Home again. It doesn't seem that much has changed though...

Three weeks away from home, without the never-ending cheerfulness that is the British media, has ended, and a conveniently timed Bank Holiday weekend allows me to catch up on all of those things that pile up in one's absence. E-mail, post, laundry and party-related tasks, for example.

So, I've written a report to my Local Party's Executive Committee for the upcoming meeting in my capacity as Treasurer (we have money - I'm terribly excited!), ordered some books of tickets for the Liberal Democrat Christmas Draw (I won two years ago, so it was well worth it), opened up a bunch of post and paid the bills that were amongst it, and laundry is currently going through its cycles. I feel vaguely virtuous, and a mite more organised than usual.

Apparently, the Labour Party is still trying to elect a new leader, politicians are behaving badly, the weather's been pretty miserable and a bunch of people are doing something that the Daily Mail doesn't like. On social media, people are continuing to insist on behaving like idiots in the face of all the evidence that it doesn't help. In other words, life is as normal.

Here in rural mid-Suffolk though, it all seems like it's a long way away, which allows me the time and space to make a few minor changes to my lifestyle, avoid things that cause me stress and give some thought to a few projects that I have in mind.

In other news, my local Tesco is already promoting Christmas tins of assorted chocolates. Remind me, it is still summer, isn't it?

The adventure is over, for the time being. Now, the hard work begins...

In retrospect, leaving the country on 7 May has begun to look better and better, especially given the result of the General Election. Unfortunately, my employers take the rather conservative view that, in order for my salary to be justified, I have to come in and do some work occasionally. And so, I am back.

Today has been a day for catching up. I've got a Local Party Executive Committee meeting on Thursday evening, so a report has had to be written and accounts drawn up for the year to date. I've done that, so I'm alright so far.

Laundry and shopping have been done, the garden tidied and progress on this year's building work has been ascertained (so that's what a death watch beetle looks like...). The house is still standing, so that's alright too.

So, I'd better catch up on events over the past fortnight or so...

A red, red robin comes bob bob bobbing along...

Ros has taken to feeding the birds, now that we don't have neighbours - they had cats - and one robin in particular has become pretty bold. So, as I left the house this morning, here it was, seemingly waiting to be fed...

I am a sucker for small, cute wildlife, so I went to the box where bird food is kept, and scattered some across the patio.

Eat well, my little friend...

Musings on coming home...

Today, I went to London to drop off my Indian visa application, a process which was fairly lengthy - I arrived at 10.45 and left at 1.15 - but no worse than I had expected and, having nothing else to do, headed back to Liverpool Street to catch a train back to Stowmarket. Having boarded the 2.30, I sat back with a good book as Chelmsford and Colchester came and went and, as the train approached Manningtree, I put the book down.

The Stour Estuary just east of Manningtree
station. This is the Essex bit, you understand...

The late afternoon sun was still shining, and as the train pulled away, over the bridge which crosses the Stour Estuary, a smile came to my lips, coming with it the knowledge that I was back in Suffolk.

For those people who have known me for many years, the thought of the bureaucrat as country dweller would have been unthinkable ten years ago, and yet I tend to find London fascinating as somewhere to visit, but I couldn't imagine living there now unless it was absolutely necessary.

I am. one must admit, pretty lucky. I live in a village where people generally get on, surrounded by working countryside filled with deer, game birds, badgers and the like. My commute is gentle and personable - where else can you expect to chat with your bus driver, make pleasant conversation with the station staff and have a view of a river valley from your seat on the train. There are even field mice near the platform at Needham Market should I choose to travel to or from there.

The pace of life is pleasant, with none of the rushing around that I used to do in the big city. If my train is late, I have a book to read, or music to listen to - why worry, after all there isn't another train for a while, but one will come eventually.

And, at the end of the day, I come home to a cosy little country cottage, equipped with a comfy wingback armchair, a kitchen full of pork, a decent wine rack (should I feel so inclined) and a computer with which to broadcast my opinions to the world. Best of all, I have Ros to share it with.

Life is good...

The domestication of a bureaucrat

It is mid-winter, and the usual greenery of the mid-Suffolk countryside is replaced by a rather more stark world, with bare trees and hedgerows, little to gladden the soul on a grey afternoon. However, that will change, as crocuses and daffodils are already beginning to poke above ground, so Ros has been out in the garden, tidying, pruning and weeding. That means that I have been too, not something that one might normally associate with this bureaucrat. I'm not particularly good with plants, although I have improved my ability to spot what shouldn't be there, but I can follow instructions, so I can at least be vaguely useful.

And it is relaxing, in an unexpected sort of way, knowing that if we have a decent spring and summer, I can sit outside with a beer, or a glass of wine, and read a book, or the newspaper, in pleasant surroundings.

I'm only glad that we don't have a bigger garden though...

Creeting St Peter: The European Union comes to help

I find myself, temporarily, in a house without a kitchen. This is, of course, quite deliberate, but nonetheless, I am having to camp out in our utility room for a few days.

Thanks to Paul, and his team of contractors, the situation is likely to be temporary. In the process, I am receiving a demonstration in why the right to work anywhere within the European Union has its advantages.

You see, Paul, our kitchen designer and project manager, is Polish. He's been here for a few years, and was recommended by one of Ros's colleagues. Until he came onto the scene, we had been looking to find someone without much luck. Either they weren't very convincing, or they were eye-wateringly expensive - the local firm doesn't actually have prices, presumably on the basis that, if you have to ask, you probably can't afford them.

Paul, on the other hand, came to the house, took some measurements, talked to Ros - I was there, but I don't have a very good eye for design and Ros is better in the kitchen than I am - and went away to talk to his wife, who does the artistic stuff. A few days later, some diagrams were e-mailed over with a quote for the cost of the cabinets, removal of old kitchen and installation of the new ones.

We were impressed, so we hired him. Over the following weeks, a decorator (Radek), an electrician (Brian) and a flooring guy (Nigel) came over to take measurements and ask questions, whilst we picked out a cooker, a dishwasher and wall tiles (amongst other things). It isn't easy. Ros is incredibly busy at the moment, and I'm uncomfortable about making decisions in her absence, but we've got to the point where work has started.

Tonight, as a treat to myself, I ordered pizza to be delivered. Yes, I used a national brand - I'm a bit dull like that - and waited for it to arrive. About half an hour later, the phone rang, and an accented voice admitted that he couldn't find the house. In fairness, that's fairly common, so I ventured out into The Lane and flagged him down. Mario, for that was his name, was on his first day, and is Hungarian. So, instead of being mildly irritated, I tipped him and thanked him for delivering a hot pizza.

So, Poles and Hungarians in mid-Suffolk. There they are, coming here, working hard and providing a service. Add in the Romanians working at the care home in Baylham and you can see that, even in rural areas, the service sector is increasingly dependent on migrant workers.

It's hard to imagine our underemployed young people heading somewhere else in search of work, or being willing to do such jobs. I wonder if UKIP members have noticed that?...

Cincinnati, the gift that keeps on giving...

As a memorial to my beloved red and white cat, Cincinnati, I planted my only contribution to our garden, a redcurrant bush, two years ago. Last year, it did bear fruit, although not very much, and the birds loved them. As a result, I wasn't expecting very much this year.

Cincinnati just after planting

However, it appears to have been a pretty good year for redcurrants, and despite the predations of caterpillars, we've had a good harvest this year, predominantly down to the efforts of Ros, whose patience in picking the caterpillars off with a pair of tweezers, and timely harvesting, has meant that I've eaten a surprising number this year. Indeed, there are some in the fridge as I write this.

Redcurrants aren't particularly sweet, and as Ros doesn't care for them much, I get to eat all of them, which is good for me (five a day and all), and is a useful and interesting addition to my diet.

I did offer some to our plumber, who is working on our kitchen this week. He did seem to like them, and suggested that his wife might have him plant a bush or two.

Think of it as my wildlife project for the week...

Another gentle day in the Suffolk countryside...

As I occasionally note, I tend to learn new things on a regular basis now that I am a country dweller full time. And today, it's all been about birds.

Firstly, I have been reminded that, if you leave an opportunity for our feathered friends, they will take it. I was somewhat surprised by a close range blur from an unexpected quarter. On closer inspection, a hole in a porch (not ours, I hasten to add) has been colonised by starlings, or 'feathered rats', as Richard, our builder refers to them. And, it seems, they're pretty noisy. It just shows that you really do need to keep an eye on a house, especially out here in the country.

With the weather having been relatively benign today, Ros has been in the garden, whilst I've been pottering about. And there's been a lot of birdsong, some of it remarkably loud. We noticed that a blackbird had been disappearing behind our oil tank and, curious, I took a closer look, only to find a fledgling on the ground, crying loudly.

Alright, I thought, I ought to do something. But what? I asked Ros, whose advice was to try entering "What do you do with a fledgling?" into Google. So, I did. And, for those of you who are confronted with such a problem, here's the official answer;

Young garden birds usually leave the nest about two weeks after hatching - just before they can fly. If you find a young bird out of its nest, it is probably a fledgling. Fledglings are almost fully feathered, able to walk, run and hop on to low branches, and will try to hide in undergrowth where they are fed by their parents. Parent birds are not usually far away and are probably collecting food but will not return until you have gone. Within a day of leaving the nest, fledglings can usually fly enough to keep up with their parents and escape predators.

Only move them, or encourage them to move, a short distance to safety if they are in immediate danger. If you have picked up a fledgling, put it back as near as possible to the place you found it. Don't try to return a fledgling to its nest as you may disturb other young birds. If you are concerned about its safety try to put it nearby on a ledge, or somewhere it will be out of the reach of cats. Monitor the situation from afar (otherwise your presence may continue to discourage the return of the parents) for at least two hours. You will almost certainly find that the parents have taken care of their youngster.

 So, I've left it alone. Only time will tell, I suppose...

Planting a bush for Cincinnati

I am not really a gardener, and not terribly nostalgic either, but Ros is keen for the former, so we've spent part of the Bank Holiday weekend working on the garden. Ros is in charge, so I dig holes where required, fetch and carry pots, compost and hosepipes, whilst Ros plants things in the borders, or in pots.

However, I did feel that I should have a plant of my own, something that I could take personal responsibility for. And so, whilst at the Suffolk Food Barn today, I bought this redcurrant bush to be planted in the garden. I had thought about giving my plant a name and, on reflection, naming a redcurrant bush after my beloved red and white cat seemed like the right thing to do.

Eventually, it will grow to be about five feet tall and four feet across, and produce fruit that I can eat. Given that I don't eat anywhere near enough fruit, that can only be a good thing...

"You'll not believe what we've found under the floorboards..."

When we decided to have the cottage rewired, Ros made the point that, given the age of the core of the house, there might well be some unpleasant surprises. Naturally, as the household optimist, I glossed over this sensible piece of advice.

It was day 3 of our holiday when the word came from Richard, our builder. You name it, he found it under the floorboards upstairs, dry rot, damp, do-it-yourself botch jobs. Indeed, the floorboards themselves were part of the problem, as the original floorboards had been partly eaten by rats and, instead of replacing them, new ones had been laid over the top.

Our best laid plans were in ruins, as we'd arranged things so that the electricians came whilst we were on holiday, and the house made habitable again. At least the electricians could do their work - mostly, anyway - so it wasn't a total loss. But we weren't going to get the house back for at least another two weeks...

Deep in the heart of the family

I'm taking advantage of a rare quiet moment to make this entry. The past few days have been a blur of parties, with members of my family appearing and disappearing in a flurry of hugs and kind words.

Having recovered from my hangover, I was functional by the time of the wedding, where I was honoured by a request from the groom (Sean, my second cousin) to give one of the readings, an excerpt from Genesis concerning the creation of woman as a helpmate for man. I was deeply touched that Sean should think of me on such a big day for him and, despite some nerves (speaking to a Party Conference will never seem as terrifying again), I'm told that I did quite well.

Michelle (the bride, and a wonderful addition to our family) looked lovely and her dress was simply gorgeous - stop me if this is sounding like a Brides magazine write-up, won't you? - ornate but not fussy, in what looked like ivory rather than white. Sean wore a smart suit and the two of them looked incredibly happy and relaxed. Father Reuben, an old school friend of Sean's, officiated and gave a simple, if heartfelt, sermon.

The reception that followed was another fun affair, and I had a good time, talking to family and friends, occasionally visiting the dance floor (look, if I can jump off of a bridge in front of an audience who are staring at me, an occasional sashay onto the dancefloor can't hurt...).

Yesterday, I took our guest (Laurie, a friend of Clint and Kalina) into town to do some shopping. She had been given a couple of stores to look at, and I was able to find both of them (eventually). We rode the bus into town, as I thought that she should have a real Indian experience. The shopping itself went well, and I bought some useful things in the paper goods store, including some pretty but simple thank you cards (I want to make a greater effort towards the old-fashioned courtesies I value so highly) and two lovely books for use as private diaries. We managed to get a train back to Santacruz before hopping into an auto-rickshaw for the short journey to the hotel.

A quick shower and a change of clothes before crossing over to Juhu for another party, hosted by Richie and Vanessa. Richie is my father's cousin, and their children, Dylan and Arlene, have been one of the surprises of this trip. Dyles (as Kim encourages me to call him) stayed at my parent's place on the way home for the wedding - he's studying in Newcastle for a year - and it was nice to catch up with him after so many years. Arlene is the youngest of the cousins and so we take the phrase "she's the baby, you gotta love her" to heart. It was a somewhat more intimate affair, and there was time to talk politics, crack jokes and generally chill out. And that's something else I'll have to try and do more of in 2006...

Does anyone have an aspirin?

It's Wednesday afternoon, and I feel like death...

"And why is that?", I hear you ask. Perhaps the hangover induced by drinking too much and not getting back to my lovely safe, dark (key word, that one) hotel room until 4.30 in the morning is the clue. It all started with the seemingly harmless sentence, "You're coming back to Santacruz with us, Mark.". No explanation as to why, but then, with my family, you learn not to ask too many questions.

In Santacruz, I am informed that I'm off for a night out with Sean (my cousin, who's getting married tomorrow), the rest of the cousins, as well as friends and family. Needless to say, given that most of them are ten years younger than me, there was drinking and clubbing involved, although eight hours of it was a little more than my delicate constitution can handle. It was a lot of fun though, even if I'm paying for it now...

Happiness is a warm pair of socks

Having successfully assassinated another household gadget, this time the washing machine (made whirring noises, no sign of the drum moving), I spent a peaceful Sunday morning tidying the house, filing and generally pottering about whilst awaiting the delivery of a replacement from Comet (if you're reading, gentlemen, your website is actually pretty good - and a home cinema system would be a nice gesture in return for this shameless plug).

Amazingly, they came within the time window, disconnected the old machine, brought in the new one, connected it up, tested it and were gone. Time to do some laundry, I thought, as I really needed some clean socks. It'll make a good test... and now that I have a gadget that comes with a dryer too, I won't have to spend time moving drying laundry around. It's amazing how such little things enhance your life... Anyway, the machine did its thing, producing me twenty pairs of clean, dry and warm socks. Let joy be unconfined!

Another thing that I've discovered is that I actually quite like a nice cup of tea. Yes, I know, "he's English, with an Indian father, of course he likes tea". Funnily, having been married to an American for fourteen years, I'd switched to coffee and hadn't really given tea a backward glance. I suppose that spending more time with my mother (who really does like her tea) has had an impact.

In contrast to the warmth inside, outside is "a mite parky", with a cold wind blowing. We've been lucky in London, no snow (unlike Brussels) so far. I noticed that John Hemming is talking about gas prices and I have to admit that the link between high oil prices and cold winters doesn't augur well for the months to come. Luckily for me, I've always taken the view that putting on an extra layer is just as easy as turning up the thermostat. And of course, with the new washer dryer, I can clean the extra clothing quickly!