6th November 2011

Sadly, Murphy passed away in tragic circumstances. She had been Charlotte’s cat for twelve years, loved by all the family, all the more so since, a few years back, she tangled with a car and lost a hind leg. From then on, she became our cheerful little tripod, hopping about with the determination of a creature who refused to be defined by her limb count. She would happily settle on any available lap, purr like an idling engine, and coax an ear scratch from you before you realised you’d been emotionally blackmailed. I had a soft spot for her, and she knew it, exploiting my gullibility whenever I sat down.

She had been missing for a few days when our fears were confirmed. Charlotte, nipping out to fetch fish fingers from the freezer, found Murphy in the hedge by the garage, badly injured. Whether it was another collision with a car or a run-in with a fox or badger, we’ll never know. After a hurried phone call, I met Charlotte and Murphy at the Harborough vet. He confirmed my worst fears: a suspected broken back. Murphy didn’t appear to be in pain and, though listless, knew she was being cuddled. There was nothing to be done. With Charlotte holding her close, she was put to sleep. Later, we buried her in the garden, and I made her a small slate headstone.

On Tuesday, Joan and Phil arrived from Italy for Joan’s mother’s 90th birthday and to see friends. Roger Woolnough had just returned from a romantic holiday in Cyprus, so we all met at the Angel Hotel for lunch. We swapped news, theirs about Wags the dog and a successful wine harvest, mine about local goings-on, and then they surprised me with a glorious wedge of my favourite Italian hard cheese. I have every intention of saving it for Christmas, but given how good it tastes, the odds are not in my favour.

By Thursday, Sue and I were heading to Devon to stay with Philippa and Paul. Normally, Sue meets her sister in Worcester to exchange Christmas gifts and indulge in a bit of shopping, but with her school supply work winding down, we decided on a short break in Buckfastleigh instead. On the way, we stopped at Clevedon, a charming seaside town with a pier reaching into the Severn Estuary and just the sort of place you imagine retiring to, judging by the number of retirement homes along the bay.

Friday began with the rare pleasure of a lie-in before driving to Start Point Lighthouse. Sadly, it was closed, so we continued along the coast, stopping in pretty villages, having lunch at the Cricketers Inn in Beesands, and eventually reaching Dartmouth. I had been best man at a wedding there over thirty years ago, but when we visited the castle, we didn’t recognise a thing. Either time had changed it, or our memories were playing tricks, possibly both. A brief drizzle sent us scurrying back to Buckfastleigh.

Saturday saw us on a SatNav-guided mystery tour to Hay Tor on Dartmoor. The views were stunning, if damp and blustery, and we could just about make out the sea in the distance. After lunch in Bovey Tracey, we browsed the shops before heading back. That evening, Philippa and Paul took us to Dartington Hall’s cinema, a beautiful venue entirely wasted on the modern remake of Wuthering Heights. I cannot recommend it, for reasons including: Heathcliff wasn’t black, Hindley couldn’t act, the Blair Witch–style camerawork was absurd, Yorkshire doesn’t rain that much, and one hanging dog is more than enough. By the end, I was convinced the Yorkshire Tourist Board would pay to have it destroyed.

On Sunday morning, I proofread an essay from Sarah, then Sue and I strolled to Buckfast Abbey, impressive, but surprisingly modern, having been built in the early 1900s. Later, we headed to Bristol to visit my old college friend, Chris Tippets. Unfortunately, Sue had a migraine, so while she rested, Chris and I took his neighbour’s dog for a damp walk along the estuary. That evening, we embarked on a failed quest for Sunday night food, only to end up at Burger King, which had been 200 yards from our hotel all along.

Monday brought a bargain £3.95 carvery lunch with Chris before heading home to a freezing house. The temperature was dropping below zero overnight, so out came the hot water bottles.

By Wednesday, the central heating boiler had packed in. EON promised to arrive before 1 pm; they turned up at 4 pm, declared a crucial part broken, and scheduled the repair for Friday. Brrrr. To make matters worse, I’d had a haircut. In this weather, that counts as self-sabotage.