The world from my window

Up in the churchyard, the sheep are safely grazing. We walk up the lane and the dog disappears after a pheasant. I'm left whistling, embarrassed, and she comes back ten minutes later. Along a bridleway, dog now on her lead, we're splashing through puddles before crossing the main road and into a meadow. How I love these rolling, Dorset hills and sky blue skies. Through the farmyard, corrugated iron everywhere, rusting roofs caved in. Nettles grow up through the wheel arches of an old tractor. It looks like something from Eastern Europe.   The farmhouse is falling into disrepair before my eyes. Oh, how an escapee to the country would love to get their hands on this. Stone mullion windows and mellow sandstone. A match made in Dorset. From a gap in the gateway along the old track, the fields stretch out like squares on a patchwork quilt, richly embroidered in shades of green, yellow and brown. In the distance, the sun throws its light on the rooftops

Far, far, far from Dorset's madding crowd is Bluebell Hill. The views from up here are stunning.  Nature provides the most beautiful frames. They're everywhere you look. Inside the wood, the boughs of the beech trees, with their newly-emerged leaves, sway ever-so-gently, casting rippling shadows in the undergrowth.   These are old woods. And down at our feet, the bluebells are in full battle cry.   They march across the clearings, finding a foothold where they can. We're passed by a young mother with two small girls who are still in school uniform. They've been collected from the playground and whisked up to Bluebell Hill while the flowers are at their best. A panting, black Labrador shoots by and our dog, Arty, chases after him. And then she's back, pounding along the pathway and enjoying the spring in her step. It's at times like these that I am so glad I made the decision to work for myself and be based at home.

It's the day before the election and I still haven't decided which way to vote. This has never happened to me before. I know who I'm not voting for, which is something I suppose. I have an argument with Mr Grigg, the big Tory, at the breakfast table as he makes arrangements to ferry around Conservatives too frail to walk to the polling station. This is not a safe Tory seat any more so Oliver Letwin needs all the votes he can get. The Liberal Democrats could get in, if Labour voters and Greens vote tactically. Disturbingly, UKIP seem to be quite popular in this rural backwater. There are plenty of people telling me I should vote this way, I should vote that. But when it comes down to it, it's my vote. When I go into that polling booth, the choice is mine. There are several things determining my decision, some of which boil down to personal preferences and prejudices and are too boring and petty to go into here. But, when I'm out in the field with the dog at

Up in the fields, the bluebells are uncurling. There's a frost in the corner but May is bursting out in the hedgerow.   There are swathes of cuckoo flowers and dandelion clocks. There's a dead nettle in a gateway, full of spare slippers for the fairies for when they go out dancing tonight. Down on the allotment, an early bird is listening to political debate on Radio 5 Live, the radio blaring out from an open window of his car while he digs in the manure. I can hear Nicky Campbell having a spirited discussion with a weasel. In the heart of Lush Places, blue things other than bluebells have sprung up over the croquet lawn and all over the village. They are everywhere. There are a couple of signs for Labour down the road but sadly they're tucked away, unlike the UKIP house in the next village which ought to close its own front door, pull down the blinds and leave Wessex, brick by brick. This whole election thing is leaving me rather cold. I