FLOWER GIRL

Not the best day I've had. Weather and slow internet connections have bugged me alot. So I just shuffled my pack of "Amazingly easy ways to ENRICH YOUR LIFE", hoping for some solace. Naturally, I was hoping to get an 'amazing' idea. But the first card I picked out said:

Go for a walk in the rain. Leave your umbrella at home, dress appropriately, tune your Walkman into a classical music station, and walk down streets you've never been down before.

Blow that, I thought. I do that everyday dog walking (apart from walking down unknown streets - there are only 7 streets in the village). So I cheated and pretended I hadn't picked that one out.

The second card suggested "'Go skinny-dipping once a year, preferably outdoors(?). It will put you back in touch with nature.'' You WHAT? On a day like today, I don't even need to go outside to get in touch with nature - the wind is howling through the house like a banshee. But I suppose sticking my head out of the window for 20 seconds would make a terrific substitute for a facial, given the sleet.

Third time lucky, I thought. ''Spend time with your children. They grow up so fast''. A lovely idea - except I don't have any.

Card No. 11 sounded rather good, though: Call in sick and spend the day pampering yourself at home. Then I remembered I worked from home.

Finally, just as I was about to give up, card number 28 turned up. 'Indulge yourself once in a while. Buy your favourite decadent food, and don't share it!' Yes! That's more like it. I knew I had a bar of chocolate I was saving for a rainy day. Rushed to cupboard ... and discovered my Man had evidently read card no. 28 before me - and had followed its instructions re the not sharing of my chocolate to the letter.

Which leaves me with card no. 8 - 'Make an effort to say what's on your mind. Don't bottle up your feelings.'

OH ....

Pah! I was about to write a triumphant post about how I can blog anywhere, anytime, thanks to my clever Man installing a wireless card on my laptop.

Hey, look at me - I'm sat on the sofa, instead of the office, drinking wine and blogging at the same time, I wanted to proclaim, ignoring the cries of 'Big deal!' from the more technologically aware amongst you.

But before I could announce this momentous occasion, I made the mistake of having a browse amongst my friends' post. And became aware that instead of a music clip on Ladee Bird's blog, I had a blank screen. I somehow worked out that I needed to download a newer Flash Version. Apparently, the last time this laptop was connected to the internet was in the Jurassic Age-equivalent of technology. Worryingly, however, I am home alone and haven't a clue which version of Mac this is (I am more familiar with MAC make-up company). So rather tentatively, I closed my eyes and clicked on a promising sounding option.

And I am still here. And, more importantly, you seem to be too. I would have felt so guilty about bringing down the UK's power supply by clicking on the wrong button.

Oh well, having writ, I'll move on....

I just came across the lottery ticket I bought on a whim on Saturday night. I already knew I hadn't won the Lottery top prize on Saturday because my name isn't Stephen, I am not 58 and I don't live in Hemel Hempstead. Not that I expected to. The height of my ambition is to win a tenner, so I just checked out the results. Not a sausage, as usual.

Of course, it helps if you are in it to win it, as they say, and I only buy a ticket on average every two years, usually when I hear a rumour of a roll-over. But failure to win anything has rather dampened my enthusiasm to part with a quid. It hasn't always been this way. On the very first lottery draw I won £10, the result of buying a ticket on an impulse five minutes before the draw took place. 'This is easy' I thought. So I bought another one in week two. Four numbers - £68 - that time. 'I'll be a millionaire next week!', I exulted. But despite an eternity contributing to an office sweepstake and a couple of years of religiously using the same numbers - nothing, so I gave up.

It is still galling not to win £10, as nearly a million people did on Saturday. But not as galling as it must be for the sixteen people who had 5 numbers plus the bonus. So close to those millions, but a 'mere' prize of £143,051 each. Hardly enough to buy a bungalow in the Outer Hebrides or a two-wheeled Reliant Robin. To achieve my dream of paying off the mortgage , I think I'll stick to putting aside 5p coins in my piggy bank - at least until the next rollover, perhaps

I've just spent a couple of hours clearing the garden. I know, I should have been working - but it's bound to start raining again soon. I haven't been out there working since the Autumn, and my back has locked up on me. I always used to think that gardener's lumbago was a figment of Enid Blyton's imagination. Now I am not so sure.

I once knew an old lady who lived in a bungalow that was in the centre of a huge garden. She and her husband had built their house themselves (or rather, they had hired builders to do it). They found their plot by the simple means of asking a local farmer if they could buy a bit of his field. This was back in the fifties, so he merely handed over an acre or so for a tiny wad of cash. Having been a corner of a field, a row of trees formed one border of the garden. To hear the old lady, the sole raison d'être of these lovely oaks, was to mess up her immaculate lawn. I never heard her say a nice thing about them, merely her constant grumble about having to clear up fallen leaves.

If I wasn't mad about wildlife, I might have a bit of sympathy with her after this morning's session. It suddenly dawned on me that I couldn't see any bulbs appearing, and found they were suffocating under a blanket of damp leaves. And since I'd waited until the leaves had fallen from the nearby trees and then cleared them in the autumn, I am a bit puzzled where they have all come from. Presumably a case of nature abhors a vacuum.

But despite my aching back, I didn't take a leaf out of that old lady's book and moan about them. First I found a hibernating toad, and had to replace his cover. And the birds love perching in our trees. All the time I was clearing, a robin sang to me. It was beautiful. Even Dog looked impressed. It evidently made a welcome relief from me repeatedly singing "If I were a rich man" - out of tune and those being the only words of the song I know - ever since reading about Thespian's forthcoming audition.

I dream that one day I will own a garden like that old lady's. In the meantime, I shall leave with a more appropriate song.

It is rare, fortunately, to be reminded of your teenage years when eating your breakfast but I managed it this morning, thanks to Doris Day, singing "Move over Darling" on Radio 2. Sadly, the memory it triggered was not a High School Prom triumph (I am NOT that old). It was a scene of humiliation.

When I was 18, I spent a year in France as an au pair. One morning at breakfast, shortly after my arrival, Monsieur asked me what film star I liked best. This panicked me slightly - maybe it was the effort of having to reply in French. More likely it was because I couldn't think of any. I was brought up in a rural area, where the nearest cinema was 12 miles away, and we didn't have a television for most of my youth. And with 3 younger siblings, and parents who were fairly hard up, trips to watch a film were few and far between.

So I cast my mind around and blurted out 'Doris Day'. Monsieur practically choked on the croissant he was dipping into his bowl of chocolat chaud. 'Doris Day? he shrieked, before muttering something about 'une petite paysanne' (a little countrygirl, aka peasant).

He had a point, I was spectacularly naive in those days (still am, probably). If I had had my wits about me I could have said Julie Andrews or Dick Van Dyke or Tommy Steele, since the only films I recall watching were "The Sound of Music" "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" and "Half A Sixpence". I suspect that even these, however, would have made him laugh.

Despite the fact that Monsieur was 30 going on 60; that his father, who had fought with the Resistance, seemed half his age; that his favourite (only) singer was Leonard Cohen, my confidence plummeted even further. And it had been pretty near rock bottom before then, given it was my first time away from home and I was lonely.

So naturally, I did the only thing possible in such circumstances - I went to the cinema to brush up on my knowledge of film stars. I saw 'Saturday Night Fever' dubbed in French. A blur of white trousers and music - I couldn't keep up with the dialogue at all. On reflection, I was right first time. It's hard to beat Doris as Calamity Jane, particularly since Embarrassing Ellie would have made a perfect sidekick.

I was sitting quietly in my office, peering at the computer, with Dog lying beside me, when suddenly we both looked up at the ceiling. Like we were taking part in The Muppet Show when a Voice announces "Pigs in Space". Yep, we can hear the patter of tiny feet, scurrying along the beams in the loft. Mice (hopefully, not rats).

How did they get up there? Do they parachute in from nearby trees? Abseil across from a nearby shed? More importantly, how do you persuade them to move out again? I'm too screamish about putting poison down, not to mention worried about Dog eating it. And if you catch them in those humane traps and let them go again, don't they move straight back in, albeit with a bemused expression, unless you work out how to block their access? I need some help here. I need a First Mate Piggy to help me out.

The Arts Centre in Newport has a nice shop attached to it, in which they showcase local, and other, artists' work. I love browsing around it and I am not alone. Yesterday a young mum was peering into the showcases. With her was a charming little girl, about 3, with a blond bob and dressed in pink from head to toe, including pink wellies.

She clearly knew how to make herself feel at home. Whilst mum was lusting after some handmade silk bags and jewellery,she kicked off her wellies and settled down in front of the shelves with the arty gifts for children. She quickly found a colouring book with a picture of a cute puppy on the front.

"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"
"Look, mummy! It's a puppy!"

After several repeats, mum replied vaguely "Yes! Isn't he lovely." - a response which appeared to satisfy the little girl, because she resumed her scrutiny of the toys.

This has intrigued me. I want to know how long a toddler will continue to repeat the same phrase over and over again until s/he gets a response. Is there a world record? Do they carry on ad infinitum if you don't reply? Are they robots until primary school age?

I am going to experiment with my two-year old nephew. His favourite phrase is "Teletubbies?" - indicating that you must immediately put on the TV and video. He gets completely engrossed watching them. But I want to see what happens if you don't "hear" his request ...

*evil snigger*

I think I realised that my eyesight was suffering from fatigue when I read the following article

A lot of excitement was generated by Kevin Keegan's appointment as manager of Newcastle United...

as

A lot of excrement was generated ...

On the whole, I suspect 'the eyes have it'.

I was thinking about happiness during the dog walk this morning. It was a beautiful morning here and it reminded me that, for me, most of the things that make me happy, are quite simple: beautiful views, scents, peaceful moments, watching dog hunt for mice and rabbits, flowers, sunrise and sunsets, laughing until I cry.... I could go on, because I feel pretty happy. But I know I need to work on it. Despite all my blessings, I still get low - usually the weather, or more accurately, the gloom and grey. So, a few reminders of happiness"

There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved. (George Sand)

I love birdsong. I love waking up early to the dawn chorus, when the blackbirds, robins, wrens, chaffinches, song thrush and green finches in our garden all start up. They apparently do it to attract a mate or to defend their nests. No drunken fumblings or aggressive squaring-up for them, just a beautiful song. Starlings too are one of my favourites. Noisy and gregarious, and not quite as pure of voice, they have an amazing range of whistles and trills.

The dawn chorus is most common in May. Repeat May. When the day is beginning to break and light appears in the sky. A time when, if you are woken at 4 a.m. you can be tempted out of bed early to make the most of a beautiful day. Once out of bed, up on the downs, the larks start their singing just as the dawn chorus shuts up. They fly up from their nests on the ground. They symbolise happiness, hope, good fortune, freedom, joy, youth, creativity and a new day. Their vertical flight is amazing enough, but to hear them sing from so high up is pure joy.

However, the dawn chorus does not normally happen at 3.30 a.m. on Thursday 24th January. I just thought I'd mention that, whatever bird you are, causing insomnia and much teeth-grinding. Despite your beautiful voice, I'd just like you to go away and come back at a decent hour. Not when it is dark, not between 3.30 am to 6.00 am. Please, get a watch. I'd really appreciate a lie-in until 6.30 am.

I've never liked drawing attention to myself. I think it is because I went to four different primary schools. When you have spent as much time as I have being the 'new girl', standing on the sidelines being stared at,longing to join in and be like everyone else, you either develop into a confident showman or someone who just longs to be part of the wallpaper.

I am the latter. But my stomach wants to be the former. Normally, working at home, it just gets on quietly with life. Apart from the occasional tantrum when it needs chocolate, that is. But go to a meeting, sit in a room full of nodding, somnolent people and what must my stomach do? Start singing and shouting and groaning - loud enough to make other people wake up and snigger, delighted that there is a distraction from the droning monotone at the head of the table.

I tried to bribe it with a Polo I found in my handbag. That worked for a minute or two. But a few minutes later, off it went again, this time inciting a fellow stomach into a tuneless chorus. It only does it when I am trying to make a good impression at work? Why?

Well, I've had enough of its showing off. Tomorrow, I am going to take a pack of cookies to a meeting, and if my stomach starts to play up again, I am going to bombard it with crumbs. Maybe even a chocolate chip. That'll learn it.

And the moral of this story is, if you expect people to stay awake and alert during a lecture on taxation, you must provide them with cookies during break time

Sex. Free. Win. Not necessarily in that order. According to the speaker at a business meeting I went to yesterday, these three words are guaranteed to attract customer attention if placed on the front cover of a magazine, tabloid or an advert.

So I thought I'd test his theory on my blog before spending money a costly business ad. If my blog visitor numbers don't go through the roof as a result, I'll know that his advice was a complete waste of time and demand my money back!

If you go down to the woods today,
You're sure of a big mishap.
If you go down to the woods today,
You'd better wear a safety hat.
For every tree that ever there was
Will blow over today for certain because
Today's the day the wind is gusting at gale force.

Felling time for elderly trees;
The gusts of wind are having a lovely time today.
See the trees topple unawares,
Trying to clout dog walkers in the way.
See branches crack and swirl about.
They'd love to knock you out,
They never take any care.
At six o'clock the flowergirl and her dog
Will stagger home to bed
Because they're tired out dodging falling trees.

I bumped into my neighbours the other day, just as they were getting out of their car, with Archie, their new addition to the family, swaddled in a blanket. I did lots of 'ooohing' and 'aahing'. When I got home, my brother called and showed off Molly, his new baby. I ooohed and aaahed all over again to my husband.

"You've gone all broody again, haven't you?" he said. "It's no good denying it, I can tell from the soppy expression on your face'"

"Yes" I admitted, "I'd quite like another one."

"You have thought it through, haven't you? It'll mean we can't just go away on holiday whenever we feel like it, the costs will add up and the house will look as if a bomb has hit it".

I know, I know, I know. But .... Dog got on so well with thirteen-week Molly the springer spaniel, and Archie the golden retriever puppy that I am now hopeful of finally being able to find a companion for her that she can tolerate in the house without attempting to kill it. Another little puppy, with a liking for flowers, just like she was ...

Last week, I went on a course run by the Chamber of Commerce. One of those "How to be a successful business person" type things. One of the points made was that if you don't look after your money carefully, no-one else will (except the tax man, bank, insurance people, credit companies ..). To illustrate this mind-boggling point, they used "an urban myth": "A passer-by helps change a tyre on a broken down limousine. The famous millionaire inside the limo thanks him by paying off his mortgage." Apparently this didn't really happen. Oh, no. (Oh, come on, at least pretend to be surprised!).

It was emphasised that wealthy people look after their money - it's how they stay wealthy. Now I don't know about anyone else, but I've long thought this to be a self-evident truth. For example, the public appeals for Children in Need or Famine Relief. I frequently speculate, when Sir Bob Geldoff or Bono, are shouting at the public to donate funds, just what percentage of their own income they hand over. After all, a £20 donation from an Old Age Pension income must equate to a pretty hefty donation from a rock star's fortune, if done on a similar ratio of pounds donated per income earned. (It is also given without any expectation of recognition or reward, but that's another gripe.)

But, today, on one occasion at least, I can give my cynicism a hefty clip around the ear for its impertinence and yell "Yah boo sucks!" at the Chamber of Commerce. Because a wealthy person has just proved us wrong.

Enter the ever-delightful Johnny Depp, who, by one of those strange quirks of coincidence, has appeared in my life three times this week (sadly, only in print form). First I had to warn Dafter off about any attempt to monopolise his attention during the her Golden Globes Award ceremony. Then a picture appeared on the front page of our local paper (an island actress has appeared in Sweeney Todd). But best of all was the story that he has donated £1 million to Great Ormond Street Hospital as a thank-you for saving his daughter's life last March. And not only did he donate money, but he went along on a private visit dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow and spent four hours telling bedtime stories to the children.

I love that man. And if he should break down in his limousine near me, I will happily change his tyre for free. All I ask is that he spends four hours reading me a bedtime story.

I've often thought that there is a very fine line between beauty and plainness: a slightly different nose, maybe ears that stick out a fraction too far, a long chin. I suppose that how's cosmetic surgeons get their money. A bit of jiggling here and there - and voila - a transformation into top model or mega hunk.

On the other hand, a bit of jiggling can be a disaster. Particularly, if you are unskilled, not paid and can live with the shame of revealing that you have plumbed the depths of computer procrastination on a rainy afternoon. Whatever. Clicking, dragging and warping the nose of Kate Moss and transforming her into a troll vision managed to cheer me up.

... and not a log to burn. How ironic is it that the island is now being engulfed by timber from the 'Ice Prince' wreck and we have run out of logs for the fire. It is incredibly hard to get any for some reason, despite the number of trees that have come down in recent gales. Thanks to the hazards of floating timber, the catamaran ferry service has been cancelled and ships waiting to enter the Solent are stacked up offshore, waiting for the pilot boats to reach them with a pilot. In vain, because they are all 'grounded'. The island is in danger of being strangled by a carpet of wood.

Excitement is reaching fever pitch. The coastguard hovered over the bay this morning. Rumours swept around the village that wood had been sighted. Maybe all our neighbours are desperate for logs too, because a general stampede to the cliffs ensued. Well, three people anyway. We were already there with Dog. Maybe the pilot thought twice about taking home some timber with five scavengers eagerly ready to pounce, because the winch went down and came back with nothing. We traipsed home disappointed, timber-less, and had to resort to pinching Dog's trophy branch for the fire.

If further proof was necessary that the islanders inhabit a very different world from the rest of the British (usually La La Land), then the local paper has supplied it.

It produced a survey of the names given to babies last year. Jack might be the most popular boy's name, for the 13th year running across Britain, but here on the island it got barely a look in. Alfie was the boy's favourite name here, with Finley (a miserable 47th in the national league) the second choice. The girls' choices were a little more traditional - Lily, Poppy, Isobel, Ella, Emily, Ruby, Sophie, Brooke and Grace.

But it's the unusual names that swept the board. Surely only the Baird family could have named their son Yogi? Could the son of a family of chubby, rounded chocoholics been called anything other than Rollo? Does new born Reggi come from a long line of dyslexics? As for the boys named Draven, Rios, Caiden, Jaylunde, Bryson and Logan - I can't even think unless they are soap opera characters.

As for the girls, are the parents of Maple keen gardeners, ragtime music fans or just gluttons for pancakes with syrup? Does baby Boe smell bad? Was Culver conceived on Culver Downs? And as for Baili, Makayla, Shayonna - where did their parents go for their holidays?

I'd love to know why these names were chosen. Is it the influence of celebrity cult or do we just have a greater percentage of oddballs living on the island?

When I was in primary school, the very elderly, long-since retired, village schoolmistress gave me a set of Children's Encyclopaedia dating from the 1920s to 1930s. These were both my pride and my shame: pride, because she told my mother that she wanted me to have them because I was clever and would go far; shame because when I left home for college my belongings were packed in my parents' loft and most of them became victims of silver fish.

I managed to salvage just two volumes of the set, and even these have lace doily pages, missing covers etc. But they are still a delight to read. They have stirring titles like "Ourselves: The Wonderful House We Live In, and Our Place in the World"; "Familiar Things: The Story of the Things we See About us Every Day"; "Literature: Imperishable Thoughts of Men Enshrined in the Books of the World"; "Things to Make & Do: The Interests and Pleasures of Life for All Indoors and Out" and "Men and Women: The Story of Immortal Folk Whose Work Will Never Die."

They also contain half-forgotten nursery rhymes, music and puzzles. Last night, after I felt my brain had become paralysed after watching "Torchwood", I attempted bring it back to life by having a go at the "Puzzle Picture Names of Famous Men." From which I can only conclude that when that retired schoolmistress predicted that I "would go far", she was referring to geographic distance and not to my education. Because I can only work out (I think) three of the twelve puzzles. And sadly, the answers have been eaten by the silver fish. So if anyone else would like to have a go, please feel free to put me out of my misery by telling me the answers;

Yesterday evening was our second dancing class. I wasn't sure if we would make it a second time. Our first attempt last week came about because of a rash promise my Man made, when I announced my New Year's resolution of finally, finally, learning to dance properly. He spent last Tuesday, in the run up to the first class, with a facial expression that suggested an evening of ritual disembowelment would have been a more pleasant alternative.

But he loves me, and he agreed to accompany me so that I would be spared the experience of my one and only previous attempt to join a dancing class. That was over twenty years ago, when I was in my early twenties. I went along to find it full of women over 70. There were just three men, all elderly, who had big grins on their faces as the women fought over them. I had to endure the mortification of having to dance with a bewhiskered old lady, who, after gazing disdainfully at my jeans, insisted that I was the man. She kept barking commands at me. And when I made a mistake - which I frequently did as there was no tuition other than her barks - sighed heavily. It ended, as I recall, with her sitting with her commiserating friends, glaring balefully at me whilst massaging her crushed toes. (I forgot to mention that my jeans ensemble included Doc Martins). Afterwards I fled, and made a mental resolve - never, ever, again.

But thanks to Strictly Come Dancing a strange new phenomenon has occurred. Men are willing to learn to dance. Either that, or women have become more adept at persuading them to accompany them. Probably the latter now I think of it, because my Man has a fixed aversion to Strictly. If he is forced to watch it, he ruins it by muttering things like 'prancing around like jessies' or 'what do they look like in those shirts'.

But he manfully accompanied me last week and we started to learn the foxtrot and the cha cha cha. Possibly to our mutual surprise, we both enjoyed it immensely. Last night we got to add a fancy turn in the cha cha cha. Although the foxtrot went a bit downhill when we had to add some side taps - we managed to make the entire circle of dancers grind to a halt when we lost our way and just stood on the spot trying to recover - with a deafening chant of quick, quick, slow, slow, not that way you idiot, ouch, be careful, quick quack slow stop, sorry ....

As the song goes Things can only get better - although not if you attempt to foxtrot to it.

I've often been perplexed and cynical about some scientific announcements. Not the major, life-changing ones about how the brain works, cures for illness or even how to split an atom. But the ones that seem destined only to cause confusion or worry, such as: 'toothpaste can cause cancer'.

One of the biggest contenders for my cynicism has been the claim that adults should drink 2.5 litres of water a day - or 8 large glasses. Not only has this theory been widely propounded in health circles, it is a cornerstone of most of the beauty advice in women's magazines. The mantra goes something like 'Drink two or three litres of water a day, and your glowing skin, shiny hair and eyes, bouncing vitality etc. will knock 20 years of your age.'

Well, I've tried drinking 2-3 litres of water a day. I'm not sure whether I felt any better for it - mostly I felt too bloated to notice. Certainly, if I did appear 20 years younger, the only person to get the benefit of that glowing vision was me, gazing back at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Faced with 90% of my day in the bathroom, or looking my real age, it was a quick return to my normal consumption of tea and coffee.

I have long since worked out that if you overdo coffee and alcohol you will become dehydrated. So I try to limit both, or match their consumption with equal amounts of water. But since I already drink gallons of tea - redbush, peppermint and ordinary, I was puzzled as to how I needed 2+ litres of water as well. Now American experts have apparently examined this claim and found no evidence to back it up. Indeed, the only real beneficiaries appear to be the bottled water companies. Instead they have concluded that whilst it is correct that the recommended daily allowance of water is 2.5 litres per day, some of this comes from food, and whilst it is important to supplement this with plenty of fluids, these could take the form of milk, juice, coffee or tea, as well as water. Even beer - in moderation.

So to the science experts who have concluded this, my bladder and I would just like to echo Bruce Forsyth and say "You're my favourites".

Warning: this song could make you cry. But I think it's worth it.

I'm just trying to psyche myself up before I venture into the kitchen to re-enact my very own Masterchef creation. After a good week or so of basic meals, I've decided that it is time my cookery books earn their shelf-space again. So I will be attempting spicy salmon fishcakes with sweet potato and sweetcorn. It might not taste very good, but at least it will brighten up the kitchen. And possibly redecorate it, if I forget to put the feeder tube onto the food processor like I did last time.

I became hooked on Masterchef last week. Why anyone would want to swap a career as a barrister for the stressful and unsociable hours of being a chef is incomprehensible to me. As is the ambition of the woman who wanted to open her own restaurant somewhere in the north, but whose nerves were so bad that she shook like a jelly and then burst into tears when her clafoutis collapsed. And I can't imagine how embarrassed the contestant who spent £50 on lobster tails, only to undercook them so that they were inedible must have felt. Nor the sanity of someone prepared to spend that much on them, either, particularly as the main course was something like ostrich steak. Rather them than me - I really admire their courage.

So I am quite happy to muddle along at home and watch others try and be creative. And I am even happier to to eat a meal that has not been manhandled in an attempt to do a fancy presentation. And I am positively ecstatic that I will not have to watch John Torode and Gregg Wallace shove food into their mouths whilst I have dinner. It is bad enough watching it on telly.

I read a confusing post yesterday. The blogger was having a conversation with a friend. Halfway through the conversation the friend accidently replied using her alter-ego. She then confessed, apologised and deleted the alter-ego. So I've no idea who the alter ego was. (Confused? I know I am.) It confirmed what I have suspected on a couple of occasions - that some people are the same people.

Anyway, it got me worrying. How do I know that there's more than one of you out there? In fact, how can I be sure I am not talking to myself? Except I can't be. (Although I did just answer myself then.)

Well? Now don't all shout at once - all one of you.

I have just returned from walking the dog. I'm quite surprized to be here. At one point I thought I was going to swept up into the air like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I couldn't even walk to the top of the downs because the wind kept pushing me over - it was that fierce. Instead, I had to opt for the mud bath that was a path before the constant rain, cattle, ramblers, horse-riders and wussy dog walkers churned it up.

Big mistake. I found myself being pursued by a mad woman with a mad dog. Her dog wanted to make a gynaecological examination of Dog. Dog suffered the indignity for a few moments, then told it to buzz off. For some reason the other dog started to squeal like a stuck pig - well, the reason was that Dog followed up her warning by doling out a thick ear. The woman thought this was extremely funny for some reason. I smiled back as winningly as it is possible to smile, when faced with the imminent prospect of landing on the Yellow Brick Road with a 'poo bag' in one hand and two dogs intent on taking out an entire film set in their battle.

We agreed I would go ahead with Dog, whilst she followed on a bit later. 'A bit later' evidently meant a 10-second start. Dog and I found ourselves emulating Benny Hill as we walked faster and faster across the field and plunged into Bog-Mire Lane. It brought back nasty memories of school cross-country runs as we slithered and slid trying to avoid puddles and deep mud. (Dog hates getting her white stockings dirty, I hate bathing Dog.) Needless to say, it ended in disaster. I slipped over and went home looking like I had entered a mud-wrestling contest. The mad woman was still cackling with laughter (now with some justification) and her dog was still squealing, as we arrived back in the village.

There are times, like now, when I positively yearn for a large garden