61. People Who Smile At Dogs

My friends and family are very sweet to me, and tolerate my habit of saying 'Hello Darling!' to every dog I pass in the street. They know, I think, that I can't help myself, and that the owners don't assume I'm talking to them. Or maybe the owners don't mind hearing the odd endearment, and simply take it as their due.

Anyway, I walked the length of Charlotte Street this afternoon behind a very smart and pretty puppy (and his owner) and for every person who walked past without a flicker of acknowledgment, there was one who smiled, or grinned, or stopped to say hello. While I hate to add to the prejudice in the world, I know that I like the smiley stoppers more than I like the others. As the owner of the best and most beautiful pooch in the entire universe (sorry Enzo, sorry Charlotte, sorry Sophie, sorry Amy - but it's true) I measure strangers by their reaction to my dog. When she was a puppy we couldn't move her ten yards down the street without being stopped for people to coo over her, and even now she's 10 she still gets her fair share of stoppers. She also elicits broad beams of doggie-lovin' pleasure from men and women she passes in the street, even when she gets in their way and seems to be trying to trip them up. A man once stopped me to say that I should have all her milk ducts cut out immediately as his Westie had died prematurely from cancer, and while his tone and message were abrupt and rather alarming I recognized a grieving soul, and sympathised heartily with his loss.

The point (if there is one) is that London moves at a furious pace, and we move relentlessly between home and work and home again without raising our heads. But amidst all the noise and traffic and endless, endless people there are tiny pockets of pleasure to be had - whether it's a dog, or a window-box, or a splendid outfit.

So the next time you're in the street, and a dog bumps you out of your city reverie for a second, give him a smile. You'll feel better for it.

60. NOT working in an office

I had to go and work in an actual real office today. It was noisy, it was too hot, I had to spend money on my lunch rather than wandering downstairs and raiding the fridge, I didn't have a computer so it was like 1963 - it was awful. I missed my eyrie, and my dog, and my autonomy.

It's the latter, for me, that's so crucial. I worked in offices for years and years and it took me forever to realise that maybe I didn't have to do that any more. I still work in an office, so maybe that term is misleading, but probably you know what I mean. I still get up every day at much the same time, I still get to my desk at much the same time, I still knock off at 6 or thereabouts - but now I set the agenda. I don't have to spend the day in pointless meetings. I don't have to eat Pret a Manger sandwiches unless I want to (which I don't). I don't have to put up with other people's bad habits and flatulence and smelly feet/lunches.

Sometimes it gets a bit lonely up here all by myself. There's no water cooler chat or collective moaning, or impromptu beers in the evening. I have to pay my own taxes, rustle up my own clients, organize my time effectively and resist the lure of the shops. But all of that is fine. Even low-work periods are fine compared to the thought of going back to the 9 to 5. Maybe one of these days I'll go back to being an office worker and I"ll have to swallow my pride and my words and my hat. But I"m going to try not to let it happen - because up here in my eyrie I feel free.

59. The Guide Hound of Claddaghduff

The last time my family went on holiday to the west, we stayed in a bungalow in Claddaghduff - which is the village nearest Omey Island. Big brother Patrick joined us for part of the holiday, and one night he and I decided to walk down to Sweeney's pub for a drink. The lane is just about tarmac, but it's pitted and rough and there weren't any street lights. Patrick had brought his headlamp, so we set off following the beam. Before long we noticed that the beam was no longer showing us the road, it was lighting up a hairy canine bottom. We called the dog to us and recognised him as belonging to the family next door. We tried to send him home, but he wouldn't go. Instead, he ran ahead of us, his bottom always in the beam, and guided us safely to Sweeney's.

A couple of hours later, after some Guinness and some excellent music, Patrick and I headed home. And there once more was the hairy bottom. The dog had been trained, or had learned, to guide his master (or anybody, really) to and from Sweeney's pub. Good dog. Brilliant dog.

Last weekend I drove back up that lane, and easily recognised the bungalow and the stone house next door which 16 years ago had a family of 12 living in it - along with that exemplary hound. As we were turning the car round, a small dog appeared in the road. It wasn't the same dog, but it was very similar - scrappy and strong. He ran alongside the car for a while and I'll tell you the temptation to get out and see if he would guide me to Sweeney's was powerful, even though it was daylight. But we left him standing on the lane, waiting for his next opportunity to do his duty.

I have told Blue this story. She doesn't think much of it. I think she's jealous.

58. Omey Island

Omey Island is tiny, separated from the mainland by a strand of shallow water that at low tide reveals three miles of golden sand. In the summer at low tide they have horse races on the strand - it's that kind of place. Omey is a sacred island for the people of the West of Ireland, and it is sacred for the Bakers too, as that is where my mother scattered my father's ashes 18 years ago.

When on family holidays in the area we'd drive across the sand, put down our picnic rug and stay there for the day. When the small brother was a baby he was fond of eating the thistles and sand of Omey Island, and look how tall and handsome he turned out. Mum spent most of the day with her bottom in the air, fishing about under the sand with her badger paws looking for cockles (which then she made us eat - not so good.)

Dad gave me my first ever driving lesson on Omey, but gave up when I hurtled towards one of the few immoveable objects in the strand at 40 miles per hour, in reverse. Why were we going backwards, when we could have been going forwards? At the end of the day we all piled in to Sweeney's pub just across the water for a Britvic 55 or a Cidona before going back to whichever rented cottage we were in for sausages and mash. Compared to that, you can keep posh hols in hot places.

So last weekend I walked across the strand, which was still wet and covered in bumpy squiggles of sand, to the island and had a little mooch about. I stood on a high point and looked across to the mainland, and down the estuary both ways - left to the Atlantic, right to the sea lough - and thought that a nice island with a view and a regular horse event was exactly the kind of thing he liked.

There are a few houses on Omey but both the cemetery and the island itself are safe from development which shows that the Irish are smart about some things. There was a gaggle of nice looking cows standing together having a cow meeting and my sister remembers meeting a nice old chap who lived there who had an excellent dog called Rex.

So Omey was always special - and one day I hope the next generation of sand-eating Bakers will eat their egg sandwiches on a rug, and swim in the sea, and stand on a high spot and think that a view and some cows and a regular horse event is just exactly right.

57. The Human Eye

Just back from three days in Connemara. Loved every minute of it and will be ekeing out every last detail for blog entries over the next few days. My only disappointment has been in the quality (or lack of it) of my photography. We stopped the car frequently to take pictures of the gobstopping scenery, but they're no good, because Ireland doesn't work in 2D. You had to be there, with the air in your lungs and on your face, and the sound of the lough lapping at the rocks at your feet - the ancient hillsides stretching away into forever - the brand new 'Best Gift Shop in Ireland' just behind you and mercifully out of sight.

The most boring pictures are of the most painfully beautiful sights. One set of photos - from the road towards Cashel, posted here - look plain and brown, but in 3D and standing there, the power of it moved me nearly to tears. I'm susceptible, I know, but of all the places I have been, and scenery I have looked at, these craggy Irish hills mean the most.

So our eyes are still more use to us than cameras, because they are connected to our ears, and our skin, and our hearts.

56. Bread and Cheese

Good bread, obviously. And the finest cheeses known to humanity. But if you're actually hungry a slice of mother's shame and a triangle of Dairylea is food for the gods.

Herself and the dog are clinically addicted to cheese, so evenings on which we have bread and cheese and salad (and wine) for supper are usually eventful. I have to watch my supper very carefully or risk it disappearing. Last night it was baguette, Manchego, Beurre d'Isigny Camembert and Boursin (oh so cosmopolitano!). Plus pinot noir and a tomato salad. Yumptious. The dog patted my foot with her paw every twenty seconds for half an hour just to remind me that no cheese need go to waste. In fact, it might have been Herself doing that...

Bread and Cheese is the perfect food for travelling, as it is available in all languages at all times of the day and night. When you come in wet and cold from a long winter walk a slab of cheddar on a bit of bread and a mug of steaming sweet tea will stop your teeth chattering in no time. When you've just moved in to a new house, or arrived at a rented place it's good too, because you don't need a plate and your Swiss Army knife will do the job if you want to be fancy and not just use your teeth.

You can dress it up and dress it down but other than a glass of wine you don't need much else to sustain life and restore energy and good spirits. There are fancier suppers, but they are not necessarily better suppers.

55. Packing

I am rubbish at packing. I always forget something crucial like underwear or my pyjamas. Herself's eyes roll about in her head quite wildly when it comes to my packing - but even though I do it badly, I enjoy it.

And why wouldn't I? Packing means I'm going away. Packing is an opportunity to wrestle my ridiculous teenage wardrobe into something I might just about call 'capsule'. Packing is a chance to buy little plastic containers from Muji, and tiny portions of shampoo and conditioner from Superdrug. Ooh, maybe I need to buy one of those towels that gets things dry like magic. And there's always a good chance that suddenly none of my bags will be suitable and I'll have to treat myself to a cool new one.

The best packing used to be before we went to NYC. We just packed two pairs of shoes and a spare pair of underpants. But those days of carefree cheap shopping are long gone. Sigh.

Me and the BP are off to Ireland on Friday. The fallout from Ejollkdskdjowijldlllhalshdlsklsllll has stopped (Kinda, we're just ignoring it, I think) and there's a good chance our Ryanair tub will spirit us across to the Emerald Isle after all. There's also a good chance we'll spend the weekend at Stansted. But let's not dwell...

What's fun in packing terms about this weekend is that Ryanair are total fascists and charge £20 EACH WAY for you to check a bag into the hold - so we're going carry-on. The acceptable bag dimensions are laughable but talk about a challenge! Can I get full rain gear, my running stuff, clothes for three days of god knows what weather, and shoes and toiletries and a book and my camera and a spare battery and a day bag and a pen and a roll of mints into a bag teeny enough to suit Ryanair? CAN I?

No. It would be absurd for me to take my running gear when I am planning to drink my considerable body weight in Smithwicks every day. I will not take full rain gear on principle. I only need one pair of shoes. OK - maybe two. And it's not as if we need worry about high fashion - we're going to Connemara not Milan.

This trip has more in common with the Famous Five than anything else. We'll just take jerseys, shorts and wellies. And small plastic containers. Even I can get that packing right. Can't I?