On Hampstead HeathHERE we are again in the teeming metropolis (Hampstead Heath, actually): the sun’s shining, it’s warm, we’ve been to Sally and Mark’s play in the Assembly Rooms in Islington, celebrated Regina’s election as vice president of her medical schools, had dinner with Ruth, and laughed ’til the tears ran down our legs. So all-in-all a great 24 hours. And so very different from the home life of our own dear village. We are so lucky to have the best of both worlds. Two days ago we were on the beach at Whitley Bay with the dogs running free for once, and coming back when we called. What sort of a miracle is that? Have we finally cracked this traning thing? No says Ian. So what’s the answer? ‘Easy,’ he says, ‘no rabbits.’ He has a point . . .

Look – no rabbits. . .


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