FLOWER GIRL

We got back after a long drive from the West Country and took Dog out for a much needed walk. A stiff breeze and white horses but blue skies and hot if you sat out of the wind. After a stressful couple of days, my Man remembered that sea watching is good therapy, so he plonked himself down on a grass bank overlooking the sea and invited me to join him. Ah, how romantic, I warbled to myself before reality took a firm grip.

'Are you sure there aren't any snakes sunbathing there?', snakey-phobic me asked, peering suspiciously at the grass verge.

"Don't think so" he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, as he banged his fist on the grass verge.

So I sat.

And we looked at the sea. Scratch. And lamented the fact that we had missed the Round the Island race. Itch And laughed at a couple of ramblers who were already lost despite having only just set off Scratch Itch Shuffle And admired the cormorant and cart-wheeling seagulls over the cove Scratch Scratch Itch Squirm Itch

'It's good to be back' said my Man dreamily surveying our beautiful world.

And I was about to agree, when I looked down and saw the trainer on my right foot was invisible, smothered in a heaving, swaying, hungry mob of Killer Ants.

So I leaped to my feet with a yell and did an energetic series of high kicks that would have had the manager of the Moulin Rouge reaching for his chequebook.

And I would like to be able to assure Marriage Mart Weekly that my beloved was prostrate in anguish at the thought that I had been bitten by a deadly serpent. Sadly, he laughed. And laughed. And even Dog smirked.

And the worst thing is that three hours later, I am still scratching and swatting imaginary ants. Next time, I'll take my chances with the adders.

I took a package to the village post office earlier and had to wait until an elderly gentleman finished his transactions. I suspect he might have been an undercover PO inspector, such was the varied nature of his questions and requests, like "If I post this first class, will it reach Little Boringness by the Sea by tomorrow morning - in that case could I send it third class then?" or "Could I have my pension in halfpennies, please?"

Anyway, waiting gave me a good opportunity to browse the postcards for sale. And a dull selection they were too. Newport from the air featured quite a lot. When I was a kid, I used to spend some of the summer holiday with my aunt and uncle and cousins in Looe, Cornwall. And I remember my cousin and I sniggering over the saucy postcards featuring large buxom women and red faced men engaged in innuendo.

I was reading in Coast magazine that some of these cards fetch huge sums amongst collectors, particularly those by Donald McGill. How I wish I actually bought some back then, rather than just sniggered.

Here's one of his that sums up what I'd rather be doing right now rather than browsing the net working.

Reasons to be cheerful ...

-it's sunny, with clear blue skies, a gentle breeze and a deep blue sea

-the downs are studded with wild flowers

-the lilies have flowered in the garden and smell divine

-Dog didn't attack another dog or run off during our walk

-I am wearing shorts and don't have goose-pimples the size of hen's eggs for once

-a holiday is in sight

-and it will soon be the anniversary of the day I married the love of my life (this is a hint, o forgetful one!)

Reasons to be sad ....

-dealing with estate agents and solicitors
-waiting to hear that my dad is going to get better

Conclusion ...

And since the number of things on the top list exceeds the bottom list, I guess I am happy and that's ok

So, what next after the excitement of The Kaiser Chiefs, The Police, The Sex Pistols et al, I asked myself, picking up the local paper's 'Weekend' guide to "entertainment".

Ah. Chas n Dave are on in Ventnor. If I'm not mistaken, the advert uses the same promotional picture of them as was in their "heyday", when buffalo still roamed the plains in great numbers and dinosaurs still rollicked in the lagoon between the Isle of Wight and the land beyond.

Hmmm. Back to Isle of Wight normal, sadly.

is going to be the theme of my evening.

My Man suddenly appeared and presented me with a Moscow Mule to accompany my blogging.

A cocktail which originated in the United States, where I went last autumn. And by a happy coincidence I was sorting through my photos earlier and came across the ones of that trip.

Moscow reminds me of last night's euro game between Russia and Holland which was breathtakingly exciting.

Which reminds me that the Italy and Spain quarter-final kicks off soon.

Which reminds me that I had better get started on dinner. Which is going to be Thai Green Chicken Curry.

With a chilled French rosé, one of the last remaining bottles, sadly, from our trip to France.

Which reminds me that I need to check to see if I have any leftover euros for my holiday in Austria.

Which reminds me I had better resume my german language lessons so I can ask for vital things like 'where is the bus stop?' and 'what time is dinner?'.

Which reminds I still haven't started the evening meal yet.

Which reminds me that the Moscow Mule is nearly finished and I shouldn't be here.

And that this travel thread is completely tenuous, since I was actually listening to Oasis when I started this post.

It's been a blissfully sunny and probably very hot day here. I say probably because it is so windy it is hard to stand upright and tilt your face to the sun unless you clutch something solid. I put out the washing this morning and fifteen minutes later I had to remove the sheets again before they pulled over the house, let alone the washing line post.

We headed inland hoping for less breeze - to a garden that was open under the NGS scheme. It was a manor house and promised a lot - a mature, one acre garden. I can only conclude that the majority of flowers had been blown away too, as there was an awful lot of green and not a lot of colour. Green is good when there is lots of contrasting form and foliage shape, but not in this case. But who cares about the garden when the WI are in charge of teas. But this was a bit of a let-down too. Last year we got scones and cream. This year we had to settle for fruit cake.

Honestly, I could have stayed at home in my garden for that kind of experience, except even the fruit case would have been a let-down and we would have had to fight over the last cream cracker in the house.

I was standing in the checkout queue this evening, waiting patiently behind an elderly lady who was carefully and slowly packing her purchases into a collection of recycled and jute bags. On the one hand, I wanted to award her a big bouquet for her and her environmentally-considerate shopping trip. On the other hand, I wanted to jab her with a cattle prod. She was very slow and declined all requests to help pack away from the cashier, who evidently feared a riot from the long queue that was forming.

"No thank you, dear. I have a system" she said, politely but firmly.

Alas, her system also involved losing her purse, unpacking the vegetable bag again, repacking it, peering into the frozen food bag and eventually finding her purse in her coat pocket.

"Well fancy that - it was there after all. NO dear! I'll repack that bag".

After a few minutes, my brain sunk into its usual supermarket stupeur. I allowed myself to be distracted from her tweetings and the mutterings of the teenagers behind by reading the cover of OK! magazine and its triumphant EXCLUSIVE! coverage of the Wayne Rooney wedding.

For there was Colleen, looking as beautiful as a bride should be, with that extra special glow that only £5million can give you. And standing beside her was a grinning little boy. It took several blinks to realise that this was her new husband, not her page boy.

They seem a nice couple and I wish them well. And I really would like to thank them for taking time out on the most important and romantic day of their lives to keep me entertained at the checkout.

It is a wondrous thing to behold when the very mention of 'I'll pop round about 2.30ish' makes the scales (or possibly cobwebs) fall from one's eyes and one realises that one (I'm being posh today) lives in a pigsty.

Cue hoover, cue fluffy duster on stick, cue Marigolds (inc. treacherous one with leaky hole), cue shouting at dog to pick up her toys and put them away, cue giant black bin bag filing cabinet.

And, during exhausted biscuit and coffee pause between cobweb-sweeping and dirt-busting, I ponder on the inexplicable ability of sellotape, that was supposed to hold up Christmas decorations but repeatedly dumped them on the floor. It has managed to sustain a limpet-like unwanted hold on wall for at least three years, and sneakily have a secondary career of fly-catching.

But with yay-ness and zippetydoodah galore, it was worth it. For I have sold my faithful old bike. It went for a song but at least I know it has gone to a good (and almost certainly tidier) home.

And the fact that the purchaser didn't venture beyond the doorstep, makes no difference. I am my mother's daughter and I won't risk the village gossiping about Ellie Slutty Homeowner.

have been on my mind a lot this week.

First there was the mesmerising sight of Ian Brown trying to sing at the IOW Festival whilst frequently hitching up his trousers. Now I know it is the fashion to have droopy jeans displaying tatty underpants. But I thought it was for teens and under. Or people with more pants than sense. Whatever, it is not attractive.

Then, at drama group, I saw two women turn pale and recoil in their seats whilst waiting for their drama moment. Being nosy, I asked what was up.
And they pointed out, with theatrical shudders, a bad case of builder's bum proffered by large, hairy, teenager sitting in front of them. To recoil or not recoil, that was the question.

What's wrong with a belt these days, that's what I want to know. Or if not, braces? Like the red ones sported by the nattily dressed old boy on the bus tonight. These are amazingly irresistible - the urge to ping them was nearly my undoing.

But perhaps that's the reason - it's fear of being accosted by strange women that is leading to the extinction of both belt and braces.

How is it, I demand to know, that if I tap my foot or fingers in accompaniment to my ipod whilst watching football AND proffering the occasional comment on the offside, the two-footed tackle with studs up from behind, the was-it or wasn't-it a penalty and sending off or Bouffon's odd looking outfit, that I get tutted at and prodded?

But Dog can make offensive noises from both ends and scrat at fleas with impunity?

Admittedly, I might have spoken at volume due to competition with The Stereophonics - but wives have rights too.

Good grief.

I have just caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.

My hair appears to be going through a Wannabe Donald Trump phase.

I've sent it to its room and told it that it is grounded until further notice.

Note to electric whisk.

There was a reason you were invented. It was to save time in the kitchen.

Spraying cream onto the walls, CD player, strawberry bowl and me is NOT in your job description.

Now go to bed and don't let the car boot bogeyman keep you awake.

Sat here at my computer - working, not playing - I did a google search for HIPS. And the computer said yes and came up with an incredibly useful number of links about Home Information Packs.

However, my WorkEthic and ConcentrationOnImportantMatters decide to go awol, leaving TimeWaster supervised by Procrastinator in charge of the office. So when, hidden amongst the Home bits, I spotted a link to the 'petite anglaise' blog, it was inevitable that tools would be downed in favour of catching up on PAs problem with second hips and saddlebags on her big night out to a vagina-themed party.

And it went all downhill from there. (My attention, not her hips.) Because I got absorbed in reading all the various press articles about her dismissal for blogging, her true identity being tracked down as a result and her subsequent unfair dismissal tribunal win.

Two things stood out for me. The first was the implications of 'internet footprints' left by bloggers. More and more future employers are apparently scanning entries for Facebook, Myspace, blogs etc. to help assess suitability for employment. Which sadly means that if anyone has taken this blog into account, my future plans for a career as a top chef have literally gone up in smoke. And my appearance at Crufts with a dancing collie are clearly now a no-no. As is the faint hope of appearing as a presenter on Gardener's World and showing people how to grow vegetable.

But, even more disheartening than the future jobs that are now barred to me, is the fact that even before she was famous, PA was getting up to 3,000 visitors a day to her blog. That's 2,950ish more a day than I usually get. And more in a day than I get in a month.

Which means that as I clearly have to kiss goodbye to a book deal for my memoirs , I am now going to scrabble in the bottom of my handbag for my lottery ticket that I bought last year. Anyone got a torch?

Three late nights in a row - THREE! - and insomnia is a noun that has been well and truly kicked in the butt and lobbed out of my vocab.

So, I went to the IOW Festival - and I didn't get a T-shirt. I also didn't buy any of the hundreds of other things in the "marketplace" nor a pair of sunglasses for a fiver. I didn't totter into the campsite on high heels towing a suitcase the size of Newport. I resisted the temptation to have a ride on a fairground ride, laughed in the face of forking out twenty quid for a trip in a vomit-inducing bungee thingy and I didn't have any children who could be kept entertained by hassling drinkers for their 10p returnable empty drink glasses.

No, I showed my age and turned up to listen to music. Which makes me quaintly old-fashioned, obviously. Because lots of other people were quite happy to fiddle with their mobiles or stay seated on their camper chairs and carry on chatting during the headline acts. Their loss. The Kaiser Chiefs, The Police, The Sex Pistols were great. I loved The Zutons - even when I finally realised they weren't called The Futons. (Wishful thinking - my ageing limbs kept rebelling against sitting on the ground). I loved Starsailor and The Australian Pink Floyd Show and enjoyed Ian Brown and KT Tunstall. Iggy and the Stooges were dire. James didn't play their major hit 'Sit Down' and Nerd won the prize for being the most foul-mouthed. (They had stiff competition).

So it was very different to what I'd expected or have been used to. But it was good. It was relaxed and friendly and superbly organised with hardly any queuing. It was cold in the evening but then I was not stupid enough (and over-mindful of the feelings of the rest of the company) to wear hotpants, or to omit to take a warm jacket. We only got five drops of rain, despite the forecast. Glastonbury - eat your wet and soggy heart out.

Now though, I am nodding off and ready for bed.

Getting very over-excited now. I'm off to the IOW Festival tomorrow. My first festival since August 1994 when I went to the Reading Festival to see Green Day and got to see a memorable (for the wrong reasons) performance by Courtney Love and Hole.

Said John Peel in The Guardian "Courtney's first appearance backstage certainly caught the attention. Swaying wildly and with lipstick smeared on her face, hands and, I think, her back, as well as on the collar of her dress, the singer would have drawn whistles of astonishment in Bedlam. After a brief word with supporters at the foot of the stage, she reeled away, knocking over a wastebin, and disappeared. Minutes later she was onstage giving a performance which verged on the heroic...Love steered her band through a set which dared you to pity either her recent history or that of the band...the band teetered on the edge of chaos, generating a tension which I cannot remember having felt before from any stage."

As I recall, the tension resolved itself by Courtney screeching something about the Brits deluding themselves that Blur were ever gonna be big in the US, and the front of the crowd responded by pelting her with various objects.

But that was the nineties. Things have moved on apparently. I've been given survival tips by a "young person".

"And Ellie, don't wear flip flops, ok, cos the toilets are gross.." and "make sure you get there early cos the Pimm's tent always runs out early.. but don't worry cos there's a champagne tent" and "make sure you wear layers cos it might be cold".

This all sounds a bit like your ma and gran clucking around as you are about to set off on your first disco. I might just have to start wearing purple.

I hadn't fully appreciated the term 'glut' until now. This is what we have of strawberries. Last week's 1.8kg was just the tip of the strawberry bed. Yesterday we picked 4.75 kg. Four seed trays' full and more. And we left some for the birds. And gave some to the neighbours.

We got up this morning and the smell of strawberries in the kitchen was overwhelming. We had a strawberry and banana smoothie and that just left 3.999% of the seed trays to dispose of.

So I've just spent the last two hours making strawberry puree, strawberry ice cream, strawberry fool and strawberry Romanoff. The latter, from a recipe in Margaret Costa's Four Seasons Cookery Book is where the gluttony comes into the picture (although I reserve judgement until the ice cream is ready). Forget bathroom scales and abandon jelly babies made with real fruit juice (I've eaten them all anyway). This is THE way to get your 5 (dozen) a day:

Wash and hull strawberries and put in a shallow bowl. Dust with icing sugar. Then pour over 2 tablespoons of freshly squeezed orange juice or one tablespoon of orange juice and one tablespoon (15ml) of an orange flavoured liqueur. I used Grand Marnier. Rub off the zest of an orange and sprinkle a few strands over the strawberries. Then rub three sugar cubes on the orange oils released by the zesting, and then crumble damp cubes over the strawberries. Chill, then serve with cream.

Pure heaven. Right, I'm off to stir my strawberry ice cream frozen particles, whatever that is supposed to mean.

"YOU WHAT?" screamed Ellie at the bathroom scales.

"You CANNOT be serious. I have just spent two days eating only salad for lunch. I denied myself a bread roll for this???"

"Yeah, right!" muttered Stomach. "'Only salad' with an aperitif of jelly babies and two caramelised biscuits, with a massive ice cream wafer for dessert. Followed by peanuts, crisps and wine later. And garlic bread!."

But he said it quietly, because Ellie looked mad.

But harmony was restored seconds later.

"I know what's wrong!" said Ellie, relieved. "My new glasses must weigh a kilo. I'll take them off and all will be well".

So she did. And it was. And although Stomach could see the numbers extremely clearly, he kept quiet.

"Have another jelly baby, Stomach." said Ellie cheerfully.

I think I have sunstroke. Mirages of ice-cold drinks keep flashing before my eyes.

It's been like the Med here today. Dog and I barely made it round the field tonight. We were both shambling along like two zombies. She drank the pond dry when we got back. I had two glasses of coke and ice.

I'm not moaning. Really I am not.

I signed in tonight and a message appeared - something about beta design and click to activate. Being a completely unknowing kind of technical person, I carefully followed the link to try and understand what this is and why it is necessary. I am still clueless. The only nugget of info that I have gathered is 'clicking to activate' is irrevocable.

But I am in a devil-may-care mood tonight, largely thanks to a gentleman who was prepared to check into a seedy hotel with me and let me remove his shirt. Albeit only in a drama workshop with several people on hand to protect him should I get confused.

So I am going to click.

Who cares if I delete my blog? I am going to go boldly somewhere. I am about to step out into the unknown. One has to live a little now and then.

So if your screen goes all fuzzy in a moment, you will know that I am hurtling around in beta space and it is fighting back to eject me.

"Not more strawberries" we groaned.

Yep, another half kilo from the allotment to add to the 1.2 kg earlier this week.

We're running out of ideas - strawberries and cream, strawberries and ice cream, strawberries and creme fraiche, strawberries on their own - for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

For a little variation, I turned to a book on healthy smoothies.

And much to my intense satisfaction, it had a recipe for a frozen strawberry daiquiri. Strawberries, crushed ice, rum, lime juice and icing sugar. Just add a steel band and you could be in the Caribbean.

It's quite astonishingly healthy-tasting. And you are left fizzing with energy and get-up-and-go. Until you attempt to stand up after the second glassful, that is.

*some time later*

Bangers and mash for dinner - with not a strawberry in sight.

Well, I watched Euro - Portugal v. Turkey. In the absence of England (still sulking, still consoling myself that the break will do the England "band" good and they'll learn another tune other than 'the great escape'), I thought I'd support Portugal. They have easily the best names in the tournament - so easy to remember - Nani, Pepe, Nuno, Nano (ok, I might have imagined the last one).

But it wasn't to be. First up, disgruntled mutterings about tapas-munching, red commitment-phobic Ronaldo.

Second, more critically (because I've learnt to ignore the mutterings of the Man Utd supporter in the house), I realised I couldn't possibly support them because they still had that demented manager that I loathed last time round in charge.

Thirdly, more disastrously, a bluebottle invited itself to watch the match. And Dog regards bluebottles even more neurotically than killer puppies. She knows that the only way to deal with them is to kill 'em first. It's impossible to swear allegiance to a new country with a dog trying to bite the blinds in a frenzied attempt to kill a fly.

And the final drawback was that both teams had an all too ready compulsion to fall down on the floor clutching body parts and pulling agonised expressions if someone breathed on them. Well, it was a jolly useful lesson in acting that I will no doubt gratefully recall when I attend my next drama workshop. But to an English woman brought up in the tradition of the Terry Butcher school of football injuries, it just won't do.

So I will wait to see if the Spanish or French or some other nation are any fitter (ahem) for my support. In the meantime, I dedicate this song to the 'falling over' people:

"Oh, blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down
Way aye blow the man down
Oh, blow the man down, bullies, blow him away
Give me some time to blow the man down!"

I trust that the England band will learn the tune next time round.

Well, I've been tagged three times now - thank you, ladies!

Xmillyxxx
Jembahr
Vision in Blue

The Rules:
Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

1. What I was doing 10 years ago:
2. What 5 things are on on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
3. Snacks I enjoy:
4. Things I would do if I was a billionaire:
5. Places I have lived:

1. Being stressed and unhappy in a job I had come to hate, and about to make the best decision of my life

2.
1) Climb a tree and lop branches
2) Watch Euro
3) Eat at least one salad
4) Text my dad to see if he has mastered his new mobile yet
5) Watch another episode of the Xfiles

3. Crisps, nuts, cream crackers and cheddar with a glass of red

4. Oh, spend lots of money on gardening, wine, travel and house improvements, I expect (and give some away to family, friends and good causes).

5. London - (5 places - New Cross, Clapham, Camberwell, Tottenham, Edgware); Watford, Bushey, France (2 places), Wales (Lampeter), Devon (3 places), Maidenhead, Isle of Wight, Gloucester .... and counting

Well, I'm not going to tag anyone, cos some people don't like it and everyone else has done it by now. But feel free to consider yourself tagged if neither of those statements applies

I am feeling so fed up and irritated I don't want to blog about my day - all because a rude, belligerent old bag took exception to my car being parked in the road - a public road without parking restrictions - beside the allotment. It's a narrow lane, so I'd checked there was room for a car or even a van to access the drive to her house. But she kept shouting she was expecting a lorry AND a trailer to visit her, as if this was normal in a country lane serving a residential area. And while I am obviously happy to move my car when such circumstances, albeit rare, occur, I do appreciate being asked politely.

It's the second time she's moaned and ranted, and I am officially sick of people living near the allotments, who like their houses to be bordered by an open space that precludes a housing development springing up and blocking their view of the village green, but don't want allotment people to use it. I got mad. I wanted to banish days of being introverted and internalising my anger. I wanted to swear at her, whack her around the head with a dying leek, lob sixty buckets of slugs and snails into her garden, be blessed with Harry Potter magic skills that would turn her into a toad or - no, make that AND - burn down her house - after making the imaginary lorry and trailer plough up her petunias.

But being a mouse, I told her that a little civility would be appreciated, and then walked off to move the car. She was scared, I think. No - really. Because when I walked back after parking it elsewhere, she ducked back into her driveway.

And now look, I've blogged my irritation and the computer is now miserable too. I'm off to cook dinner - which rather coincidentally involves whacking a duck portion with a rolling pin. I'd pretend it was her ugly face, except then I wouldn't want to eat.

After a few weeks of breadmaking practice, I became flushed with success at making a loaf of bread that tasted and looked like a loaf of bread, rather than a building block that had lain under a desert for a thousand years. So I decided it was time to turn my hand to Cinnamon Buns. I have lost count of the number of times I have drooled over the picture of these in the cookery book. In fact, it is entirely possible that the buns in the cookery book picture aren't glazed at all.

Anyway, now I know how many times to knead, and how to rise and how hard to punch and then rise again, it was bun time. And here they are - bizarre looking but surprisingly edible being packed as they are with cinnamon, toasted pecans and brown sugar.

But pride comes before a fall. I decided to try a new, quick, healthy recipe for lunch - a pitta pizza. I should have stuck to salad and biscuits. I dropped the mozzarella packet whilst opening it, and it showered me, the dog and kitchen floor in the brine or whatever the liquid is called. So I had to rush upstairs and change. And when I got back, the pitta bread had grilled to a crisp and I had to start again. Never mind healthy eating, I should have stuck to sticky buns.

And now I have just returned from the allotment where I have just picked a truly record-breaking amount of strawberries - 1.2 kg. They could do with being a bit riper - but if I don't get them early, the woodlice chomp them. Indeed, one was so determined to hang on to his chosen fruit, that he hitched a lift home with us and is now swimming somewhere in the drainage system. Which is probably good for him, because Bill Oddie said they like wet and damp places out of direct sunlight.

So, for once, a good yield for the allotment. Except if I calculate how much each strawberry has cost in netting, straw, plants and landscape fabric, let alone petrol and allotment rent, I realize I could probably buy a small greengrocer's shop instead.

A sign went up on the gates of the National Trust field near us a few months ago. It said that dogs should stick to the paths and be kept on a lead until the end of July. The reason is that they don't want anything to disturb the skylarks which are nesting there.

Well, we've no problem with that. We love wildlife and do all we can to protect it. And Dog prefers to stick to the margins of the field so that she can stalk rabbits (she doesn't share our concern for wildlife protection - there's a rebel in every family). In the absence of that route, she likes to make her way very very slowly along the path, sniffing. Then weeing to eradicate all evidence of other dogs. This is probably why we have never got close enough to a lark to take a photo. (Crows are less sensitive.)

But it seems the National Trust haven't read their own sign. First, a month back, a tractor merrily trundled all over the field spraying the weeds. Several skylarks rose into the air, coughing and spluttering. When they could get their breath back again, they sang a very rude song at the tractor driver.

And if that wasn't enough of a deterrent to lark lurve and baby-making, now they have let the cows and their calves back in. They certainly don't appear to examine the ground carefully before putting down their feet, let alone before going to the toilet.

So I'm betting that the skylarks would greet a dog's appearance with weary relief and probably invite it to stop a while for a bit of hospitality. Actually, I know this for a fact. Tonight, a terrier ran off into the grass. It's owner marched up and down the hill, shouting, to try and get it to come back to her. From my vantage point on the hill, I could see the terrier bouncing up and down. Cynics might think that this is because it couldn't see its way out of the long grass, having got bored with "Hunt the Birdie". I happen to know it was larking about, a welcome guest doing a bit of pogo-ing and partying at Lenny the Lark's place.

That's my story - and I will stick to it should the National Trust invite me as a witness in the trial of Poppy the Pooch and its owner.

I'm being haunted by a list. A couple of months ago, I finally accepted that lists simply make you go mad. You spend hours listing every task you have to do and no matter how many tasks you achieve, the list simply gets longer. Things came to a head when I realised I was in the grip of an illness that made me want to list everything - like 'turn on computer', scratch head', 'go the toilet', 'swallow coffee' - rather than actually do any work.

I even tried an electronic list. That was simply another way of procrastinating. "Ooooh, look. I can sort my list by date, category, alpha ...". Then the gadget rebelled and wiped its memory clean of anything listlike. And I thought "That's a good idea, I'll try that".

So I destroyed my list. And have since floundered, listlessly, lurching from toppling pile of paper in in-tray to toppling piles of paper on office floor. It's been liberating to a certain extent. But fraught with danger, like the time the VAT demand hid in a different toppling pile - and its red cousin came avisiting, and I was engulfed in a snowstorm of paper hunting down its relatives.

And today I can feel the old list lust creep up behind me. I need order. I need the comfort of a piece of paper to cross things off. I need a new marker pen to highlight urgent task.

Most of all, I need it to stop raining, so I can procrastinate in the garden instead of listing.