259. Postcards

I am almost certain that I sent my grandmother a postcard from every holiday I went on between 1997 and 2010. Poor woman, probably got really bored of them. But for me, sitting with a coffee (or glass of wine) somewhere peaceful for half an hour writing postcards, then working out how to say 'stamps for England, please in whatever language - is a ritual part of any holiday.  Since my granny died I have been sending postcards to the youngest member of my extended family - baby BF. She can't read yet but when she can she'll have a good fat postbag to get through.

I also use postcards to send little notes throughout the year. They're great for thank yous, or just to say hello without anything digital having to bestir itself. Have you noticed that daily life no longer requires any actual physical writing any more? But a postcard is a good excuse to put pen to paper.

And then there's receiving postcards. That's always fun. I have a particular soft spot for those sent by Herself's mother, who specialises in missives from exotic, far-flung locations that simply read 'It's raining today', or 'It's nice here'.

I suppose postcards are just a simple, time-honoured way of letting somebody know that you're thinking of them. Wish you were here.

258. Cottage Pie

I bought an enamel pie dish, so I had to make a pie.

Cottage pie is all about the gravy. Every single movement you make towards that pan should be about the taste and texture of the gravy, because everything else in there is pretty much going to cook itself. So once you've got your onions and celery and carrots soft and salty you brown your meat. Then what do you do? You add more flavour. Tomato paste, a crumbled stock cube, dried thyme, pepper. Then for the liquor - red wine first. Then water from the kettle. More of the former than the latter, please. Not too much - you're not making soup.

Then turn it down and bugger off. Sneak up on it every now and again for a taste. It should soon be viscous and savoury. It might need salt. Bugger off again.

When you literally can't bear it any more, turn the heat off. Then make your mash but remember if you make too much it will be too heavy and if you make it too sloppy it won't keep the meaty stuff in its place.

You'll want some cheese either in your mash or on top. Oven. Then, just before you faint with longing, get it out of the oven and put it under the grill until the cheese is sizzling and brown.

Revel. With some cabbage or peas and the rest of the red wine.

257. Longevity

Herself and I are celebrating an anniversary today. And I'm proud of it - of her, mainly, as I'm not sure how she puts up with me. But I'm so glad she does, and I tell her so every day.

256. Cooling

In Aldeburgh last week the smell of autumn was in the air, thanks to a few local bonfires. There is nothing, for me, more redolent of childhood weekends in the countryside than that smell - and it makes me happy. But the weather was lovely - warm and sunny. So I knew that I'd have to wait a little longer...

But my hands got cold as I cycled to work this morning.

WHOOP!

That means it must be coming. Soon the pavements and streets will be carpeted with leaves rather than gormless tourists. I will need to remember to bring a cardigan and my bike lights to work because I am a thousand years old and comfort and safety are suddenly All I Think About.

I have started to watch the thermometer slightly obsessively, however, because today's cooler morning might be a phoney war. Too often in the past I've got all excited about colder weather just because there's suddenly an 'r' in the month again and been chided for my folly. Increasingly it's not even cold on Christmas Day, which just plain ruins it, no matter how good the gifts, goose and grog.

Last night on the tellybox the man said that it would drop to single figures overnight. I trilled with glee. And this morning - cold hands. But I've just strolled along the canal perfectly comfortably in short sleeves so I've put my autumnal happiness back in its box for now. Maybe it will be cooler next week?

255. National Trust volunteers

For Herself's last birthday, my Parent gave her a membership to the National Trust. It was a generous, thoughtful present, despite any connotations of socks, sandals and cagoules one may (erroneously) make with the members of that august institution.

Herself is a thrifty gal, and likes to make sure that we get our money's worth. Or, in this case, the Parent's. Quite right too.

So, this year, we have been to St Michael's Mount, Monk's House, Levant Mine, Tyntesfield House, Willow Walk, Sissinghurst and Godrevy Head. Soon we will visit Blickling Hall and Orford Ness.

All those places have been fascinating, and well worth a visit, but the best thing about going to National Trust properties is the volunteers. To a body they are friendly, charming and encyclopedically well informed. Most importantly, they all seem to have a genuine affection - even passion - for their subject.

I'm a bah humbug sort, but you can't fail to be impressed by these people - and they're doing it all for free. Almost makes you feel proud to be British.