all I loved you. They’re both in mellow moods, luckily, and my daughter is waiting for me to finish on the computer so she can curl up on the sofa and have the ‘Owl and The Pussycat’ read to her. Perfect. I hope she doesn’t notice if I slur the words.