writer's moll

Life has sometimes felt a bit sunless since Rob died, but then along come acts of kindness, like the one that happened on Sunday, which lift the shutters on your heart and throw a few sunbeams your way. A couple of Rob’s friends, who have a place way out in the country with enough land and generosity to have allowed him to bring his friends and race around like kids firing air rifles at inanimate objects, generously organised a tree planting tribute to him. It was a touching little ceremony – I got to cut the ribbon round the tree, Rob’s friends said warm words about him and explained that they’d chosen a Russet apple as the most appropriate tree to commemorate Rob’s life because of its crisp and nutty flavour, with blossom in May (Rob’s birthday) and fruit in September (the month he died). Rob had often spoken admiringly of their house, which dates back to Oliver Cromwell’s time and it was easy to understand his fascination with it – great fireplaces, exposed wooden beams, tiny staircases on different levels and frequent smacks on the head for anyone who forgot to duck when entering a room. When his friends first rented it (at 50p a week), it was about to be demolished, but they liked it so much they restored it at their own expense and then applied to buy it. But the local authority turned out to be somewhat duplicitous, contending that because the house had been restored so authentically, it was now a listed building and so increased its valuation to include not only the improvements already done, but a newly thatched roof put on while buying negotiations were under way. But unlike Oliver Cromwell, who had plenty of people to point the way as he rode round the country gathering support for his army, we had only our mobile phones when we got lost and they showed ‘no network coverage’ when we tried to ring for directions. It’s obviously time Vodafone came out of their time warp, or maybe they think them country folk don’t talk to each other.