Since I seem to be spending so much time twiddling my thumbs and wishing for the weeks to pass, I decided that these days would be better spent getting fit. Much as I love my yoga, I need more of a physical outlet for my frustrations so I downloaded a few recommended fitness apps on to the telly promising toned abs and buff muscles. I come from a family of fitness enthusiasts who see a 10 km run or swim as one of life’s pleasures, something I tend to avoid in favour of a leisurely morning stretch. The only time I feel the need to run is when Arry spies a particularly smelly puddle halfway across the park. So the online fitness classes seemed perfect for wasting an hour or so even if I have to sweat occasionally. I used to be a fitness instructor, in fact Tony and I met when we were both working in a gym. When he first converted the garage into his fitness studio, I was a regular visitor but once my canine career took off I had less time for the running machine so I sort of fell out with fitness. Yoga has been my saviour in terms of calming the mind but physically I’m still twitching.

They say our bodies have muscle memory but mine seems to have muscle amnesia. I know it’s been a few years since I squatted, lunged and jump jack’d but I can’t remember them hurting as much. And I’m sure I never did a burpee in my 20’s. For those unfamiliar with a burpee, notice that the online trainer demonstrates the torture then gleefully encourages you without actually taking part. One cannot fail to point out that said trainer is at least half my age and has a washboard stomach and I’m delusional enough to think my belly is going to look like theirs. But nevertheless, I am crunching, punching and jumping my way out of this boredom and actually enjoying it. Well, the feeling afterwards anyway. I can’t believe anyone actually enjoys wheezing their way through a workout.

Sore muscles and sweat aside, I have tried to keep myself busy this week. The amount of rain that has suddenly descended on us has meant that the front garden is, and I quote a friend, ‘channeling Jumanji’. I could lose dogs in the grass that I’m sure I only cut a couple of weeks ago and the weeds are having a laugh at my expense. Pulling up dandelions is a workout in itself, forget push ups for those biceps and the ancient lawnmower uses every muscle to push it through the jungle. The accidental brush with a stinging nettle brings a new aspect to plyometrics and nothing works your core (new word for your midriff) quite like the battle of the ivy stalks. Come to think of it, those online gurus are far more appealing even if I have to suffer a burpee or three…

“Our dog chases people on a bike. We’ve had to take it off him” (Winston Churchill)

I think I speak for many when I write that one of the best things about coming out of lockdown is being able to actually see friends in the flesh. It’s very hard not to be able to give a bestie a great big hug but a chat over a carefully placed glass of wine or two has been a real soul-lifter. No matter how many online gossips you attend, there is nothing quite like a face to face catch up. The only downside is that the weather over the last couple of days has decided to rain on our parades but the parched roses were happy. To add to my uplifted mood, my eldest nephew flew in this week to spend a few days with us before he and his girlfriend start their new lives in Kent. Much as I have loved having Callum here, I think we both needed a fresh face over the dining table. The sudden appearance of new peeps has also affected the dogs, I hadn’t realised how bored they were seeing my face every day. Squeaks, yips, helicopter tails and Tigger bounces greeted each person who popped over to see them (obviously). I did feel a little awkward when Louis decided to introduce his young lady to his aunt who, minus a front tooth and wearing sweaty post-workout clothing, had to watch the poor girl get buried in happy dog hair.

In my excitement in being able to converse with actual humans, the little secret I had been harbouring since the beginning of the week became impossible to keep. Whilst I have never been good at zipping my mouth shut, the reason for the hush-hush was my superstitious self, I just couldn’t hold it. I have had another offer on the house and I have accepted it. It may not be as high as I had hoped but honestly, I don’t trust the housing market at the moment and I want to go home. And I’m not going to jump up and down until the contracts are signed and my bank account is bouncing. With everything that went south with the last ‘sale’, I’m keeping my feet firmly on the ground until then. I did however remember to go and pick up the dogs’ passports from the vet which I’m sure they appreciate.

Patience is a virtue, my nan always said and I’m trying to practise what she preached. I’m not going to touch any more boxes until I know we have an exit date. Then I can panic. Luckily the friend allowance from the Government has distracted me from worrying about what still needs to be done and as Louis is moving into a new flat, I am subtly brain washing him into taking various bits of furniture and kitchen utensils. He doesn’t seem overly keen on the wardrobes though, very old-fashioned apparently.

So the secret is out but I am keeping a level head. I hope. Thank God the dogs are more interested in who’s next through the garden gate and I am enjoying showing all the French house photos to the victims, much like showing off a prized child. And behind my back, fingers are definitely crossed…..

“Dogs are great. Bad dogs, if you can really call them that, are perhaps the greatest of them all.” (John Grogan)

I have astonished myself with the level of calmness I have managed to maintain this week considering what happened the week before. The weather helps of course, London bathed in warm sunshine should never be taken for granted. The garden is blooming, roses and clematis climbing up the fences in glorious colours and the birds are chatting away amongst themselves. The only blemish on chez Knollys idyllic exterior is the badly mowed back lawn thanks to myself and the ancient lawnmower which just couldn’t cope with the small patches of grass therefore leaving shoots of intermittent lengths or pulling them out completely. I did try to level what remained with a pair of kitchen scissors (you can never find shears when you need them) but the eyesight just ain’t what it used to be. Naturally I did this the day before the photographer came to retake outdoor photos for the estate agent’s advertising, the previous having been done back in January, I can only hope he focused on the floral displays and not the massacred lawn.

The house seems to have got some interest. After all the viewings at the end of last week, two couples came back for second viewings. One has already put an insulting offer in but still wanted to come back after the rejection. It’s an odd feeling, seeing your house through a stranger’s eyes. Talk of which walls to move and where to put another bathroom make one feel both excited for the prospective house parents but also a little sad. At some point, hopefully in the not too distant future, this house will belong to someone else and only my memories of the 24 years will remain with me. The wife of couple number one (they did not put the stupid offer in so are first in my mind) asked me if I was emotional about leaving after so long, no was the honest reply. This house needs a new start just as I do and if a few walls need to be pulled down, so be it. This particular couple bought their builder along with them who was a little miffed that they wanted to change so much upstairs, he liked the Edwardian architecture he lamented. I can only pray to the Gods above that one of them puts in a decent offer next week.

All this sudden traffic (masks and distance appropriate) through la maison has weirdly produced a bout of anxiety. More than once in the last seven days, I’ve woken up during the night with the “what the hell am I doing?” worries. I know I will be happy once the dogs and I are ensconced in the French countryside and I’m definitely ready to leave the London suburbs, it’s the bit in between that’s making me second-guess myself. And I don’t know why. I mean, I’m sure I can drive a motorhome down the autoroute and the house is pretty much packed up so what is keeping me awake? Perhaps it is the step into the unknown for the gal who likes to be in control of everything and I’m flying solo. Well, not quite. I do have to pack two decades of house memories into removal boxes, say goodbye to a life at chez knollys and persuade nine woofers to get into an unknown vehicle so I can transport them several hundred miles away into a different country. Nope, nothing to be worried about at all…

“Better not take a dog on the space shuttle, because if he sticks his head out when you’re coming home his face might burn up” (Jack Handy)

You know that feeling when you’re cruising down an open road, singing to a favourite song and bam!, you hit an unforeseen speed bump? Well, that was the week that was. One great big bump in the road. On Wednesday night, I got a phone call from my would-be buyer to say that he was pulling out due to imminent unemployment and my little happy bubble burst. Nobody’s fault (other than Covid’s of course) but no-one could blame me for the feeling that the universe was out to get me yet again, “What did I do to deserve this?” I tearfully mumbled into Callum’s big hug. Just so unfair. Yet, maybe because I’m getting used to this, I didn’t fall apart. Nope, I pulled up my big girl pants and went into practical mode. Ring family, check. Ring estate agent, check. Ring removals, check. Ring motorhome chap, check. And after a wonderful video chat with a couple of girlfriends, both of which have had their fare share of universal mud-slinging, I am back and ready to take on the challenge.

Since that crushing phone call, we’ve already had 5 viewings. The estate agents tell me that because of the difficulties with social distancing, they can only show people around houses who are already in a position to buy which helps with my optimism. It’s an odd situation showing prospective families your home bleached up to the rafters whilst all are dressed in masks and gloves and carefully moving through rooms at the required distancing. Once the first party leaves the house, I run round with the Flash, wiping down any surface they may have touched lest they might have inadvertently left something behind. I don’t know if it’s just my grasp at hopefulness but people do seem to be lingering longer and making all the right noises about chez Knollys. One couple had had to cancel their wedding in Italy last week which must have been incredibly stressful although her comment about deciding to buy a house instead had me laughing out loud. How much was the wedding?!

So onwards and upwards we must go. There is little point in getting all maudlin about the situation, after all we have our health (touch wood, cross fingers, look out for black cats), we have a house and the Chancellor has kindly given me a little bit of money to pay the bills for a couple of months. I’m back working again although in a limited capacity (handstripping only) as almost all my grooming equipment went off to Surrey on Wednesday morning. You couldn’t make it up. Our move across the pond may be delayed a little but perhaps the universe wanted to wait until the dentists opened up again. But we will get there, that I am sure of.

On a different note, I just want to take a little moment to remember our Chrissie who died very suddenly at the grand old age of 13. Family dogs are always special but Chrissie, who was Macgyver’s little sister, was truly one of a kind. A fiercely protective but exceptionally gentle German Shepherd, she loved nothing better than having the whole family down at L’Horte where she could keep an eye on everyone. Although we had bought her as a present for my Mum, she adored walking over the land by Pop’s side and I have no doubt she is right up there with him. I suppose it’s only right that she passed away at the home she adored and as Mac’s ashes are scattered there, hers will be too. Right alongside Pop.

“No, when the love that lights up in your eyes goes out, It will come back to life somehow, somewhere in Heaven” (Alphonse Marie Louis de Lamartine. French Poet)

Today marks two years. Two years since the man I promised to have and to hold until death do us part passed away in my arms. His watch still sits by the bedside, it spookily stopped at the time that he died, I haven’t replaced the battery yet. There are still days when I wake up and reach over expecting the whole thing to be one hell of a nightmare but they are getting less and less. And whilst I talk to him every day (a lot of swearing too), I have come to accept life for what it is and keeping hope for what the future holds. I’m a little bit proud of myself too for getting back up every time life has thrown a punch over the these last two years. Let’s face it, it has been like rowing a lifeboat through tidal waves sometimes.

They say strength comes from within but I could never have got this far without family, friends and the woofers. Even in the midst of this unprecedented crisis (couldn’t resist it), there is always someone on the other end of a phone or a soft wet muzzle to bandage the blues. Yet, the greatest gift Tony left with me is Callum. He has so much of his father and my Pop in him, the calm unflappable part from the first and the ‘everything can be fixed’ bloody-mindedness from the other. And he gives the best hugs. Ever. I’m sure I would have crumbled long ago if I hadn’t had him next to me.

If the past two years have taught me anything, it’s how to stand on your own two feet even if you need to lean on someone else every now and again. I now wake up and reach across the bed to curl around a dog or two, usually because they’ve taken up so much duvet and I have to get warmth somewhere. I have sold the house and made the decision to move across the pond to be with family. This pesky virus might have delayed these plans a little but I am learning to have a little more patience about things I cannot control. I think Tony would be proud of me.

So to my darling Tony,

I miss you and I always will. Even after two years, I can still remember your smell, your smile (and that tic) and the comfort of your arms around me. These are things that will never leave me no matter what the future brings. Thank you for all the one-way conversations, it does help you know even if I sometimes blame you for things that go wrong. I wonder what you would have thought of all this lockdown stuff? I think you would have taken it in your stride except for the football situation especially for Liverpool. Thank you for keeping an eye on Callum and all the family. Oh and thank you for looking out for Dickie. Say hello to Pop and your Dad and to all the woofers up there. I know Pop will be happy to have Chrissie by his side. I’ll probably chat to you later as usual but for now, thank you for being you even if you aren’t with us anymore.

I love you xx

This lockdown has turned me into a grumpy middle-aged woman. By the time I have returned from the early morning dog walk, I could be easily mistaken for someone with Tourette’s with a mood to match Victor Meldrew ( I do hope none of you need to Google that one ). Between having to manoeuvre 5 dogs around joggers and pavement cyclists who obviously go to fast for the virus to catch them and oblivious dog owners who can’t see why they need to keep their poodleoodle away from a crazy lady with more than her bodyweight of canine frustration on lead ( One of us is following the park guidelines ahem ), my internal temperature gauge regularly hits the red zone. See, I’m grumping already just thinking about it. To add to my dour disposition, the recent warm weather has brought out thumping bass and bbq’s from the houses to the side of the garden which I’m pretty sure didn’t have that many 20 somethings living in them last week. Naturally I keep these thoughts to myself, there’s nothing worse than a nosey old widow living next door.

Truth is, I’m bored. The daily allocated jobs I give myself in terms of packing the house up have become tedious especially when the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be getting further and further away at present. The idea I had that having time to concentrate on relaxing my workaholic self has been replaced with a frustrated energy. I need to get back to work. Apart from the stress of worrying about where the next pennies are going to come from, something I know is shared with many of my self-employed compatriots, I don’t think us humans cope well without working. Yes, one can learn a language, do endless jigsaw puzzles and online brain games but they don’t give you the same sense of mental satisfaction as work does. At least not for me. Because the house is sold, there is a little point in me attempting interior make-overs or spending any money on the gardens so I am living in a sort of day-to-day limbo. The Government reminder about being socially responsible this Bank Holiday weekend brought much hilarity amongst friends, most of us can’t remember what day it is let alone the date.

I am also well aware that next weekend will be the second anniversary of Tony’s death and even after all this time there isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t think of him. It would have been so much easier to get through this if I had had him here. Someone to hug when I feel low, someone to vent my morning frustrations out on and well, someone who knows how to keep me on the straight and narrow. The poor woofers, they really are getting all of the above whether they want it or not. Thankfully I can’t read their minds as easily as I could read Tony’s, I dread to think what they think of the grumpy middle-aged woman on the end of their leads….

“I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.” (Rita Rudner)

This week has proved that I am my own worst enemy when it comes to worrying about nothing. I managed to wind myself into near hysterical mode simply because I lack patience. Forget making a mountain out of a molehill, I made an entire range. My superstitious Scorpio went into overdrive, is it because I moved the lion statue? Was Wookie unhappy about all the boxes in the front room? (Wookie is a carved wooden sculpture of an elderly Chinese man who gives me the heeby-jeebies but Tony loved him). Was the universe out to get me all over again? Of course, it wasn’t but my mind wasn’t to be reasoned with. Somehow I had managed to get the thought of losing the house sale buried into my sleep-deprived brain all because I didn’t get an immediate reply to a text message. Naturally when I did get the reply which proved I lack any form of zen, I messaged back, “no worries”, “glad things are okay your end”, “honestly don’t rush on my account”. My secret neurosis are safe.

It all started when I realised I hadn’t heard anything from the buyer in regards to his search for a replacement solicitor (our furloughed friends had abandoned us). In fact, I hadn’t heard anything from anyone so I started to get just a little bit nervous. Any sane person I’m sure would consider the Corona cause and effect and that little bit of Governmental guideline about not moving until they say it’s okay to but not me. No, I stepped on the panic alarm. They say moving is stressful but not moving seems even worse to me especially when I have no control over anything. I hate not being in control, another personality failing. Without having Tony to share my angst with, I had many long and argumentative talks with myself about how ridiculous I was being. To top it all, I needed to put a deposit on the motorhome which I didn’t want to do if everything was going pear-shaped. You can imagine my relief and internal ‘I told you so’s’ when the buyer replied, albeit with the same feelings of solicitor stress but “could he possibly come round with his brother to get some ideas about the gardens?” I did an inner whoop dance.

So we had a socially distanced conversation post perusing and I discovered that he too had been widowed five years ago. And his wife had died at home, just like my Tony did. He’s leaving the home he had bought with his wife to start a new life at chez Knollys just as I am about to do the same en France. As we discussed his plans for the gardens which sounded very Monty Don, he told me that he couldn’t wait to turn the annexe back into a gym, just as it had been for Tony. I got this sort of funny Karma feeling at this, I could almost feel T smile at the idea that his little fitness studio would live on and that his beloved garden would start to blossom once again. Hello, happy place once more….

“There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.” ( Ben Williams)

It’s been the battle of the weeds and windows this week. With the sun blessing us with blue skies and warm air (noticeably clearer and odourless in London now), I just couldn’t put off two of the most hated jobs anymore. Both are somewhat thankless tasks that one only does when all other household activities have been exhausted. As any non-gardener knows, as soon as you’ve pulled up all known dandelions five more pop up behind you and plants you thought were okay turn out to be triffids once the sun appears. My hands still sting from an accidental encounter with a bunch of stinging nettles, note to self that regular gardening gloves do not protect you from this satanic leaf. The bi-folding doors are equally challenging because no matter what product you use, the glass will still sport several annoying streaks and I really hate ladders. Still, I battle on as there is nothing else to do. The house is pretty much packed up now aside from the kitchen and two bedrooms with bits of unwanted furniture regularly being placed outside the driveway for helpyourselfers.

The house and I are ready to part ways. Amicably I hope. A minor hiccup in the last week was the sudden disappearance of my solicitor. The firm had neglected to tell me that she had been furloughed which I found out by way of a somewhat bored company employee. I assume she had been charged with telling agitated customers the same thing. Despite the promise of “the manager will call you right back” which translates as “I can’t help you at all”, I was left to find a replacement myself. So I wrote a really stinky email to the firm ( my mother taught us well) and what do you know, I had a new legal beagle within the hour. Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one with the problem, the people who are buying chez knollys lost theirs too to the furlough universe. Hopefully Kim has followed my approach and if the solicitors step up a gear, there is a chance that me and my brood will be hot pawing it down to our new maison tout suite by the end of next month. And the pesky dandelions will be someone else’s responsibility.

I am looking forward to settling down in a house I have never actually seen except in photographs. It is a bit of a do upper but habitable I am told by my Mum and I’m oddly excited by the prospect of designing a home my way. No compromising or arguments about colours, styles, furniture. I know a new kitchen and bathroom are necessary so I will finally get that power rain shower I have always hankered for. Shame I have to have a budget really. However, despite the joyous prospect of bringing out my secret interior designer, I have to curb my enthusiasm until the all the legals are signed and stamped so I concentrate on the war of weeds and stingers. I really hope this lockdown finishes soon, the front lawn is getting so long even the wildlife are moving in…….

“what do dogs do on their day off? Can’t lie around – that’s their job” (George Carlin)

I hate losing things. If I was asked to write a list of my most annoying traits, my ability to misplace items would top it followed by my extreme meltdowns at doing so. The other day, I couldn’t find my house keys and I almost reduced myself to tears as I upturned any remaining furniture only to find them in an umbrella. The fact that said umbrella was perched directly under the key hook might have made it a good place to start but my lockdowned brain obviously couldn’t process that, it just went into scream mode instead. Losing one’s house key, albeit temporarily, is right up there with mislaying one’s mobile phone. How often have you used the home phone line to call your mobile, praying that it hasn’t run out of battery or that you’ve turned the volume down? However, misplaced keys and other necessary items pale into comparison to losing your enthusiasm. And this week, it’s been nowhere to be found.

In conversation with friends last night on one of the many amazing technological advances called Houseparty (I’m sure others are wonderful too but I can just about work this one), one of my girls announced that she was going back to work next week, virtual teaching so to speak but nevertheless she was returning to her job. Sort of. I honestly never thought I would be as envious as I was at that moment, after all I couldn’t wait to retire but I was. The initial wave of excitement at having time on my hands to do all those activities I listed has all but vanished. As the weeks of self-isolation merge into a beige mist, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to locate that boundless enthusiasm for the future. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who, much as I hate to admit to, misses the day to day work life when we actually looked forward to the weekend.

In my search for the misplaced zeal, I decided that as my dogs have to be on lead as per the park’s new guidelines we were going to walk to the local green space instead of the quick drive up. Well, not all of them but the early morning five and I could all get some extra exercise and the woofers would hopefully be at least slightly worn out in the process. Naturally the four-legged fivesome were thrilled with the prospect of a change in routine but I hadn’t quite realised how logistically difficult the exercise was going to be. Having a dog trainer as Mum has taught them all to walk nicely on lead but I hadn’t foreseen the problem of different leg length. You see, Arry has very long legs and so a long stride but Yogi Bear has very short legs (It’s a bear thing) so has a short stride. Alice, although small, likes to walk right next to Arry of course and I have to Neo in the middle lest he might lunge at an unsuspecting but non social distance conforming jogger. I did point out to said jogger that Neo’s lead was only about a metre long by the way. And our blessed Simi calmly trots by my side as if she is the only dog being walked. I now have a very sore neck and I’m sure all those yoga mantras about keeping the hips in line have gone to waste with one arm being dragged behind and the other attempting to control four leads at once. And of course, if one stops to sniff, the others follow suit which can often end up with one being pulled into a bush. Still, it does use up extra time during the day which leaves less time to miss that lost enthusiasm. Do you think physiotherapists are classed as essential?

“What do dogs do on their day off?; Can’t lie around – that’s their job!” ( George Carlin)

I almost forgot to write the weekly musings. I think the combination of sudden warm weather and no idea what day it is anymore have put my brain in dormant mode. Well, the ‘let’s get up and go’ part anyway, I’m sure most would agree that the initial enthusiasm for exercise, puzzles and DIY has started to wane. With the daily media diet of doom and gloom, it’s getting harder to keep the positive vibes flowing even in the rare Easter sunshine. But I am determined to keep the move motivation going so I push myself to pack at least one box a day, do my daily French lesson and bend my body into impossible yoga positions.

It’s been one of those weeks of IMT. I miss Tony. I don’t know if it’s just the sense of not being able to share my angst with him or whether the weather is weathering such thoughts. Sunny days tend to have that sort of effect as one lazes on the outdoor bed with headphones, book and woofers. Despite Tony’s preference for cooler climates, we always had our best holidays in the sunshine because he knew I thrived on heat. The word ‘lizard’ was often said with amusement and affection. But I miss his way of knowing how to talk me out of a funk even more and the way a hug would make everything okay again. Yup, this lockdown is bringing out the maudlin in me now.

A friend of mine asked me the other day how I was coping considering everything that has been thrown at me over the last few years. I love her dearly but she is one of the people who tends to look at the future with dark glasses on and an empty glass in front of her. I’m one of the lucky ones I told her; I have my health (I hope), a house with a garden, an amazing son and a collection of canines who give me a reason to shift my butt every morning. Whilst dogs are the most knowledgeable psychologists when it comes to reading moods, they also have the ability to see every day as an opportunity to divert one’s attention away from self-pity. A human lying on the outdoor bed with headphones on and a book in hand only serves as a machine that will repeatedly throw the toy that is dropped on a naked stomach back into the dog pool. A human that will sub-consciously stroke your own up-ended belly every time you scratch it’s arm even if said human is trying to concentrate on a juicy literary plot. When life throws you lemons, a dog will bring them right back to you and make lemon throwing a game. A dog’s water bowl is always full, they make sure you remember to fill it…..

“Petting, scratching, and cuddling a dog could be as soothing to the mind and heart as deep meditation, and almost as good for the soul as prayer.” (Dean Koontz. Author)