Sunny days will soon be mine

Oh what a lovely Sunday I had. I spent the morning in bed with the newspapers - reading them rather than practising wrapping myself in them for when I'm homeless - then I went to see my baby boy, the Student. The Apprentice son came too. As I walk along the streets of Farnham with my two hugely tall sons towering over me I think "Gosh, how did I ever produce these?" but I did. We ate pizza and how I wish I hadn't as I feel enormously enormous and look bloody fat. I will have to Zumba my arse off today.

Tomorrow I am going away. I am trying to pack. I haven't been to the Caribbean for a while and I can't find my tropical clothes that I put away like a holidaying squirrel somewhere a few years ago. The house looks like we've been visited by serious burglars with things spewing from every wardrobe and cupboard and niche - attic next. I think I'll just have to buy some new clothes or blob about in my underwear.

I have a cold developing. This is not good news as I am beginning to feel rather ill with a very sore throat. I can give it to everyone else on my long plane journey. I am sure it will get better once I hit the tropics; something about that humidity is most curing. I so need some sun.

Mrs Gray

I seem to spend much time and money trying to look younger - hair colour, botox, diet, exercise and lotions etc. Evidently it all seems to work as I find myself being chatted up by younger and younger men. Whilst it's nice to be fancied by the whole wide world, actually, it isn't and I now feel a yearning to look my 51, nearly 52, years and let my face be haggard again and maybe even have grey hair - no I couldn't do that. Mr Smith deserves a lovely wife who deep down is a frightful old bat.

At the seaside I had the whacko wheeze idea of introducing everyone to my 24 year old son - but half the idiot men thought he was my husband or toy boy or I'd had him at 13. Actually, people only judge your age by their age and women are far more accurate in their assessments. Men never want to make you older than 36 for either offending you or putting you off shagging them. Are they desperate? Do I just look available? And how does one deal with it? Of course you want people to think you are attractive but why? I can assure you it's acutely embarrassing when they tell you or leer at you or not let you speak to their husband.

Flattery from men gives me a big boost then it makes me squirm and I start questioning why anyone would say these things to me and it makes me feel embarrassed. I always start with "I am married" before "Don't be stupid" then "Fuck off" if "Go Away" doesn't do the trick. You can't rely on your friends to help you out because they find it a great spectator sport especially the more ghastly the individual. They probably know I can be suitably horrible should I need to be but aren't adverse to jeering "Whoa ho, look who she's pulled."

Of course none of this is going to last much longer so maybe I should make hay while the sun still shines and bask in the flirting of young men and feel radiantly youthful if a bit of a scrubber. After all, my lovely Mr Smith will always be waiting for me "Where's my tea, woman, you're late."

Dark days and light

The answer was Component and my running shoes gave me blisters.

Back from a few days of seaside where I had a rather nice time, as did the dog and the Apprentice. Apart from drinking pubs dry and nursing hangovers from hell (several) we went to the flicks to see The King's Speech which was so so ggggood.

My best friend, Fat now thin Sarah, who will always be my best friend even though we hardly ever see each other, rang to say her father is dying and she is seeing him through it. A toughie. A malenki bit horrorshow my Droogie. When it's all over I'll come to Manchester and we'll laugh and cry til morn.

The Shore Inn has a rival pub down the road with nobody in it except people who are barred from the Shore Inn. When you meet them you understand exactly why. Mr Smith, who hates all pubs, is wondering exactly how to get barred.

Seven Deadly Sins

Pride, wrath, envy, gluttony, avarice, sloth and lust. Some of my best friends. We all entertain some if not all of them. I don't actually rate pride as a sin; one should be proud of one's achievements. Maybe it's a form of vanity. Sloth is the sin I shall battle today. Thursdays are usually my lazy days when I don't do much but today I will run. Mr Smith bought me new running shoes (I had to pay for them just in case you thought he was having a mad moment of generosity) and I intend to put them through their clinical trials today. Wimbledon Common here I come, pant pant, groan, groan.

Being greedy and jealous, lustful, angry and vain is all hard work. I'll go to the sea and work on these. I need a pub, a beach and a wave to make it all happen.

The Apprentice (eldest son) has an interview today. It is for a job in his field - stage lighting technician. So let's hope our little sparky wings it then he can piss off touring the country lighting the lights for dreadful bands and awful events throughout the whole summer and not be here. I have a feeling it's very competitive and there'll be queues of men, many of whom do this work every summer, with the newbie Apprentice being number 14,520 at the X Factor auditions.

Lately, I have been rather slow at The Word - a daily competition I have with Mr Smith to solve the Polyword puzzle in the Daily Telegraph. He has beaten me to it several days running taking the absolute crown with yesterday's stinker of a word - Foolhardy - but not today. OOMNEPCTN. I've done it and he hasn't. Oooh dear I feel a terrible wave of pride coming over me.

Pretty in Pink

Woke up in a nightmarish mood having had awful dreams all night of a beautiful vampire. Quite horrific. I don't know what was worse having the life sucked out of me or wanting it. Went for a mighty swim this morning to restore my pinkness. No pointy teeth have grown and I still seem to be casting shadows. I think we'll opt for something vegetarian for dinner tonight.

I had work yesterday but completely forgot - spongiformed brains. I simply didn't turn up. I am awaiting a big fat bollocking. Unreliability is something of which I am pretty intolerant so when I behave in that way I am rather embarrassed.

It's my father's birthday today; Happy Birthday, Dad. Mr Smith and I are going to dinner with my parents tonight. Mr Smith finds the whole thing complete torture but does manage to behave very well. I just have to calm him down afterwards and explain that my mother doesn't mean to be horrible she just is. And it's not hereditary.

Mrs Smith's new favourite car - a dark blue Ferrari. It chased me up the A3 then did a bit of flirting at the traffic lights on Roehampton Lane - it was being driven by Tony, the man from the garage who recognised me. It is truly beautiful. I want one. No I don't, I want a man who has one (but not Tony). In the meantime I have to take Mr Smith's filthy ancient BMW in for some minor repairs. Maybe Tony could lend me the Ferrari as a courtesy car.

Seven days

Good morning World. And welcome to my Tuesday starring the one and only ME. Today I will sparkle and glow and radiate warmth and joy and be in a tremendously good mood all day. No side kicks, no subplots and no undermining by anyone will get me down today. I will make fabulously exciting rum and raisin chocolate cupcakes - the raisins have been soaking in their rum overnight. Then the Lovely Claudia is coming round and we will smoke fags and laugh at the silliness of men whilst eating the cupcakes for elevenses. Then I shall swim a million miles; well one mile actually and feel gloriously well and happy.

Time for a tropical thought .... a Caribbean sunset and that exotic chirruping of tree frogs and grasshoppers washed down with a glorious citrus rum punch. 7 days.

I thought I would excuse myself dinner duty tonight and go to the really knackering Tuesday Zumba class. However, you should hear the complaints from the customers. Good grief, couldn't you cook yourselves a pizza or something? No, they want steak and kidney pie which I will dutifully make and pop into the oven before I go out. Why? Because I am trying to radiate good cheer. Just 7 days til I leave them.

A long weekend

I went to the sea on Friday with a dog, a boy and a headache which just never went away. It was not so much a long weekend as an interminable weekend. I came back this morning quite pleased to be back in the gritty city, not that a South West London suburb is wholly gritty but it has a familiarity about it and doesn't tick the charming box in the way that the Witterings does. As you may have suspected, I am in a bit of an ugly mood. I want to step on ants and crush things despite going to PE this morning.

Mr Smith joined us on Saturday whereupon it clouded over. We went to Portsmouth on Sunday morning and failed to see the Ark Royal. Well I caught a glimpse of a mast or something from the car window - it was battleship grey. By the time I looked I'd missed most of it. At Gunwharf Mr Smith bought a pair of bright orange trousers for golf - all he needs is a green top and he can go as a carrot. I didn't buy anything. Was I ill? Probably.

Time to be less mouldy; I'll walk the dog on Wimbledon Common and look for ants. How many days til my holiday? About 8 I think. I will tick them off and think at least one tropical thought every day.

Fiona Bruce and me

Colour of the day: Pillar box red to match my lipstick - it's that femme fatale thing again.

Suffering from a vile hangover as I cooked an amazing dinner last night and decided to toast its victory with several glasses of hooch. Oh my head. I attempted pheasant with pomegranate pilaf which involved stuffing two pheasants with beef and basmati rice with many a spice then coating them in molasses and pomegranate juice and many a more spice then roasting them til totally scrumptious and much better than the picture.

Somehow the end of the evening's conversation turned towards the future - a subject I steer clear of if I can as the prospect of living with a retired Mr Smith on a golf course in Surrey or Kent is my idea of hell on earth. I thought world exploration would be fun - see where we land and settle there: Borneo, Madagascar, The Amazon, Fiji or Mexico, not Sevenoaks.

I had my eyebrows threaded yesterday which has made them red and angry. Although, I wasn't exactly Denis Healey, the furry caterpillars were in need of taming and probably by teatime will have stopped hurting or, in my worst nightmare, grown back. Oh how one has to suffer to look even reasonably presentable. I can't think why I bother but I seem to be growing vainer with age. Are smart eyebrows vanity or necessity? Mr Smith never notices though he does notice Fiona Bruce's eyebrows and she looks like a bloody vulcan. She is Mr Smith's dream girl; I had to scribble all over a picture of her in the Telegraph a few days ago - well just her face (and her stupid rear of the year). We don't watch Antiques Roadshow any more due to the drooling by Mr Smith with little moans of "Oh Fifi". We watch the news channel where there's no danger of her stupid mug appearing on the screen. Sorry, Fifi, it's nothing personal but you're a monster cow bitch woman and you ain't going to get my man.  Anyway, I bet your pheasant pilaff would be rubbish.

Marriage a la Mode

Colour of the day: Scarlet .... but apart from that all is heavenly. I had a fabulous day yesterday. I met up with an old friend after class who told me I look ten years younger. Gosh, how nice. Her daughter is getting married - the first of the NCT babies to make it up the aisle. There's my friend, all glowingly Mother of the Bride - OMG. Of course the daughter is marrying a dreadful beardie specimen vastly inferior to her in every dimension but I assured her it could be worse, she could be marrying one of my reprobate sons. They'll probably be very happy. I mean look at Mr Smith and me; northern boy and uptown girl together for 26 years, who would have thought it eh? Well, at least he's clever and never looked like Jesus.

Coven meeting was lovely. How I treasure my friends. Thanks Claudia for the lovely lunch. Felt a bit drunk all afternoon until I had to pull myself together to go to the cinema. Film was boring: Blue Valentine. Very Arthouse with not enough plot and lots of stupid camerawork that became irritating early on. It was about falling out of love with subsequent divorce; a subject I have seen done so much better a billion times before. Can I have my money back?

Work this afternoon via shopping. I want to mosey around the West End and then buy something enormously boring from John Lewis; I always do that. I need new knickers and a jam thermometer - these are in no way related!

My Arts Fund card has arrived (with a lovely free shopping bag - thanks AF) so I will go to an exhibition and feel all arty and half pricey.

Landfill stew

Oooh, ow, ah, eee, groan, ouch. Yesterday evening, instead of eating something as nutritious as Pringles washed down with the best part of a bottle of Soave, I decided to take my large rear round the corner to the world's toughest, sweatiest Zumba class. It hurt whilst I was doing it and now I feel like the Elephant Man. It must be good for me surely?

I am currently planning my next big walk. It's a bit of a stroll compared to my last effort but it is around the Isle of Wight in the Spring when, I hope, the weather will be cheerier. I am very bored with so much rain. I am very bored with my sofa.

Mr Smith is currently reading Tyrant. This should definitely be discouraged. He has become so impossible I have decided to run away to the seaside. I am working tomorrow but maybe I will put the required space between us on Friday and leave him to research bon marche holidays in Tunisia, where there is currently an uprising, (for one).

In the meantime I am performing some experimental cooking - this is always a bit hit and miss. I have a chicken curry up my sleeve (not really as that would be messy and smelly) and a pheasant something or other, that was in the Telegraph, in the planning. I love cooking but not when it goes wrong or they moan or even the dog or starving student won't eat it. I then have a tendency to throw it at people. They have learnt to shut up or stand well back. Sometimes I feel we should just miss out the middle man and chuck it straight into the bin - no I am not letting them off that easily. My effort is your punishment. I am sort of hoping for demotion - I'll be the customer (moaning slob) and you guys can be the chefs. And oven chips or pizza are not food. Actually, I am a good cook but, as good cooks go, I am going.

The Street

I tell you it's all go in my suburban street of South West London. The nets are twitching.
The people next door have started having the most monumental rows, throwing things accompanied by much shrieking. I don't suppose he is actually killing his very beautiful Spanish wife and three children but it sounds as though she's putting up a good fight. He is pretty vile - a mad Syrian builder with WHT. I had to give him a lecture about not touching my bum in response to which he called me a racist bitch so I haven't spoken to him for two years. He parks his horrid white van outside our house and rants on about everyone in the street being paki bashers - wrong, they just hate you and your numerous badly parked vehicles.

Mrs Nosey, who lives opposite, is desperate to get the low down on the state of the neighbours' marriage. I shan't tell her. It's none of her business; she needs to get on line and read my blog if she wants to know such confidential information. Her husband is the street's best farter; Mr Smith says if you walk behind him to the paper shop it's positively melodic. Well, I bet the poor man isn't allowed to let off so much as a whisper at home so trumpetting round the block is probably fair enough. Miss Ross at no.6 and her dog both seem to have Alzheimers. She asks me the oddest questions such as whether my son went to school with her brother who died in the war. Her dog runs off on the Common then forgets to whom it belongs and they spend entire afternoons looking for each other. If Scilla at no 9 gets any bigger she will explode. The doctor at no. 11 tells me that the woman at no. 15 is a drunk. I must say her husband is a bit flimsy and it was he who got plastered at our party rather than she. Maybe they take it in turns. I gather the couple at no 16 are absolutely delightful, particularly her - Oh that's where I live.

Cue brassy music and role credits. Ena Sharples was played by Mrs Smith. Mr Smith is Ken Barlow.

Feeling ethereal

I seem to be wondering around in a bit of a vacuum these days - a bit of a haze. It's quite nice really as I have stopped thinking about things in a questioning way and have just resigned myself to a more 'what happens happens' attitude. Yes, I could plan and engineer and manipulate but just at the moment I am quite happy to let things just come my way or melt away. Carpe Diem is just not hitting my spot. Lazy? You guessed it. And it's raining. Colour of the day: Eau de nil.

I have work this week which is always lovely as it brings money which is divine. I love money. I spend it on ridiculous things then get shouted at by Mr Smith in his bank manager outfit for non payment of Council Tax or some other such trivia.

The rain means no running. I am not that keen. I will go to my Zumba class and compare size of bottoms - I bet mine is still the biggest (which must be very nice for everyone else). At Tuesday's class at the the local gym there are some lovely big black ladies who make me look a sylph but it's a much tougher workout and nearly kills me.

Well, enough floating about on gossamer and dreaming beautiful dreams of past moments. Time to do some day seizing and bum reduction.

Question time

I was feeling rather smug at people noticing the new improved me (even if they do think I'm a raving slut) when I decided to step on the scales - OH NO. Actually, my weight is perfect ... for a 6ft 2in man who plays lots of rugby, lifts weights and sumo wrestles in his spare time.

In response to those of you seeking pearls of wisdom from Mrs Smith:

Yes, it is fine for your lover to wear your knickers just not at the same time as you. Which reminds me of my friend Sarah who was having a fling with a fireman (at the fire station) and dressed him up in her corset, stockings and suspenders when suddenly he got called out to a fire. I always wondered what they wore under their uniforms.

Yes, the coven meeting is on Wednesday - bring broomstick and don't be late. Shall we ask the vicar to come or shall we talk about him? Who's turn is it for the effigy?

No, dogging does not mean walking your dog. I thought it did too until I asked a man and a woman in a car park.

You can put pennies in the vase to keep them erect but tulips should droop then they come up again and look all wiggly and interesting - thanks Claudia, they're most cheering and have opened up beautifully.

I'm sure they're not that bad - sleeping with your socks on is a bit creepy. You should adopt the attitude of love me, love my toes and she'll Fergie them in no time.

You could do that if you must but you may find you'd need a new carpet and filling in the insurance form could be a bit tricky.

Absolutely not. Mr Smith agrees with me. (Invent your own question here.)

Somewhat Surprised

About running: The man in the butcher's (the butcher, perhaps) assures me it's all about knowing your fitness levels. That's easy; mine are just below those of our sofa springs. Then you have to start with teeny little runs that are part of walks. OK. So attempting a marathon at this stage was overambitious - I thought it was and explains why I ache so much. I really hurt. The butcher offered to rub me better but his blooded hands were a bit off putting.

Life is full of surprises some of which can be quite lovely and some of which can be rather odd. I went to see Rachel and baby Tarquin, who is a right little thug and totally adorable. Designer Susan had called round in the week and commented on my vastly improved appearance (so glad she's noticed). She then asked Rachel if the thinner and more lovely me is having an extra marital affair. Rachel decided not to give her a straight answer "You'll have to ask her yourself." I am just relishing the delight of Designer Susan's anguish as she worries about Rachel telling me (which she has) and also is none the wiser. Well, it isn't as though she went to see Rachel to enquire after her welfare or play with Tarquin. She really does need to get out more. Mr Smith thinks its quite hilarious - "An affair, who'd have an affair with you?" The butcher, perhaps.

Run fat girl run

Running - nothing to it, you just put on an ipod, place one foot in front of the other and give it a bit of welly. It's fast walking. But it isn't! When I go for a run the ground turns into a giant wobble board that thrashes the soles of my feet jarring my knees at every painful pace. I also seem to expend an enormous amount of energy moving slightly slower than if I just went for a brisk walk. I am completely exhausted with a big stitch in my side after a couple of yards. Have you ever seen Peter Kaye doing "Dad running"? That's me. I need help. When Big Al was alive he got me running on the beach. The sand is slightly more forgiving than other surfaces and the distances between the breakwaters are manageable. He would send me off giving little shouts of enthusiasm and pretending to time me. I'd look up to find the dot on the foreshore was no longer there and limped back to find him in the pub in need of a pint of cider as all that running had given him quite a thirst. Running must be less boring than walking as the background changes at a faster pace. It must be far less boring than swimming where the background doesn't change at all. I will persist. Oh it's raining. I'll watch a film instead.

Later: Made it to first tree. Here's what hurts: Thighs, calves (which long since grew into cows), chest, fat bits under my shoulder blades, bum, cheeks (on face), head, tongue and many other parts. This is hopeless! But I tried.

Mrs Picasso has a blue day

Oooooh goody, Claudia is coming to play today and it's blueberry muffins for elevenses. It's hardly surprising I am such a fattipuff, but blueberry muffins are just gorgeous. Scraping the baked blueberries off the paper with your tongue is a divine experience; sometimes you have to use your teeth to achieve that little extra bit of indulgence.

I swam for miles and miles yesterday. I thought exercise was supposed to make you feel happy - it doesn't. I was quite jolly til I swam but maybe it's being too contemplative that puts me in a bad mood. Thinking is probably something to be avoided.

The painting has gone wrong again. It's just bad. Rubbishly bad. Shall I continue to flog this dead horse or have an accident with a stanley knife and rip it to shreds? Do you think Leonardo had days like this when he just couldn't get that smile quite right? I bet he didn't paint an aeroplane that looked like a cat? Oh well, most of Picasso's pictures are dreadful and I still like them. I just don't like this. However, just think how brill I will feel if I do manage to make it into something better. No wonder Mr Smith doesn't applaud my efforts - having to suffer for your wife's art must be very hard. He can't even sit in the Freecycled chair and watch me because I didn't get it - someone else did.

Colour of the day: Burgundy

I have suddenly run out of energy which is not like me. I have drawn the short straw and am on dog walking duty this morning which I will do when it is light. I don't want to get up, get dressed and drag dog or be dragged by dog across Wimbledon Common. I want to stay in bed and finish the particularly exciting dream I was having about David Hockney giving me an award for excellent faxing. But I am excited about painting the current painting and it will not paint itself whilst I slumber so it's up and overalls for me.

Internet Dating Jane came round for tea yesterday and gave me the most lovely present, a burgundy coloured scarf which is just perfect. It's just the right amount of drapey and makes me feel like Designer Susan (she's quite scarfy) or someone really elegant; the new me. I do like this colour. It's the colour of our recycling bins.

In an idiotic moment I replied to a Freecycle ad for a chair and three jigsaw puzzles, as one does. I want the chair for the workroom so I can sit and do nothing ... except the jigsaws. Dilemma de la jour: How am I going to fit a chair into my very small (but not cramped) car? I'll think of something - ever resourceful with a nice scarf - that's me.

Not just blueberry muffins

I am feeling creative and not just my usual 'make a cupcake and tea cosy' kind of creative; (although, Rolls, I will make you a tea cosy one day). I really feel like work today and I am going to paint. Thanks to both of you (H & A) for stroking my ego and telling me I'm clever and encouraging me to work - It's done the trick and I feel less hopelessly stuck in a rut of "Why bother, I'm useless anyway?" Mr Smith doesn't give me much encouragement on the grounds that it might disrupt the housework and fail to produce a financial return. Of course he's right on both counts but today I just want to paint a fun painting and not care about it being good, bad or ugly. I have been reluctant to do any work because it is just that, work. But I like hard work, I always have. I like challenges and I go at things like a terrier at a bone until I get there - well, I always used to, I just seem to have become monumentally lazy of late. I get a bit dispirited when the paintings don't sell but, before I cut off my ear, I will go back to the canvas and throw a little bit of me at it. Cows, Wonderwoman, a butterfly and little robots will all somehow make it there today. These represent what I do, who I try to be, flitting through life and getting some of it done for me (I wish).

No kids! The impossible Student has returned to his University and the Apprentice is away but I have a nasty feeling he might reappear soon. A whole day without "Mum have you got .....?" Mr Smith will be at his dalek headquarters - he has just departed with "Have a good day of housework." I despair. Is this what I have become to him? I must prove myself and produce a fine painting (and a messy house).

Ooooh goody Zumba today. Healthy body, healthy mind etc. I haven't been since before Christmas and I am beginning to feel unfit. Time to sharpen myself up.

Golden days

I feel quite golden today. The sun is streaming through my, very dusty, bedroom window and I am in bed soaking up the warm rays and thinking about my forthcoming Caribbean holiday and whether to have a second one in April. I might. Especially if by some miracle I sell some paintings. I know there are a few unsold ones knocking about; I will have to track them down and, in desperation, set up a stall beside the dusty road next to the watermelon lady and the hubcap chicken rastas. One has to suffer for one's art.

I ought to drag myself out of bed and clean the cooker ... suggests Mr Smith; which is odd because I thought staying in bed listening out for screeching monkeys on the roof throwing down unripe mangoes like machine gun fire and dreaming of the sunrise over Monserrat's smoky volcano was a fine way to spend the morning. Mmmmm, not long now, just three weeks and I will be doing just that on the mountain above Gingerland. It's so steep it makes your ears pop as you drive up to Golden Rock. Our family house has fallen into disrepair (the picture is not it, but the house behind), the garden is fast turning back into rain forest; the mad professor who bought it is a scientist with a different agenda than constant cocktail parties on the veranda overlooking the manicured lawn and hedges of red hibiscus. The gardener died so he got goats in to eat some of the overgrown vegetation and the monkeys ate all the hibiscus.

Anyway, back in South West London, I had better stop dreaming of far off lands and think about that greasy cooker with the broken knob - to be sorted in my next. But I feel too much like a lazy cat to stir.

Flying home

I flew back to London on a cloud though I found balancing on one very tricky. Sunny was attempted in a strained way which made me feel chipper. It did.... radiant. God, I sound like I'm on drugs not just returning from a fun couple of days of post Christmas battery recharging at the seaside.

I am searching for the Welcome Home Don't Worry About Dinner banner that my family could have erected in anticipation of my return. The Apprentice has gone to the Isle of Wight but the Student and Mr Smith are home. I therefore have to perform motherly duties and be the perfect wife. It would be so nice if they had bothered to make the printer work but things like placing new cartridge in hole is just too fatiguing for them. Right, what on earth are we having for dinner? I had probably better go and squash it and work out how cook it.

I found Mr Smith at the end of the garden trying to play with his Christmas present - a leaf hoover; he's a bit 'leaf on lawn' obsessive. "It doesn't work." I bet it does. I took it apart, put it together correctly according to the instructions and presented him with it. "I raked." Technophobe and luddite.

Our hall looks enormous with no Christmas tree, our dog just looks enormous.

Colour of the day: brown

Hooray Henry

Got shot of that awful hot Henry. What a relief. Hope the Freecyclers get it working better - I don't think they will but it's now their smelly problem and not mine.

I am off to the seaside today when I eventually manage to drag myself away from my demanding children. The printer needs ink. For some unknown reason I am the only person able to go to the shop and get some - good grief. Oh well, whilst I'm in the vicinity I might buy myself an earpod and take back that large skirt and get all my provisions for the sea. I have got my flat back to myself until Easter - oooh goody gumdrops. I have to say though getting the best part of a grand for doing absolutely nothing, except staying at home, is a whacko wheeze.

Filling my empty cupboards and fridge with food is an exciting prospect. I can have a mad supermarket sweep, shopping for everything. I'll start with the basics - wine, gin, fags, headache pills.

Glitter girl

Colour of the day: Silver. I feel quite sparkly. I also look sparkly because I made a teensy multi coloured birthday cake for a friend and finished it off with a bit of glitter which I managed to get everywhere. I now look like a fat fairy with pretty dandruff.

Now to tackle the invisible Christmas tree and remove all the silver bobbles, wrap them carefully for another year and hoover up the prickles - oh there aren't any. I knew there would be some advantage in having a giant plastic coil rather than a Norway Spruce.

I have spent two days trying to offload a Henry hoover with issues on Freecycle. It gets all hot and bothered and smells. It can go and annoy someone else. However, the someone else has failed to turn up ... twice. Hopefully, this evening it will disappear otherwise it's landfill.

Thank you Stuart and Deborah for your Christmas card whoever you are. Sorry I didn't send you one but I've never heard of you, nor has Mr Smith. Perhaps next year you could give us a hint.

Handel's Water Music

I went to Kingston, forgot the thing I was supposed to exchange, failed to find a waterproof MP3 player so came home. Bit of a pointless exercise really.

I thought music in my ears whilst I swim would encourage great swims, although there is always the possibility that I will float about aimlessly to a bit of Puccini rather than storm through the water to Lady Gaga. Anyway, my search for the right instrument is mighty fraught with dilemmas. You have to have something that attaches to your goggles otherwise you would get all tangled up in the wires between arm and ear. This is expensive. Then you have to work out how to download tunes and, if you're me, this is tricky. I'll ask Mr Smith - what a hilarious concept; a man who can't work a CD player, a DVD player or Sky plus. He makes technophobes look techi. His talents must lie elsewhere.

I thought I had a really action packed day today but I seem to have forgotten whatever it was I had planned. I'll do a bit of staring into space, walk the dog, pay some bills and make some cupcakes - another busy day. Tomorrow I'll take down our invisible Christmas Tree and try to find somewhere big and circular to store it.

Costume dramas

I swam like a mermaid - well, actually it was a bit more whale like but I did go. I was so exhausted afterwards I curled up in front of back to back episodes of Pride & Prejudice. How smouldering was Colin Firth as Darcy. I quite admire arrogance in a man - Oh good heavens, I am turning into Elizabeth Bennett.

Today I will walk, a great big long walk. With muddy hem I will walk to Kingston - (it's that Jane Austen thing again.) There I will exchange the positively enormous skirt I bought last week for a smaller one - their sizes not mine, I fear. However, there is something jolly nice about putting on clothes and finding them massively too large. Maybe I will take up shopping in Evans Outsize, try on all their size 26s then feel fabulously thin.

I have just remembered I booked a Caribbean holiday in a moment of madness. Gosh, I'd better pack. No, it's not that imminent; it's next month. I am going on my own for five days then Mr Smith, groaning and moaning about the flight, the airport and the heat, will join me. Well, I get lonely on my ownio. Oh, so exciting, an adventure for 2011. I knew I'd have one soon.

January overhaul

With enormous enthusiasm I decided to go swimming and fight the flab but I made a cup of tea and now I am back in bed instead. The pool will be full of keen people, of which I would be one, fighting for a bit of lane to laboriously slog up and down. No, I'll read the Sunday papers, do the crossword and improve my mind. Then I'll walk the dog whilst Mr Smith potters and moans - he's good at that. Hurry up Tuesday, when he returns to work.

Colour of the day: Apricot. I don't feel exactly pink as I'm still not fighting fit but I am getting there. Soon I'll be back to cerise then I will be ready to embrace the World and everything in it.

Last night I gave my toenails the attention they deserve; they have been ignored of late. They are now buffed, oiled and shiny and if I get run over by a bus, or drown whilst swimming, people can say "Oh, but look at her neat toenails." Now for the rest of me. God, what a task! I'll take a vitamin pill and hope for a miracle.

New (but much the same as last) Year

Welcome to 2011 everyone. I am not sure 2011 will be as full of exciting adventures as 2010 because I did some quite challenging stuff last year including my coast to coast trudge. I might walk round the Isle of Wight in the Spring but there again I might sit on my sofa and watch Coast like everyone else.

I always want to learn new things so there'll probably be some ridiculous class I'll join in an attempt to put another feather in my duster. I have to admit that stained glass wasn't quite for me but I do now know how to repair a church window and run up a glass decoration should the need arise. I can now Salsa, make a passable cupcake, knit a rabbit tea cosy and swim a long way - all new things I learnt in 2010.

I don't really have resolutions to make because I am fairly well resolved as it is which sounds a bit smug but I can't exercise more or eat less as I have those things quite well covered. Perhaps I could stare into space a bit less but I doubt it.

I know. Here's my one big resolution: To finish things and not start any new things until I have done so. This includes a Canadian patchwork quilt, an unfinished ugly pink cardigan, the housing project, the knitted blanket which has been hanging around in bits for two years now, knitted dogs (really difficult), and a painting that haunts me as it's really not very good and needs saving from the grave. Right, well I'd better make a start then.