Londoner in Exile

The WI - Inspiring Women

2010-06-17T08:40:00.001-07:00

In spite of people's complaints about the UK's rail system, I still much prefer going by train than driving. Partly because it's the one time you can just daydream, look out of the window and switch off. And sometimes, you get to meet someone who leaves a profound impression. This week when I came down to the South West, I was particularly glad I let the train take the strain.

I sat next to a woman in standard class and while we acknowledged each other, we both were busy with our own thing - reading and/or writing. It was only when one of the passengers was having a challenging time that we exchanged views and got chatting. One thing led to another and it turns out that she is the current Chair of the WI, no less.

I don't come from a long line of WI women. My granny loved baking and making things (she was a particularly talented dressmaker) and she worked well into her 70s. My mother followed suit, with a career and continues to work now. I guess my perception was that, admirable as it is, the WI is strictly for women at home, with children. I was aware of some new blood being injected into the organisation and the infamous conference speech by Tony Blair. And, of course, the Calendar Girls. But how wrong I was. The WI is so much more than the sum of my misconceptions.

We talked about some of their amazing campaigns and the fact that you don't need to be married or a mother to join. The WI has been talking about women and climate change for decades. And campaigning against the inappropriate detention of people with mental health problems. The WI is also fighting against the demise of the bee with its SOS for honeybees. Did you know that they are even starting in universities? For young women, maybe who have left home for the first time, it's a great way to connect with others. Even the V&A has its own branch.

We also talked about the difference between being a feminist and feminine organisation. I had to disembark before my travelling companion but I wish we had had longer.

The WI's strapline is Inspiring Women; it's a great play on words. I have to say Ruth Bond certainly inspired me and I urge you all to check out what the WI is doing. And maybe even think about joining. And if you don't find a branch that suits you, think about setting up your own, like the Shoreditch Sisters. The East End WI blog will give you the urban slant on membership. In its seemingly quiet way, the WI is making great strides. And doing so much more than I ever gave them credit for.

You can find them on their website here (And, as an aside, any organisation that includes its own jargon buster deserves my total admiration.)

Or follow them on twitter

Sub-Lyme Regis

2010-06-16T10:12:00.000-07:00

After hibernating doing other stuff for, oooh, 10 months, I've decided it's time to take this blog by the scruff of its neck and get writing again.

And what could be more auspicious than a little post about Lyme Regis?

Let's start with the literary connections. For any Jane Austen fan, it's all about where Louisa Musgrove fell off the Cobb or if John Fowles is your man, it's where his novel, The French Lieutenant's Woman, is set, immortalised by Meryl Streep (or her stand-in) with that unforgettable black cape draped around her.

Anyway, even with a virtually cloudless sky and temperatures in the '70s, the Cobb is still pretty scary to walk along. Believe me, it's deceptive.

I hate heights or exposed walkways without railings (!) but was determined to reach the end. Ultimately, I had to give up and clamber down the last set of steps, with help from some passers-by who saw me dithering - too scared to go forward, too terrified to turn back.

The Harbour...

Although Lyme Regis is the perfect English seaside resort, totally dog-friendly, etc, etc, most of the beaches have summer restrictions so if you go with your hound, you don't get to walk by the sea. Note to self for next time. I was borrowing two dogs for the day and they weren't very impressed. It seemed particularly mean to walk them past any swimming opportunities.

However, there are LOTS of dog-friendly places to sit, look out and enjoy the Jurassic coastline. Even the lampposts are themed...

If you wander into the back streets, it gets even better. I cannot recommend the Town Mill Bakery highly enough. It reminds me so much of how Neal's Yard Bakery in Covent Garden used to be - artisan, fun and producing the yummiest food EVER. And it's dog-friendly outside.

When you walk through the main (and only entrance), this is what you see:

And it's communal dining at its finest:

Check out the butter!

I missed the recent episode of the BBC's Mary, Queen of Shops but the owners of Maher and Son could do much worse than see how these guys are baking amazing goods.

In the meantime, here are some architectural gems that caught my eye...

Get to Lyme Regis before the school holidays kick in and the traffic jams make you fall out of love with it before you've even arrived.

PS We didn't get to dine at Hix Oyster & Fish House but I have it on very good authority that it's the place to eat and the staff will make you feel like a million dollars if you're celebrating a special occasion while serving up fabulous fayre.

South of the Border

2009-09-11T08:09:00.000-07:00

In true confessional style, bless me readers, for I cannot believe that it is almost a month since my last post. Shameful.

But I am determined to make amends. Right now. This summer, for one reason and another, I explored new (to me) areas along England's South Coast and found some gems. And a horror or two.

For starters (I'll stick to the positives for now), there was a truly old-fashioned Italian ice cream parlour, Fusciardi's, in Eastbourne.

Definitely NOT on a par with anything I have tasted in Italy (sorry) or even elsewhere in the UK - Gelateria Danieli in Richmond (near London, not Yorkshire) was pretty amazing - but I still really enjoyed sitting down to absorb all that Fusciardi's had to offer. I guess it's a cross between Ponti's and Marine Ices. I used to visit Ponti's as a child - whenever we went to John Lewis in Oxford Street. Then it seemed something special and a treat. Getting a real Italian coffee was much harder in the '70s and Soho was too far when there was a school uniform to be purchased. Now I find the same place mildly depressing. Last time I popped into Ponti's (more out of curiosity than anything else), it seemed to be full of people who wanted to escape (perhaps to Italy?) - or just ground down by long-working hours (quite a few retail staff were taking shelter in the booths). But Fusciardi's has gone big on the decor - quite OTT in parts - so I think it's determined that every customer will be cheery. At all times.

Here you can see the full display of Venetian masks:

This was a Caribbean Rhapsody, which I didn't sample but the woman enjoying it told me it was her favourite:

Out of the Loop

2009-08-21T22:47:00.000-07:00

Bexhill-on-Sea - on a summer's day

Whoa! Things have been totally topsy turvy at my end. I've conducted two domestic moves from different parts of the country (within two weeks) and had a spell of depression, which always makes life more challenging.

It's hard to explain but essentially, if there is sunshine, I will see clouds. And no amount of positive thinking will shift it. Sometimes, I just want to smack myself and say, 'snap out of it' but the blues are the blues and whether it's a chemical thang or just feelings running riot, I seem to be in the backseat - cowering - rather than driving forward and taking action.

There was definite grieving for the hound - it seemed to strike in the evening, particularly around bedtime. I would find myself sobbing nightly into my pillow, hoping she hadn't gone. But she has.

Then I would trawl the internet - long into the night, looking for other rescue Chocolate Labradors (now that is just unhealthy, isn't it?) that needed a home. Of course, I am totally NOT in a position right now to give any dog a home. But I kept on searching. For her doppelgänger.

Almost two months on and the crying has stopped. Phew. Now when I see photographs of her, I cannot believe she isn't here but whereas there was zero acceptance of the situation some weeks ago, now it's just a residue of sadness. And much sighing.

I've had 24 enforced bed rest (that makes me sound very old, I know) keeping a chest infection with aching limbs at bay and it's somehow made the depression lift and real life should resume shortly. Hooray.

Miss World

2009-07-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

I'm still in Devon, finalising things for my ma's move. Sunday is d-day (for departure). I've got a return train ticket just in case her car is so full that I can't fit in (with the pets, plants and last-minute items).

Most of my stuff (ie mementos from childhood and beyond) are at my own house. In the loft. But, somehow, a few items remain in the South West. Today we discovered my International Doll Collection (as opposed to my domestic girls - Sindy and Daisy, the latter with her supersize sunglasses), which truly began with one of my mother's own dolls - Minnehaha - fully clothed, with baby, in a real leather dress and moccasins.

Or maybe it was her Hallmark Dolls of the Nations Collector's Album?

Even though I lived in the centre of London as a child, there was something so very glamorous about international travel. Even a trip to Mallorca seemed exotic. Of course, these were not my journeys but the adults in my life. If they came back with a doll, it was always an exhilirating moment. And, there is no gender bias - I have Mr and Mrs Dolls from faraway shores...

Sadly, I can no longer identify some of the dolls' nationalities. Maybe you can help? I'll let their national dress and make-up do the talking. Here come the introductions...(drumroll please):

Very much Miss Portugal

Miss Spain (I just adored her in all her flamenco finery)

Miss Mallorca (please note bread in hand and looking more like Sophia Loren than Miss Italy below)

Miss Italy (Not like any Italian woman I know but definitely a safer bet for someone in a similar position to Mr Berlusconi...I don't think she would have caused diplomatic sensitivities at the G8)

Mr and Mrs Singapore (they were a significant addition to the collection - now it was truly global)

Mr Greece (sadly, minus one of his shoe decorations)

And now for the mysteries...

She wants to shake you by the hand but where is she from?

I'm thinking somewhere along the Silk Route...

A latecomer to the EU?

PS Just for the record, I don't display my dolls anymore. In fact, I haven't seen them for at least a decade. Observing them now, there is a definite creepiness in the blank expression in the eyes. One doll that never, ever looked fake was the Sasha Doll. I still have mine and a quick search on the internet has revealed she could be worth several hundred pounds. Blimey. I could have a romantic weekend in Rome for the same money. Hmmm. Have doll, will travel.

Disco is Back

2009-07-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

So, Disco is back. Did it ever go away? Really?

Thanks to The Times, they've listed "15 classic disco floor fillers" , from Love Train by the O'Jays right through to Deee-Lite and Moloko. Everyone will have an opinion about a list like that. Good and bad.

Number 8 is Can You Feel It by The Jacksons. I guess with Michael's recent demise, this may get played more frequently on the dancefloors. But for me, it conjures up one memory and one memory alone; Jane Fonda and her aerobic workout. I can even remember the moves and her instructions over the music. Sadly, I find I can never dance to it now. Bad memories. I didn't have Jane's figure or studio style at the time. But there was lycra. Definitely lycra. Probably more Victoria Wood than Ms Fonda. Oh dear.

Anyway, back to now and what's important. Sister Sledge recently played Ibiza. OMG! Whatever age those sisters are, they'd be worth seeing anytime. I wonder if they are coming to the UK? I saw them at Paradise Lost, Watford. And believe me, it was fabulous. Not quite Studio 54 fabulous but definitely disco. Real disco.

Glorious Glastonbury (3)

2009-07-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

Can't believe we were sweltering at Glastonbury - less than a month ago, particularly on a day like this - non-stop rain. In July. Aha. Have just realised...it's St Swithin's Day.

When tired and hungry...this was the place to go:

You can buy anything at Glastonbury. Even vintage clothing (and feel virtuous at the same time):

Perfect when things get muddy:

Strumpets with Crumpets (accept no imitations):

The Knicker Parlour was usually doing a brisk trade:

The Green Police keeping order at The Glade:

Musical Bingo in The Snug (sooo wished I had stayed to play):

I liked these guys' gear:

Fresh fruit lollypops under a parasol:

Served with music from a Gramophone:

Cupcakes and coffee:

The World’s Your Oyster

2009-07-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

What would you tell teenage girls – preparing to take the first set of public exams that could dictate the trajectories of their lives – about the world of work?

I recently participated in a careers day at one of the UK’s last remaining grammar schools. I do it as a favour for a friend who works there.

There was a particular slant on the careers day – it was all about languages – and how they are an important part of your skills portfolio.

I was paired up with a French engineer and we had to demonstrate how foreign languages had affected our careers. Were they essential? A waste of time? Or, a nice-to-have note on the Additional Skills section of the CV?

Although the engineer and I work in completely different environments, it was soon clear that we were giving the students the same message. When we started out, as fresh-faced graduates, the workplace was competitive but with the languages feather tucked firmly in our caps, we definitely had some sort of advantage. The City was the exception; being multi-lingual was seen as perfectly normal and therefore nothing special.

By the time these girls are ready to work, full-time, they will be competing with an even more diverse workforce. They will be competing against international candidates for whom English is not their first language and they will also be fluent in several other languages. (I'm too depressed to comment on how this government has been responsible for an appalling decline in the teaching of languages in state education.)

Although the day’s theme was languages, I wanted to leave the girls with positive messages about their future. I wish this interview , with author-turned-MP-in-waiting, Louise Bagshawe, had been published earlier. My parting words would have been hers:

… "never allow your self-worth to be caught up in your job, because you can always be sacked from your job, but you yourself remain."

Of course, I’m not sure teenagers would have the confidence and self-belief to appreciate just what an important message this is. But I would have said it nonetheless.

Glorious Glastonbury (2)

2009-07-14T15:56:00.000-07:00

Of course, anything and everything goes at Glastonbury. The wardrobe stakes are not high. And thank goodness for that.

Wedding dresses were big this year...

I coveted these silver Hunters:

Gold Man - a friend of a friend:

Evening wear (or just wench-wear?):

I like the cut of his jib:

An English Country Garden (flowers from)

2009-07-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

In spite of the continous rain here in the South West, we managed to take these flowers from my mother's garden. The hydrangea is just coming out now and those roses that haven't been battered by the storms are simply glorious right now.

Verging on the peachy side of the pink spectrum but not quite...(with cat in the background)

This is more like it...

Dogs' Day Out

2009-07-14T10:35:00.001-07:00

No, definitely not more tales of Houdini hounds. I was given a gift today - by my mother - of some new pyjamas with a doggy motif. I think they are super cute. They even come in their own little cloth bag:

It's not a brand I know - Feijoa Aotearoa - but a little searching on the net reveals that they are a New Zealand-based company.

These PJs were purchased from Brimblecombe in Dulverton, Somerset. It's such a gorgeous shop; I wish I had some photos of it. If I have time during this visit, I'll pop in and take some shots. Sadly, they don't have a website otherwise I'd be directing you there, PDQ!

What was once a house (as many shops in Dulverton are), they have used the space very cleverly. Household goodies are sold from the kitchen, which has a cream Raeburn. Gardening gifts are sold from the shed. The main part of the shop sells clothes, gifts, perfumes (including Creed) and...bedwear.

The only shot of the shop that I could find on the net was from the Dulverton by Starlight website:

It's cute but not cutesy, if that makes sense. A bit like my new pyjamas.

A Happy Tail

2009-07-13T12:52:00.001-07:00

Excuse the doggy pun. Even when I try hard NOT to write about dogs, something happens. Today, I got the train back down to Devon to be greeted by pouring rain and my mother standing on the platform with a new dog (see above).

Both were soaking wet. The dog had a makeshift lead (thanks to the kindness of Parkway Pantry staff at the station) because she didn't have a lead...

It turns out that - en route to pick me up - my mother had had to slam on the brakes to avoid this pretty pooch on a major road (the Exe Valley Road). Several cars had swerved to do the same. She was almost roadkill (the dog, that is).

She had a tag but not with the owner's details included. It required a scanner - found at the vet's or with the local dog warden. We came home, I tweeted about the lost dog - you never know, the right person may have seen it - she met our one remaining Labrador before we set off back into town to our lovely vet.

Can you believe it? They recognised her. She was so friendly - yet very nervous after her traffic ordeal - and extremely curious. The pretty pooch was indeed registered with them so we could leave her in their capable care. The owner's details are, apparently, never given out. My mother was still incredibly anxious about the dog but their vet of choice meant that they are good owners.

Fast forward a couple of hours and the vet rang. The owner had come to be reunited with their pet. Apparently, she had done a runner while out with the dog walker, leaving walker, owner and family distraught and distressed. The owner thanked my mother profusely.

Of course, if you are a dog owner/lover, what else can you do but stop and help? It's instinct. We had one particular dog who would disappear. Not frequently enough to warrant being walked on a lead permanently. But sufficient to create heart-stopping anxiety for a few hours. Several times over.

This story, I'm relieved to say, has a happy ending.

Extreme Ironing

2009-07-11T16:35:00.000-07:00

I'm leading such a peripatetic existence at the moment; in fact, I've seen more of the UK in 2009 than I have in my whole life.

But one thing remains - chores still need to be done. Wherever I am. This week, I managed to criss-cross the country more than once, even though that was not the plan.

I ended up in the same place as my husband (a lovely surprise) but he has been too busy to attend to matters domestic, such as laundry, cleaning and anything else you can think of in the (temporary*) home department. Not so lovely. So it was my turn to turn things round. Which I did. Sort of. Well, I made a start.

My good wifely deed of the week was to iron 11 shirts (10 for work, one for fun). In one go (well, almost). I've managed to aggravate an old back injury (perhaps it was the camping?), so I stood in front of the ironing board with a hot water bottle strapped to me. I alternated standing with sitting on a silver space ball, which just made the whole job more tricky and time-consuming.

But but but it did give me a chance to listen to the radio. I heard Harvey Goldsmith on Desert Island Discs (why, oh why, can't they put it on iPlayer? I know, I know...it's something about copyright.), snippets of Woman's Hour, including a piece about a new play called Dust, based on June Hancock's victory against the J W Roberts asbestos factory, based in Armley, Leeds. By the time June was diagnosed with cancer, she had already lost her mother to the malignant lung disease (usually caused by exposure to asbestos) and wanted justice for others. The June Hancock Mesothelioma Research Fund's website will tell you more.

The ironing marathon (well, for me it was) ended with listening to Front Row, about celebrity memoirs. My favourite moments were Alan Carr's throwaway comment about a gay font and Julie Walters' anecdotes about filming, She'll Be Wearing Pink Pyjamas. Catch it while you can on iPlayer.

My husband used to make his own drama out of his weekly shirt ironing - even when we were dating. It was an event. One that had to be planned (and accommodated), every single weekend. It drove me insane. So I started to do it (once we were co-habitating) - to circumvent the West End musical theatricality of it all. Soon, ironing became just another item on the never-ending to do list. But on Friday, I really didn't mind. It gave me a bona fide reason to listen to the radio - guilt-free.

* He works away, Monday - Friday, and lives in a 'luxury apartment' ie a flat.

Glorious Glastonbury

2009-07-11T05:58:00.000-07:00

Glastonbury 2009 was fantastic. It had everything - sunshine, showers, mud - a run on cider and a distinct lack of Michael Jackson hysteria. (And I'm a fan.) Instead, performers remembered him for his music - Dizzee Rascal did him proud.

One of the things that made me smile every day was passing these tyre creations:

It was usually after visiting the 50p Tea Tent, a 24-hour hangout haven:

The Tea Tent

View from the pew

An English Rose (2)

2009-07-11T05:43:00.000-07:00

So, I am back in the Home Counties House. I should be in Devon. But that's another story.

So, it's given me an ideal opportunity to tend to my garden. I was worried - having left it for a week - that the new rose would not have survived, with no one to water it and talk to it (obviously!). Anyway, it has positively flourished in my absence.

I sniffed the biggest flower, expecting something gorgeous but it had no scent. Then I panicked and thought, "did I order something with no smell?". Apparently, it's got a "fresh, fruity fragrance" so maybe it's early days. It's such a pretty flower that I am really happy with my choice.

Beach Party

2009-07-10T03:53:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Britain's Second City. The weather is anything but tropical but this has not stopped the powers that be from installing a beach. Yep!

Being landlocked does not mean you can't have your bucket and spade moments. While I absolutely love the idea of an urban beach, I'm not sure Birmingham has pulled it off. And that's a pity. It's a hybrid of airport gateway, Butlins performance platform, tropical beach club and good old British deckchairs so that you don't have to sit on the sand if you don't want to (or it rains).

The departure gate says "Come Back Soon", so I will. I don't want to write it off after one visit. Maybe I'll come back in the evening. After all, why shouldn't Birmingham citizens enjoy the beach?

I can't help but wonder, however, that if they'd put it by one of the city's other landmarks, the so-called Floozie in the Jacuzzi - just around the corner, the whole thing would have been much more effective. I think she would have helped it be a real beach party.

An English Rose

2009-07-10T02:57:00.000-07:00

Straight after picking up the ashes, we went home to plant a rose in her honour. I decided in front of the magnolia tree would be appropriate. Not for any floral symbolism but this is where the compost bin used to be and the dog and other canine partners in crime had a habit of raiding it frequently, despite barricades.

Last year I had something sad to commemorate and I chose a David Austin Spirit of Freedom rose for the occasion. It's thriving in the garden and has the most glorious scent and colour.

So this year I chose the Wisley 2008. Described thus: "Dainty, soft pink rosettes with a fresh, fruity fragrance. Vigorous and outstandingly healthy". That seemed so appropriate because although the dog had the big C in the end, she was, overall, an extremely healthy hound.

The rose-fest did not stop there. After tearing it down to Hampshire, I then had to get up to the Midlands for a wedding (late start, thank goodness). I was going solo - husband had other commitments - but being collected en route by best friend and her other half. I decided as the train was empty the roses could each have their own seat. Slightly insane, I know. But I have traveller's paranoia - if you can't see your luggage, it might disappear.

The couple have everything. There was no wedding list. So a rose or two seemed the ideal gift - he's a keen gardener and they have a lot of land. I chose the Wedding Day Rose (fortunately, I think I was the only one who did - phew!)

and another Wisley. Not quite his and hers but almost. The pink was for the groom.

Dignity (Pet Crematorium)

2009-07-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

Dignity Pet Crematorium is not a must-have item for your address book - if you have a pet. It’s not on any tourist map. It’s not in any guidebook (as far as I know). You would only go there if you had to. And under duress. BUT if you had to, it’s a very good place to say goodbye to your beloved companion.

I promised that this new blog would NOT be all about the dog but as my friend observed, she was at the centre of my life, so it’s going to take some time to adjust.

The staff were absolutely fantastic; sensitive to what I needed and gently guiding me when I didn’t know what to do. We took the hound there on the hottest day of the year – within two hours of that moment – and we picked up her ashes several days later. Everything was handled with care and attention.

I thought I was prepared for the second visit within a week but when I saw her name on the casket, I just burst into tears all over again.

The staff have definitely thought of everything, anticipating any questions/issues/situations you may have (awkward or otherwise). It was seamless yet utterly, utterly personal. It was, I guess, the best customer experience at the worst of times.

If you are based near the South West, I can also highly recommend Valley Pet Crematorium. It does not have a garden of remembrance but it does have the most dedicated of teams. Tea and sympathy were on hand, when they opened specially for us earlier in the year. Again, the staff made the worst of times a little bit easier to bear.

If you do find yourself in that situation, I can guarantee everyone will be in good hands.

Missing my muse

2009-07-02T23:59:00.000-07:00

Monday was the hottest day of the year. And also the saddest. For me. After almost 12 years together, my gorgeous girl - a stunning rescue chocolate Labrador - went to the big kennel in the sky. And God, it was painful. Really painful. I still can't believe she has gone, even though I have been dreading this day for the past nine months.

The Divine Miss M, as she was known, had been staying in the South West with my mother for several months because I had been constantly on the move. At least she got the best care and devotion thanks to my ma's heroic efforts. She also had cancer - one of the most aggressive types that a dog can get. The prognosis was 'early next year' ie 2009 but as the months went by, she stunned us all with her steely determination and love of life. Well, love of food, to be more precise.

Two weeks ago we celebrated her 13th birthday. That in itself was a miracle. My mother had phoned me the day before to say that she had made that phonecall to the vet and things were set for the Monday. At 2pm. She'd also made an appointment with the pet crematorium (something I totally changed my mind about when we lost one of our beloved family dogs earlier this year) for the following day.

I arrived, armed with cake and candles (the Diptyque kind) and wearing the biggest sunglasses I could find. I'd already sobbed all evening with my husband at our local pub on the Friday night - knowing what awaited me. I sobbed all the way to Devon, too - desperately hoping that fellow passengers wouldn't ask me if everything was OK. Not everyone understands the deep grief that goes with the loss - imminent or otherwise - of a much-loved pet.

When I arrived, the birthday girl got up and got excited. Particularly about the cake. It was a Lazarus-like moment because my mother feared, as she later told me, that I would arrive too late.

Each day she got better and stronger. Monday's and Tuesday's appointments were cancelled and the business of death was forgotten. Albeit temporarily. Each day at 2pm, I hugged my girl and thanked whoever had given us this extra time. When it was time for me to return to real life, I spoke to her. You may think it mad but there it is. I told her to hang on until June 27th ie until after Glastonbury, when I knew I could devote myself totally to her care.

Even with a workshop in between and various other commitments, I was on permanent standby. I had my exit strategy planned from the Green Fields, if necessary. Since January, I have always been within 3/4 hours of getting back to Devon. At all times.

Fast forward to last Saturday and we discussed leaving Glastonbury early. A few phonecalls backwards and forwards made me think I should get home. Not to Devon but to my house just outside London. There was nothing explicit about needing to be back but I am so glad I decided that no band could compete with the Chocolate Wonder (as we also named her). Not even a Blur reunion.

When I did arrive, it was clear that all was not well. My beautiful beast had gone downhill rapidly and even doing doggy things were almost beyond her. I had already decided that the moment she could not be a dog ie go out into the garden, enjoy her food and/or get in and out of her own bed, enough was enough.

The three of us sat with her in the garden; I sobbed while the others told me to keep cheerful around her. I knew it would be my turn to make that phonecall to the vet on Monday.

I stayed with her on Sunday night; lying in a sleeping bag right next to her. It was a long, long night yet not long enough. (In fact, my mother had been sleeping downstairs with her for several nights.)

On Monday she rallied again. She could walk. I spoke to the vet, at length, and tried to work out what the best thing to do would be. As my mother said, the hardest thing for you is the kindest thing for her. As soon as it became clear that she was suffering (according to the vet), it was a no-brainer decision. The selfish part of me wanted never to say goodbye. The rest of me knew it would - one day – have to accept that it was the right thing to do.

There is much to do around death, even the death of a pet. The ritual of saying goodbye has helped. A few years ago I would have recoiled at such a thing as a pet crematorium. Now it wasn’t a luxury but a necessity. I desperately wanted to take her to a reputable and respectful one; I didn’t want her stuffed in a freezer at the vet’s, waiting for a weekly pick up and then cremated as a job lot. It just seemed so wrong. So we hotfooted it down to Hampshire – literally - after the deed was done – my husband (still officially on holiday), my mother, and our remaining family black Lab, all sweltering in the car, even with air-con. The staff were so kind and sensitive, as I held her for the last time. My obvious distress did not phase them one bit and I will be eternally grateful for that.

On Saturday, we'll be picking up her ashes and dropping off her bedding to the local dog rescue.

It's the circle of life, my neighbour told me. The circle of life it may be but it hurts like hell. With my heaviest anthropomorphic hat on my head, I hope she is reunited with our other two dogs (Labrador and Labrador-cross), referred to as The Boyfriends. They were, without doubt, her two love slaves. She knew and they knew it but they didn’t care!

I know I am biased but she was particuarly beautiful and highly intelligent. It was love at first sight, for me, it absolutely was. She was the most dominant dog I have ever met; it was her way or no way. When I used to work in an office, I was forever paying off colleagues for the sandwiches she ate. She raided bins – indoors, outdoors, anywhere and everywhere. No wonder freegans can live so well in the city; there is food in abundance! On every street corner. Summers in London were hopeless; the capital is just a giant smorgasbord. She would also refuse to walk along certain streets because they lacked eating opportunities. Our dog-sitting friend did not believe me until she witnessed it for herself. So the dog was packed off for summer camp on Exmoor - every year, where she couldn’t indulge in urban snacking but she could enjoy country pursuits – swimming, running in the woods and catching pheasants, if she was quick enough.

Through a strange twist of fate, she was involved in several campaigns. She sat on the GMTV sofa with Eamonn and Fiona. She visited Broadcasting House but only once we had secured her special pass.

She also liked to demonstrate her own artistic talent by creating what we called her rubbish collages (not of inferior quality but the contents of the bin) strewn over any lawn or floor, however the mood took her. Her magnum opus was a masterpiece spread over not one but two terraces. She was featured in an art installation in Brick Lane. She’s been captured on film by budding artists. If there were treats involved, she was game. She loved being the centre of attention and was beyond quick to let you know if you weren’t paying her enough.

Even at the end, if someone wasn’t in her eyeline, she would bark until she could see them - looking straight back at her. Old age simply exacerbated her most challenging qualities ie pointless barking and attention-grabbing. But her charisma and charm won us over, every time, even after being woken up for the fourth, fifth, or even sixth time in a night! She was a fabulous communicator; animal lovers adored her (they really did). Buddhists friends in south London are chanting for the next 40 days - for her safe passage. Isn’t that wonderful? She was surrounded by love. From the moment I got her. And she loved life. She loved people. She loved food. And I think, well, I hope, in her own doggy way, that she loved me, too.

She had the best veterinary care – ever. Bruce Fogle was our vet in London and Richard Allport provided the all-essential homeopathic treatment throughout her whole life with me. I am convinced that Richard’s support gave us those extra months.

Tonight I am going to see Blur in Hyde Park. It won’t be a substitute for the Pyramid Stage but it will give me a chance to stand in the place I walked my dog for years. There will be tears; many, many tears.

Somehow I will honour my gorgeous girl; I am not sure how but a few drinks beforehand at The Victoria (dog-friendly pub in W2) will help steady the nerves or maybe they’ll just open the floodgates. Who knows?

I haven’t managed to have a tear-free day yet since Monday so it could go either way.

PS Apologies for the formatting and layout. I'm new to blogger after years on TypePad