I've been promising myself a blast of Hockney colour for weeks now and it was actually a mild - dry! - sunny afternoon when I finally made it to his exhibition of 'some very, very, very new paintings' only days before it closes. People were having lunch sitting out in Hanover Square, not quite picnic weather but seizing the moment. Hydrangeas, delphiniums and roses and crumpled gingham tablecloths felt like a hit of Vitamin D and felt wonderfully cheering.

But upstairs in the gallery is the 'Moon Room' of iPad paintings made outside Hockney's studio in Normandy. It was only when I noticed a photo in the catalogue of 88-year-old Hockney, back to the camera, sitting outside on a kitchen chair to 'paint' the night sky that it really brought home to me his unceasing wonderment at everything around him, reflections, silhouetted trees, the moon's corona, clouds; they felt eternal and peaceful - and we surely need that.

Rose Wylie is even older than Hockney but I wasn't bowled over by her exhibition at the Royal Academy; slightly frustrating as everybody else seemed to think it was witty and fun - and I was just thinking, oh, for heaven's sake, give me a paintbox, even I could do that.

But she remembers a bomb landing on her family home during WW2 - which did catch my eye because I've just finished reading A Chelsea Concerto, Frances Faviell's memoir of her time as a Red Cross volunteer in Chelsea during the Blitz.

Now, to be honest, Faviell is not a brilliant writer and I don't feel inclined to go on to read any of her novels - the friends and neighbours about whom she writes are cardboard for the most part and don't spring to life on the page. And yet it's riveting, maybe because she writes about a tiny section of London from King's Road to Cheyne Walk and the river, streets I've walked so many times - and you realise how Chelsea was hammered, night after night, by bombers aiming for the power stations and the river bridges. A lull in the bombing brings women out to have their permed, because no-one fancies being hooked up to a waving machine during a raid. Faviell has to measure her hips - 34 inches, an inch to spare on either side - strip to her undies and wriggle into a hole beneath a collapsed house to bring chloroform to a screaming man. One of her jobs was reassembling dismembered body parts for burial. And all this within a few streets of home. Eventually Faviell's own home takes a direct hit. She feels a warm arm around her neck, thinks it her husband - but it's the severed arm of her lovely friend from the flat upstairs, a young woman married only a few days previously and still on her honeymoon. It's a relentless, compelling read - and you do wonder how you would have measured up yourself; what amazing sangfroid and presence of mind and good humour people (mostly) showed. I can't imagine I'd have been much good for anything more than brewing tea with the WVS.

If only it would stop raining, I might have something to write about - but though I tell myself bracingly that I won't dissolve in the downpour, it really doesn't tempt me to venture out, even to sit damply in a cinema. Fortunately the year has kicked off with some very good reading and this gripping biography of George Orwell's invisible first wife Eileen - quite different from any other biography I've ever read - turned out to be an absolute page-turner and I devoured it in just a few days. I'd heard of Sonia Orwell (Blair?), the second wife who was the gatekeeper to Orwell's estate, but hadn't realised that she only married him literally on his deathbed. But Eileen - a shadowy figure never named in her husband's writing, and obliterated by his male biographers - was with Orwell through much of the Spanish Civil war, worked in a dangerous job at political HQ in Barcelona, saved the ms of Homage to Catalonia, probably saved Orwell's sorry life from Stalinist spies... and never gets a mention. Back home in England, she's the one who earned the money, did all the wifework in their freezing cold cottage, despite her debilitating gynae problems, unblocked the squalid, overflowing latrine, typed and edited his work, nursed him when he was sick (and he clearly didn't give a thought to coughing his tubercular guts up over anyone, not even their adopted baby) ... Now I admit I read Orwell at an impressionable age, but I'd always thought of him as one of the Socialist good guys. Turns out that he was a selfish, misogynistic, exploitative, creepy sex-pest and attempted rapist who didn't even try to hide his infidelities from Eileen, who was so self-effacing by the end that, while he gallivanted in Paris doing Important Men's Work, she died on an operating table, aged 39, possibly because the surgery was done on the cheap to save money. Her money! Anna Funder has done a brilliant forensic job piecing together scraps of evidence and giving Eileen a voice. I still feel such rage on her behalf that I'd spit on Orwell's grave. But at risk of victim-blaming, I'm raging at Eileen, too ... you just long for this highly-educated, vibrant woman tell him to f_ off.

And this is the most moving novel I've read in a long time. Although it's fictionalised, it's so rooted in the human tragedy of the Middle East that it feels like a documentary, following generations of a Palestinian family uprooted from their ancestral home in 1948 to face decades of atrocities in the Jenin refugee camp at the hands of the Israelis. I read it shortly after (belatedly) watching the heartbreaking Oscar-winning documentary film No Other Land, made by a young Palestinian-Israeli group of directors, about the brutal destruction of Palestinian homes on the West Bank.

I've been away for far too long to play catch-up. The Downton Abbey flower show at Kew Gardens was hilariously bonkers; that's the Dowager and Mrs Crawley taking tea (rather disappointing that one - but you should have seen Thomas the Footman imprisoned in vines and poisonous skullduggery). The Royal Ballet adaptation of Like Water for Chocolate was entrancing, even from from my cheap(ish) ticket up in the gods, especially as I hadn't been to the Royal Opera House since my lavish-spending days pre-retirement (sob). HMS Pinafore at the Coliseum seemed like a jolly festive idea but was far too carry-on and pantomime for me, and starred the ghastly Mel whatshername from Bakeoff; yes, my fault I didn't read the blurb properly, but at least there were some good tunes. And if that seems a lot of going-out, well I have been away for three months.

But at least I have one up-to-date recommendation because The Tale of Silyan only opened a few days ago. (We saw it at the ICA which, despite its swanky address on the Mall, is possibly the shabbiest venue in London once you get inside.)It is a Macedonian documentary - I know, that doesn't scream 'rush to buy a ticket' - about a struggling farmer, whose family has been forced to emigrate, who adopts a stork with a broken wing. The cinema was packed with that lovely feeling that the whole audience was riveted by the true story. The bonus was a Q&A session afterwards with the young filmmakers. It only seems to be on at a handful of cinemas but if you can catch it, it's well worth it.

Maybe I should rebrand myself as Mrs Miniver's Quarterly - but here I am back again wth the usual good intentions, spurred on by a nice comment from Pam who is kind enough to miss me. But tonight I can't claim I'm 'too busy' as I'm home alone on a Saturday night - and yes, there is still a bit of me that feels that's social disaster, even at my age! I suppose I could have made a bit more effort but dinner was half a bottle of red and a whole tub of Pringles (and I don't mean one of the mini tubs!). Lips are burning and yes, it serves me right. And then I watched Christmas in Connecticut - about a food writer who can't cook - to assuage my post-UPF regret. I'll have you know that I spent last weekend baking 17th century mince pies from a long-lost recipe; much faffing and guessing quantities and in all honesty, they weren't as nice as the pies I usually make.

I can't say I'm feeling Christmassy yet, though most of the presents have been bought - which is entirely out of character for me - and there have been several outings that brought a chance to admire the London lights. Possibly best seen from a bus as the crowds are something else this year, or maybe I'm just getting old. Best outing by far was the hilarious David Copperfield at the tiny Jermyn Street Theatre, performed by an energetic cast of three; sitting on the end of the front row, I was worried that Mr Murdstone might trip over my feet and land on my lap. I also went to a matinée of the RSC's Wendy and Peter Pan - bizarrely on a rare sunny day when it was warm enough to sit on the Barbican terrace without a coat. The set was amazing and the flying scenes were stunning but shrill feminist Wendy was totally charmless, jokes that made school parties laugh went over my head (oh lord, I've turned into my mother!) and it went on far too long for me and I nodded off. Anyway, it has ended now, long before Christmas and the school hols which seems odd.

Whilst I would dearly love to bid for Lady Mary's 'Criterion' gown - seafoam green silk with gold lace overlay - I am pained to admit that Mrs Patmore's pinny looked a trifle too small for me. (I also rather coveted her grocery list, not the starriest item in Bonhams' Downton Abbey auction ... but all that tinned salmon and pineapple, who knew - was it really worth all that dressing for dinner just for tinned pineapple?) I've had a fun afternoon admiring the Granthams' family car, a 1925 Sunbeam in 'generally fine running condition', current bid £38,000 - barely above estimate - Lady Edith's Brussels lace wedding dress - and the iconic servants' hall bells (estimate £5000-£7000, current bid an eye-watering £24,000, and you have to remind yourself that they're not 'real Downton history', they're only a prop!). Just as much fun eavesdropping on the throng of chattering lady fans and their encyclopaedic knowledge of who's who and who wore what in which series. I thought I could win Mastermind Downton - but these ladies were something else! Free tickets are sold out - but given the Tube strike, I reckon you could walk in without one. (And it's only two minutes walk from the Lizzy line which is still running.)

Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares, And chops it nicely into little squares; Five onions next procures the little minx (The biggest are the best, her Samiwel thinks), And Epping butter nearly half a pound, And stews them in a pan until they’re brown’d. What’s next my dexterous little girl will do? She pops the meat into the savoury stew, With curry-powder table-spoonfuls three, And milk a pint (the richest that may be), And, when the dish has stewed for half an hour, A lemon’s ready juice she’ll o’er it pour. Then, bless her! Then she gives the luscious pot A very gentle boil – and serves quite hot. PS – Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish, Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind fish, Are fit to make a CURRY. ‘Tis, when done, A dish for Emperors to feed upon. William Makepeace Thackeray's Poem to Curry, 1846 - which sounds much tastier than the lacklustre Waitrose readymeal I've just had for dinner. (Blogger still baulking at paragraphs! Why?????)

I'm back! Well, what can I say - usual excuses, promises to do better - but the longer one leaves something, the harder it is to jump back in. However, May has been a colourful month here - or is it just the glorious sunshine? I've enjoyed a little exhibition of works by Jean-Marie Toulgouat, who was Monet's step-great-grandson. I spent a day with him once - he was a lovely man - and it felt like fleetingly touching art history.

By nature, I'm more of a dour, rain-washed Celt - so that sensation of swimming in joyful colour is quite irresistible. I also enjoyed this recent exhibition of works by the inspirational Josephine Trotter who is 85 but feels she is only half-way through her career; most days I feel on the scrapheap of mine, but that's being dour and rain-washed!

Last weekend I had a day out in Brighton where I sat on a bench on the pier, breathed in the chip fumes, dithered over ice-cream flavours and chose lavender - and happened on a second helping of fish and chips in an artist's studio.

Of course, I had to spend a few hours in Brighton Pavilion, though it seemed wicked on such a sunny day - because I can't resist a grand historic kitchen, especially one fitted with palm trees. All the more so because I've been watching the ridiculous, but entertaining series Carême - which takes me ages, as I have to freeze-frame every vol-au-vent and lavish dessert.

In fact, it's been a kitchen-y week as well as a colourful week - because I've also been to Kew Gardens, ostensibly to admire the rhododendrons, but my favourite part isn't botanical, it's the Kew Palace kitchens. Sadly, my interest in kitchens fizzles out when it comes to my own housework rather than history.