The world from my window

Looking around the house, the tree is up, the lights are twinkling and the cards are on display. We've come off one friend's Christmas card list, and not because they're saving paper. It's a bid sad, really, but if it's a small victory to them and makes them feel better, than I'm okay with that. I love Christmas cards and I love bumping into people in Lush Places dashing all over the village as they deliver their festive messages. Despite rancour and division, this is a time for goodwill to all. It's a time for kindness, happiness and being thankful for all we have. It's also a time to think - and do something about - those less fortunate than ourselves, whether it's in a hands-on way or something as simple as donating to Crisis at Christmas or giving your winter fuel allowance over to Dorset Community Foundation who will find someone who really needs it. The lights are on the trees outside, it'll be Midnight Mass this evening and, af...

The thing about so-called 'portfolio careers' is that, sometimes, an important document - which you've worked hard to produce - falls out of your metaphorical ring binder. That's just happened to me - by choice - but it's still pretty strange not to be doing that particular job, which is one I've actually enjoyed very much. Still, times change and we move with them, or risk being left behind. So I hand in my keys and laptop and literally (yes, really literally) feel a weight lift from my shoulders, which is probably because I am always carrying said laptop in a tote bag over my right arm. At last, my posture comes back. I can walk again. Onwards and upwards. I go into WH Smith and get myself an academic diary (which runs from July 2017 to the end of August 2018) so I can turn over a new leaf. I want to start on a fresh page. I shop in Waitrose for what probably will be the last time for a while and restrict myself to buying biodegradable dog poo b...

We slipped out of the hallway, Martha the dog and me, edging past baskets of logs, boxes of things for a village event, a dog crate and musical instruments. We were heading for Bluebell Hill, which was shrouded in mist. A crow sat on a fence post and coughed rather theatrically as we walked past. 'Ahem,' it said. 'You're up bright and early.' Back home, Mr Grigg was rustling up a cooked breakfast for our guest, talented Canadian singer songwriter Ian Sherwood , who spent the night with us after a gig in Lush Places, part of a tour of south west England. He rocked our village hall. Like a male Joni Mitchell, his many-layered songs dipped and dived, entertained and got us all joining in. This man is going places. Today, he's heading for Dartmoor. The sun's shining, it's squelchy underfoot but the sky is a beautiful pale blue. It's been a busy old weekend. A grandchild's fourth birthday, Harvest Festival, the church smelling of app...