Hairy contest

Tomorrow is the final of the East Wittering moustache growing contest. Sadly, I cannot be there as I have a dog and a husband and two sons, all busily ignoring me whilst I make their dinner, so I am at home. I have sponsored the moustaches of Adam the printer, Al the fish and Mark the Gay who is coming as Freddie Mercury though he needs some major miracle to occur overnight if he thinks he can turn that wispy little thing under his nose into a proper tash by Saturday night.

Apparently, a new law has been introduced to keep down the speed of commercial vehicles. If a van exceeds 60mph the driver will be done. Hairy Bill says if his clapped out old van exceeds 60mph he'll do himself.

I saw my friend who is no longer my friend and nearly made it up with him ... but not quite yet. I have removed the spell of warts and very hard poo I had cast upon him but I still gave him something in his tea that will make him very hairy. I suppose he could always enter the moustache competition.

Did you see Embarrassing Bodies last night? Nor did I as I was hiding behind the sofa. Mr Smith did seem strangely interested in that black lady's enormous booswams so I changed channel.

A Dog's Tale

Our dog used to have a wonderful big bushy tail. I was proud of his tail. When spaniels arrive they have tails like tightly furled umbrellas which gradually open out and fluff up, especially with a bit of help i.e. pulling and preening by their owners. Our dog's tail got rather lean when he had a skin ailment but with some pills it was restored to full brush again but, of late, it has been getting skimpier by the day until he has but a few wisps and a bald patch showing at the end which is a bit embarrassing. I was going to cut some bits off his very furry ears and glue them onto his tail but, in the end, I took him to the vet. "Aha, yes. Bring him in tomorrow and we'll do some tests. That'll be £250." Good grief, two hundred and fifty pounds for a new tail? I do not want to let Mr Smith know that I cancelled the insurance last month because it was so stupidly expensive. I do not want Mr Smith to know the dog is at the vet's. I volunteered for the morning walk. "Where's the dog?" "Oh he met some friends and has gone for breakfast at their house. He'll be back later." I thought that didn't sound particularly convincing so I told him the dog has been kidnapped, or rather dognapped, and we will probably have pay a ransom to get him back. I've told him I'll phone the police later.

Mr Smith is designing little posters for the Common. MISSING: Fat smelly dog with bald tail.

I now have a whole dog free morning; it's like having a little holiday. I will hoover then go and collect him and tell Mr Smith the good news. "I've found the dog, but I had to pay the dognappers £250 to get him back."

What? Who? Where? When?

This is a bit scary, I keep forgetting things. I couldn't remember anyone's names yesterday. Well, I remembered Mr Smith and the Apprentice and Student sons but who on earth was that chap who used to be in that thing, you know who I mean, whatshisname? Apparently, we're all the same. I also forget words and end up having to give elaborate descriptions of the things I am talking about - yesterday it was Defection and Mr Smith could only guess Emigration - honestly he's no help and just as forgetful as me. Place names elude me completely which is a bit of a problem when you want to go somewhere and you can't remember what it's called. I write things down more these days but invariably can't remember where. I will have to read past blogs to give me a hint of what I've been up to lately.

I have made a new vow to myself to get up a bit earlier these days. I normally lounge in bed with newspaper and cup of tea until about 9.30 am. Those of you with school runs and jobs will be horrified. Well, I used to do all that and am now enjoying leisurely mornings of languid idleness with the crossword for mental stimulation and a smelly snoring dog at my feet for added pleasure (his). So, sorry dog, you will have to kip elsewhere today as I am rising with the lark's fart in order to get first shift in the bathroom then off for a swim. Don't worry, I am sure it's just a phase and I'll be back to stroking smelly dog's ears for hours on end whilst staring into space in no time.

Do you think more morning exercise will result in better memory? I'll ask the man to whom I'm married - Mr Thingy.

Walking on fire

Yesterday I went for a walk - a very big walk but not as big as it should have been. I was aiming for ten miles but there was a factory on fire along the Grand Union Canal so I had to give up after 7 miles. It was a very exciting fire with enormous flames and huge billowing smoke. Mr Smith said he could see it from his golf course over ten miles away. I was actually there feeling like a reporter on the job - Mrs Smith coming to you live from outside a burning building in West Drayton... and now back to you in the studio.

I am being paid to carry out a survey of my travel habits over the next 4 days. I am planning on staying in and then writing lies about fictitious trips to shops and friends. I have to estimate the mileage which is a bit tricky. I have found a really fun tool called Google Distance Finder to give me slightly more accurate and less shirty estimates than Mr Smith's "How the hell should I know how far it is from Ealing to Hatton Cross - look it up you stupid woman". It does the whole world so you have to be a bit careful that you put in the right corner shop and not one in Mexico or it will be 5,583 miles to get some milk. Find it at www.daftlogic.com.

Mr Smith is taking me out for lunch; at the boring golf club. I have just found out the cost will be deducted from my golf club card. Good grief, the man's generosity knows no bounds.

Chocolate rabbit

Dish number one: Rabbit in Cider was presented to the tribespeople last night. Verdict: A bit overcooked and bony. Oh well, I tried. Only eight more disappointments of my gourmet frozen meals to go then they can go back to the usual "What's for Dinner? I don't know or care." Kedgeree tonight.... stand by for moaning.

Eight days of my Lenten fast have passed with no chocolate and let me tell you it ain't easy. There is chocolate everywhere you look. Every pudding has chocolate invested into it. Every cake has a chocolate topping, tipping or dripping. Every biscuit has a chocolate chip nuzzled between its crumbs. Every coffee shop smells of hot chocolate with cream and a melty flake on top. Every station is covered in chocolate coated kiosks selling bars of chocolate. I am staying in bed thinking of the Boosts and Green & Blacks in our kitchen cupboard. Oh woe is me.

It will never rain again as I bought a new mac yesterday. It's a sort of Sherlock Holmes type of garment and very just the thing .... for a rainy day.

I met the Lovely Claudia in John Lewis and we went for tea and did something so naughty. I brought along a couple of cupcakes I had made as a gift for her and we ate them looking around furtively for fear of a John Lewis food prefect berating us and throwing us out of the cafe mid tea slurp. Verdict: better than that rabbit stew.

Ping dinners

Yesterday I opened up a cookery book with lots of pictures and the Apprentice and I selected a whole heap of things we would like to eat. We then went shopping. I spent the rest of the day cooking (and washing up). I am now whacked with sore hands but our freezer groaneth with many a wonderful dish. There are lasagnes and sauces, rabbit in cider, lamb curry, hungarian goulash, steak and kidney pie, veal casserole, scones and cupcakes. Oh I was busy. I love cooking when it's that productive but I just don't want to do it every single day. Now I don't have to. It can be Ping Food - microwave from frozen - for the foreseeable future and a happy Mr Smith.

I am meeting the Lovely Claudia today. We are shopping. We like shopping. We excel at it. Actually, she's rather good at sniffing out a bargain. I am the opposite; the price inflates the moment I arrive then I have to lie to Mr Smith about how much everything cost.

I was thinking of my friend Pru whose grandmother had a kitchen drawer that contained nothing but hot water bottle tops and another full of brown paper bags. I think there was a bits of string drawer too. Anyway, Pru lives in Scotland, posh Scotland, on the Firth of Forth. I am thinking of going to stay with her soon. I love going to Edinburgh; you fly in an aeroplane that looks like a cigar with propellers; well, I did last time I went. Mr Smith can wave me off and eat his way through all my gourmet freezer meals whilst I'm away. Shame he can't work the microwave.

Ideally shown

Ooooh how I love the Ideal Home Show - all those gadgets that you feel you just can't live without but when you get them home don't really work quite like they did for the man with his ever so camp demonstration. Also I am so impressed by the naff houses that they construct inside the retail temple that is Earls Court. Hideousness seems to be the main theme and opulence the other. You can buy a hot tub jacuzzi for your garden with a chandelier and a hot tub house to put them in, all for thousands and thousands of pounds. We bought a shed and very grand it is too - about four grand actually. It comes in flat pack, apparently no more difficult than lego. I am crap at lego. We are now awaiting delivery and the Apprentice is very excited, I am getting ready for serious construction and Mr Smith is suggesting we get in a man. Not him.

I bought SO much crap. Honestly, I am a sucker for all these kits. I bought a "Make your own photo/paintings" kit, "Cut up your vegetables for stew and salad" kit, "Tart up your cup cakes" kit, "Tart up your face with bronzer" kit, "Remove your leg hairs with a bit of sandpaper" kit, "Watch dvds every day of your life" kit and some gorgeous cheese. I managed to not buy an electric cigarette, a ridiculous cheese grater with a free second one ... but only just ... and a fur coat. Mr Smith should be pleased at my self control rather than horrified by all this rubbish. I'll make him a trendy salad and a vegetable stew tonight.

Handy Mandy

Usually my boys take it in turns to drive me demented but this week they've gone stereo.

The Apprentice son is just not handy. I, on the other hand, am quite handy - so would you be if you were married to Mr Smith who can't change a lightbulb. Much of the Apprentice's apprenticeship was spent in France building a house where surely he must have learnt something (?) He decided to replace a broken kick panel in our kitchen; a job I had requested 5 months ago. He went off to the shop and came back with something in the wrong size, the wrong shape and the wrong colour, despite taking an old piece with him. He then tried to hack it up propped against the dining room table with my new jacket underneath. I have just given him a basic carpentry lesson in how to use a workbench, a tape measure, a pencil, a jig and a saw. I always find a measuring device more reliable than guesswork. Maybe that's just me?

The Student son's request for an artist's studio in which to film is impossible. There just aren't any. I am going beserk looking to no avail. I am beginning to think my mother got it right after all; leave them to bring themselves up but maybe I'll go easier on the undermining and cruelty.

The Apprentice is trying to do "handy" damage around the home as I promised to take him the Ideal Home Show to buy his shed today. He's trying to get into my super good books but these catastrophes around the house are not entirely winning me round. I have asked him to put up a clematis outside the playroom that is trailing all over the ground in an unruly manner. He is drilling it to the wall like Jesus on the cross! There is some trellis there somewhere if he looks. He gives DIY it's true meaning - if you want something doing properly, Do it Yourself. And I will. Mr Smith will watch.

Day of Culture

Culture always makes me think of yoghurt. I went to meet Boston June at the Tate Gallery and we looked at lots of yoghurt. It was their grand Watercolour exhibition featuring many a Turner et al; sadly no Constables but many other worthies to make one feel suitably art educated. I took along my accessory, the Apprentice. He's charming and clever in an arty sort of a way. I felt rather proud to own him. I now want to paint. So does June.

The Student son is searching for an art studio complete with artist to make a film. I have failed magnificently to find him one. Well I have tried two sources one of whom will get back to me ... I'm waiting. I'm not quite sure why I am doing this. My mother says I am a very good mother. I am better than her but that's not exactly difficult. This implies I am speaking to her ... slightly and warily.

Tomorrow the Accessory (Apprentice son) and I are off to the Ideal Home Exhibition; my feet are tired just thinking about it. We are going to buy a shed. Well, actually it's a bit more than a shed. It's a big wendy house in which the Apprentice can keep all his electrical gear and do his electronics. I wonder if I could take it over and make it my studio then the Student son can make his film in it. I am really trying to work out how I can cunningly get Mr Smith to pay for it.

Walking the walk ... or not

The pudding went disastrously wrong on at least 3 counts. It went soggy, the cream filling was too slushy and it just didn't look like the picture. Oh well, I tried and Mr Smith ate it with his face on; you know, that "I don't like this" face that he reserves for craft fairs and Coronation Street.

I thought today I would raise arse from sofa and walk a big walk. The next leg of my current big walk, the London Loop which is more or less inner M25, starts at Heathrow and finishes at Uxbridge. Right: map, water bottle, sandwich, mobile phone, teeny bit of money and oyster card. Oh bugger, it's raining, add cagoul. The good thing about grotty weather is the muggers and rapists don't tend to go out in it - nor do I. So, back on my sofa .... I wonder if there is a rerun of Corrie?

Carrot legs

I cleaned the kitchen this morning, including the cooker, the hood and all the cupboard fronts. Can I have a star please? I am not cooking in it ever again except I agreed to make Mr Smith a rather lovely looking pudding he set me from the Cordon Bleu book in a "bet you can't cook that" kind of way. Bet I can. Oh God, I've just read the recipe and it involves making hard caramel then grinding it up with nuts to make a special praline dust. We might improvise here.

I was going to see Internet Dating Jane at her country retreat today; a house near Folkestone that she is redecorating in order to flog. I bet she's done a grand job. However, she is not well today and there was some hint of me helping with the decorating so I am not going. I hope Private Ryan is looking after and her little dog nicely.

Imagine the brightest orange you possibly can, now up it a bit, and that's the colour of Mr Smith's golfing trousers today. All he needs is a little green hat and he'd make a passable nuclear carrot. The dog tried to avoid his morning walk and the bin men fell about laughing. I am wearing dark glasses in anticipation of his return.

Cor, bet you're glad you don't live in Japan. Looks dead scary. I'll avoid sushi for a bit.

Richard, Judy & Mrs Smith's book club

I have to confess I still have failed to apply brush to canvas. I have in mind a series of paintings about my dog walks. I have even bought a dog walk shaped canvas - long and thin. I will paint but not just yet as I have other things requiring my attention like all that space I have to stare into. Actually, since I tidied my sewing room, carefully folding all the bits of fabric and placing them in their new Ikea basket drawers, there is considerably more space to gaze into vacantly. However, I haven't yet made a start on the workroom where I (sometimes) paint.

I have been reading loads of rubbish lately so thought I'd write you my reviews:-

Trespass - Rose Tremain. A bit like Joanne Harris without the chocolate. A charming tale of a feud between sister and brother over a tumbling down farmhouse in southern France with a dead body thrown in for excitement.

Started early, took my dog - Kate Atkinson. Quite enjoyed this as a ripping yarn. A bit tv detectivish with Pauline Quirk playing the lead. Too many characters at the end.

Her Fearful Symmetry - (By Time Traveller's Wife author) Dire rubbish, please don't bother.

The Art of Racing in the Rain - Garth Stein - written by a dog about motor racing and family life. Totally brilliant.

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Attwood. SO GOOD, why on earth had I not read this before?
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Attwood. A bit heavy going at present.

Running with Scissors - Augusten Burroughs - Fabulous, amazing, sad and funny. Have just read the prequel - A wolf at the table. Please read these.

One Day - David Nicholls. I saw people reading this on holiday, quite a few people, so I assume it must have something. I have only just started so will let you know.

Mr Smith asks me what I am going to do today. Finish my book. Not really cooking his dinner is it?

Dry stone walls

I had to leave Mr Smith waiting for me to cook his dinner and whizz down to the sea and back again, carefully avoiding all chocolate on the way. It was fleeting. I spent the night as I had to see a man about a leak early this morning. Believe me when I tell you this, screaming hysterically down the phone like a mad woman works a treat - they come running. Never employ the calm approach unless all else fails. I had become mighty shirty with the useless managing agents and demanded that they sent a surveyor to my flat pronto .... and do you know what? They did. They took my complaint most seriously and ummed and erred and took measurements and damp readings (dryzabone) then said it was probably a bit of condensation and not a leak in the roof at all. Oh, I see, as you were then.

A note to all drivers of enormous lorries including cranes etc. Please be sure to drive along narrow country lanes over the South Downs as I do so love being stuck behind you for flaming miles. This is particularly good fun when you meet another one coming the other way. Please find different route!

Now I am home getting ready to go out and open fridge doors. My opinion is being sought on my preferred layout for a fridge interior. God, I wouldn't know but it's funny how, for a few quid, I will become an absolute expert on the tardis qualities of a fridge freezer. I have done this before. It was held in the ballroom of a hotel where the fridges, like wallflowers, stood around the edge of the room waiting for dance partners. I then opened and shut fridge doors until I sustained repetititve motion strain, marking my fav to least favs on a questionnaire. I imagine today's will be much the same. Meanwhile Mr Smith will still be waiting for me to come home and cook his dinner.

Forbidden Fruit

Ash Wednesday and time for our Lenten fast. No more chocolate for us for a while. I thought last night the Apprentice and I might have to hold a chocolate eating contest ramming Boost bars and Twirls down our throats until we were almost sick but instead I decided to hide all our chocolate, including the two big bars of Green & Blacks that Mr Smith acquired yesterday, kind but not helpful. This morning all I can think of is the chocolate calling me from the back of the cupboard. Ooooh a Boost for breakfast - yes please. This just isn't going to work. I am going to have to get someone else to hide the chocolate but I know I will somehow sniff it out. I am not usually that excited by chocolate. Yes I like it, especially superior brands, but I can take it or leave it unless I am depressed and need a teeny fix. Just now I feel at the depths of despair, my chocolateless world just isn't worth inhabiting. I'm sure God wouldn't want me to be this suicidal. Maybe I'll just see how the chocolate is doing in its new home high up all lonely on the top shelf behind the jars of marmelade and chutney. I could read it a story; I could sing it a song; then I could ram it into my big fat gob. NO, this is my Lenten fast. And I will stick to it. Forty days and forty nights.... and I will not have Sundays off or have stupid things like chocolate biscuits and pretend they don't count, because they do. I will be perfect and less spotty, less fat and less craving for chocolate.

Shrove Tuesday

It's Mardi Gras today which literally translates as Fat Tuesday. I do feel a bit fat. Pancakes tonight and a debate about what to give up for Lent. The Apprentice and I have chocolate at the top of our list but I am also considering alcohol. I never succeed anyway. I am just not Jesus. "Get behind me Satan" seems to turn into "Ooooh goody goody wine and chocolate, Come here Satan, bring it on."

Mr Smith brought home a horrid little publication in the form of an alcohol unit chart that you can attach to your fridge. It advises on the bossy government's recommended daily alcohol consumption and throws in the calories for good measure. You line up your preferred tipple e.g. white wine small glass, (OK, large glass) then read the numbers in the little window. 3.5 units, 290 cals. Below is stick man and stick man in a skirt. Skirty's daily allowance is 2.5-3 units. Oh well, I've blown it now; may as well have another.

Miss Ross, who lives a few doors down from me, has alzheimers as does her dog. Yesterday they lost each other on the Common as usual. I helped in a half hearted fashion; I went home to see if the dog had gone that way. There was a severe frost in the night making everything look prettily sugar glazed this morning. I so hope Miss Ross and Holly were reunited as I would feel great remorse if they had spent the whole night out searching for each other and now look like crystalised fruit.

Another day

It's Monday and have I made a start on my paintings? ... well um er not exactly. I finished the book I was reading. If you thought Time Traveller's Wife was a pile of pants this one by the same author, Her Fearful Symmetry, is much worse. Thanks to my dear mother for passing this absolute stinker on to me. I cannot believe I wasted so much time ploughing through such a pitiful load of nonsense.

The student son came back from his shoot in Highgate (film not hitman). He was full of beans. I made him breakfast so he was then full of more beans. I did his laundry, charged up his phone, gave him words of praise and sent him on his way back to university to finish his Film Making degree and make me proud. Oh my little Spielberg.

I then cleaned the hovel. It still looks freshly burgled but maybe less filthy in parts - nice clean stairs.

I then went swimming. I had the pool to myself until a very splashy fellow swimmer invaded the water. Most antisocial I thought and put me in a bit of a mood. I then ran over someone in the car park and came home to last night's washing up and a think about dinner.

It's now time to walk the dog and forage dinner constituents. Eye of newt etc.

And that's my day. Note to self: start painting tomorrow.

Words of praise

Thanks Arty Antonia, Boston June, Tony P-T, Everyone at the Seaside, and even Mr Smith. You are all so kind and have given me great words of encouragement and I will paint again. I just get a bit depressed by firstly, how much work it all is to achieve a fairly mediocre result and secondly, how absolutely everyone can paint far better than me. Maybe I try too hard.

Boston June, who has come to England so is therefore no longer Boston June, came over to the seaside with Geoff, her lovely husband, the other day and we had lunch. It was so nice to see her again and she was so enthusiastic about my painting and did encourage me to pick up the brush again. She is a really good artist so words of praise from her are not taken lightly. We are due to depress ourselves stupidly this week by going to the Watercolour exhibition currently on at the Tate where all the paintings will be masterpieces. We really need to go to a dreadful exhibition of absolute rubbish and feel uplifted in the knowledge that we can do so much better. I'll trawl through Time Out and find something suitably awful.

Right it's time to clear my workroom and think about a new collection of paintings.
Note to self: start Monday.

Supply and demand

I am an artist; I stare into space. Very occasionally I paint something. I am not a very good artist but I am not absolutely awful - somewhere in between. I have nowhere to sell my paintings so I don't do any. Should anyone ask to see my paintings it would be mighty tricky as I haven't actually got any. So, perhaps, I should paint madly and get a collection together then consider what to do with it subsequently. This would at least be a little more industrious than staring into the void whilst dunking a Duchy Original in my tea. Note to self: Start Monday.

Mr Smith could change the moans to "All you do is work" .... mmm I don't quite see that happening .... pass those buttery shortbreads.

Banjos at dawn

My flat leaketh. My flat roof leaketh unto my flat. If only the weather would be a little less biblical.

Tony P-T came to stay and jolly nice it was to see him. By breakfast the novelty had worn off and I realised how much I value my solitude in my bolthole o'er the waves. Regrettably, there was no sitting peacefully watching the sea do its thing with the odd seagull flying past as Tony got out his banjo .... at breakfast! Anyway, this didn't matter as what could have been my quiet moment of meditation and insular thinking was interrupted by the caretaker who had come to inspect the leak and Tony in his pyjamas and me in my nightdress ....OH NO It's not like that, honestly. I had to march the man through all the bedrooms, leaky and not, so he could carefully note two unmade beds before I got the reputation of whore adulteress through the whole village before elevenses. The caretaker took the matter seriously and informed me the whole block of flats is falling down, the managing agents are to be sacked and the future doesn't look orange.

I went home and met the Lovely Claudia. We ate cupcakes and drank tea then went to the Silversmith's Fair down the road which was small but perfectly formed just as we like these events to be. All the lovely glittery sparkly things made me temporarily forget I have invested my entire wealth in a crumbling damp flat by the sea.

Flying pie

Yesterday evening's work, that wasn't work, was a focus group ascertaining my reactions to a government initiative to make us all doubly glaze our windows, stuff our duvets into our walls and waffle weave our lofts. It wasn't quite as boring as it could have been. I thought it was all fair enough really. If you're going to shove a bloody great big extension onto your house put the rest of it in order first. However, my fellow comrades were very "Englishman's home is his castle" and were of the opinion that should they wish to live in an uninsulated freezing cold house with holes in it, that was their right. Yes, but there again .... I tuned out at this point, wondering if Mr Smith and the Apprentice were enjoying the cottage pie I had lovingly prepared for their dinner.

"Too much mashed potato and it's a bit dry." It doesn't look dry to me. Why do I bother? Mr Smith says I set myself such high standards of culinary perfection but, though delicious, it just wasn't as good as some of my previous pies. I threw it at him. Really he and the boys should have learnt by now that if you do not wish to wear your dinner you should not upset the cook.

The oldest profession

I hardly have time to read a book these days let alone write one. Suddenly it's Wednesday and I have a million things to do and a million people to see. I am working this evening which is a great way of getting free money as it's not really work at all. No, I'm not on the game!

Sensible Alison popped round yesterday and jolly nice it was too to pass time and drink tea with such a good friend. She is the Student son's godmother. We discussed the family silver as she stirred her tea with a £200 teaspoon - I exaggerate, she doesn't take sugar. She couldn't believe the awfulness of my darling parents. They gave me the silver which I thought was kind and generous until they followed it up with a bill for a thousand pounds which I am simply not going to pay. I don't know quite where this inner strength has come from. I am bold and brilliant and probably a bit foolhardy but it's about time I stood up to my horrible mother. In this instance I have no choice; I don't have a spare grand to spend on a few knives and forks.

This morning, out of the blue, I got a call from Tony Poor-Traveller. He's not really called Tony Poor-Traveller but I invented this name for him as he and, his now ex, girlfriend seemed to be moving around like nomads whilst their property was being done up. He's coming to stay - oh yippee. He's such a nice chap.

Just time to make a cottage pie for Mr Smith and the Apprentice son's dinner, write down "place in preheated oven til cooked" instructions, walk the dog and tart self up for work - No, it honestly is not what you think.

Shall I write a book?

There is supposedly a novel bursting to get out of all of us. I have the plot - it's a sort of Fatal Attraction meets Brokeback Mountain. It is beautiful, cruel and sad. The trouble with writing is one worries it to death then never gets started. Maybe I will give it to Sarah to write; although she writes books of a dubious nature that live in people's bedside drawers and need brown paper covers.

Writing a novel must be absolutely exhausting. You must have to live it every moment and hardly be able to sleep or eat for months; a bit like a painting. I usually manage to switch off when I am not actually in front of the canvas although portraits can be a bit tiring; there never seems to be a suitable stopping place. Writing, I feel, would be much the same.

Getting to the end of a novel might be tricky. If you are not careful you have written War and Peace and still not unravelled your whole plot - actually, just like War and Peace which, by the way, I have read - Natasha is one of my all time fictional heroines and she's such a cow. I suppose you just have to make it a trilogy or quartet. Perhaps I am becoming a little over ambitious here.

Mr Smith has a hard enough time living with an artist with painters' block, I think a novellist with writers' cramp would be asking too much.

Nowt queer as folk

All I seem to do these days is fight. However, one fight ballasts you up quite well to take on another. I am fighting with my horrible mother over the inherited family silver, I am fighting with managing agents about the water pouring down the walls at my seaside flat and a friend, who I thought was a really good friend, has made me apoplectic with rage. On the other hand I have lovely dear friends who have come to the aid of the party and are holding me up, dusting down my armour and sending me back out into the battlefield.

A wonderful letter arrived this morning from Mad Carina complete with Best Friend badge which I am wearing like a medal well won. She is so utterly brilliant. The Apprentice has been a saint and gives me "Well done, Mummy" comments to keep me going. Mr Smith is a brick, although he is a bit upset that I am returning the family silver that we simply cannot afford to keep; it's back to the stainless steel and grotty ep for us.

I'll probably make it up with the good friend and my nice aunt will help me out with the ridiculous bill I have received for the family silver or, alternatively, have the silver. She was so kind to me this morning. The agents are sending some builders to mend the roof. My mother will eventually calm down although she currently thinks I am the spawn of the devil ... funny that?!

Anyway, thanks all of you who put up with me and know that I value your friendship more than my Jimmy Choo shoes and I will make you all cupcakes forever.

The lure of the sea

I won the lottery! £3 on a scratch card that the Apprentice used to buy deodorant. Well, he had bought me the scratch card. Just as well it wasn't £3 million really.

I want to look brown and healthy but my tan is fast fading and I am fat. I did also have a grey streak down the middle of my head but the hairdressers dealt with that, at vast expense. I don't know why I try to be all these things I'm not. Let's face it I am fat, I am grey and I have hairy legs. As I paint my nails and think pretty thoughts all I am doing is buying into the billion pound beauty industry and it's all rubbish. I will now smear unctions various over my fat thighs and legs so I can be soft and lovely ... for Mr Smith(?) The dog would take more notice. Well, to be fair I am taking the dog with me to the seaside for a few days without Mr Smith. The Apprentice is going to France and I am dropping him off at Portsmouth then collecting him on Sunday morning so a quiet couple of days with my dog at the sea will do me good.

Having said quiet ... somehow it rarely is.

Child soup

It's half term. That swim was supposed to bring out lovely thoughts but I just wanted to blast all the other pool users out of the water. I say 'pool users' rather than swimmers as there were billions of small children shrieking and splashing their mummies who just stood in one spot. There was also a life saving lesson going on in the other lane. I hogged the one remaining lane for as long as I could and swam angrily from one end to the other until I could take no more. So contemplative and calm it was not.

I went to see my friend MC in Clapham for lunch. She had been sewing beautiful embroideries and made me feel inspired to do something rather than stare into space day after day. Perhaps I should give my attention to one of those eighty two unfinished projects I have lurking around.

I then went to see a gallery where Rachel has her seaside paintings. I don't think they're quite giving her the priority she deserves as her paintings were buried so deep in the archives they couldn't be found. I then passed a much better gallery where they had adopted the Less is Best attitude. In the window was a painting by someone I know and, as I own two pieces by her, felt rather pleased that she had made it to poll position. Of course I should do more painting, get a collection together and slog it round some galleries. Note to self: Start Monday.

Release those Dolphins

I need to take exercise and lots. Firstly, to sort out this rather flabby body that hasn't moved from the sofa since getting back from the Caribbean and secondly, to make me feel happier. Supposedly exercise releases all sorts of good feelings and I will become all smiley and nice. Good, because I am a bit of a bad tempered fairy these days with a desire to cast bad spells on people who annoy me. So I am off for a lovely long swim where I will try to think merry thoughts and not plot how to burn houses down with people in them or give them warts.

Alcohol is poison

Feeling much better today although I do have a bit of a headache. Got up and cleaned the bedroom sorting all the clothes and putting things neatly in my wardrobe. I have too many clothes which indicates it's time for a cull. I don't want to part with anything as I am between sizes, recovering from a very fat holiday. Big effort starts today. So maybe I will leave the cull until Spring is really here and the winter things can be stored elsewhere, though exactly where this elsewhere is I have no idea. Like a fat goldfish; I have outgrown my bowl.

My right temple is throbbing. I can't make it stop. Perhaps if I bandaged my head it might help. At least then everyone would know I am in pain. I can't believe a few too many glasses of champagne on Saturday could do this to me. Poor me. Stupid me. I will wear a hat to stop my brain bursting out of my head ... in bed. I will seriously moderate my alcohol intake from henceforth. I am hopeless!

Brick in the wall

Went to Salisbury for a party last night. Salisbury is very pretty ... unlike my hangover; I don't think champagne agrees with me. It might take me a few days to recover.

When I am feeling a little less delicate I will attempt to clean up this hovel. I haven't even unpacked from my holiday yet as washing and ironing all those summer clothes really isn't a priority. It just makes me feel a bit gloomy. Poor old Mrs Smith isn't feeling quite her chirpiest these days. Mr Smith is being a brick - bless him.

The house next door is on the market for an amazing amount of money. They have been carrying out emergency renovations on their newly, but very badly built, extension. The walls of Jericho were sturdier; we'll avoid trumpet playing. However, if the surveyors are useless enough, maybe we will have nicer neighbours than a mad randy Syrian builder who accuses me of racism whenever I reject his greasy advances. I do hope so. Then we will watch their house fall down.

Stupidly tired zzzzzzzzz

I so wish I didn't feel so unbelievably tired. There have been more animated zombies than me. I trudge. I yawn. I have a little nap ... in Sainsburys. However, I do have lovely dreams. But, it is time to wake up; I feel my blood has turned to cement and I must move or it will set but it's too heavy. Just a little bit more sleep, please ... no it's dog walk time.

I got my smelly little dog back from kennels yesterday - oh how I love him. I know it's stupid to lavish love on a bit of animated fluff on a string but he's a delight. I took him and the Apprentice (who seems to be doing very little apprenticing these days) out for a walk on the common where we were joined by every vicious, slavering, badly bred and badly mannered dog in SW London. Poor little fluffy (a refined cavalier king charles spaniel of excellent breeding) seemed to be wearing a "kick me hard" note. Not a nice walk! We'll try Richmond Park this afternoon in search of a better class of mutt.

Party tomorrow. A surprise party for my brother-in-law's birthday. It's in Salisbury somewhere. I can sleep on the way - whilst driving(?) Mr Smith seems back into the swing of things with no wear and tear from aeroplane travel or time difference. What shall I wear to this party? I'll be the fat one asleep at the end of the table.

Here's the finished mural - well part of it.

Back Home

Apart from ghastly jet lag and an enormous weight gain, it is great to be back after a fabulous holiday. No it isn't. It'll have to be gym and lettuce for a very long time.

Nevis is just heaven on earth. I worked hard and sold a few paintings. I was commissioned to paint a mural which I managed by starting early in the mornings before breakfast and I found I rattled it off when my concentration was at its best thereby not interrupting any party time.

My paintings make good friends and Mr Smith and I were wined and dined and thoroughly spoilt by clients past, present and hopefully future. Mr Smith was even taken to play golf at what boasts to be the world's most beautiful course. He was happy. Due to his wife's daubs his holiday was upped several notches and downed several dollars. We are often invited to see my paintings in their residences - good marks to people who don't hang them in the loo - and it's rather like seeing some of your children again. I seem to have been rather prolific over the years which makes me think one can be productive as well as drunk.

How do I stay brown? I'm lovely. Fat but lovely.

Tropical Paradise

Here I am in tropical paradise where every second is slightly more enjoyable than the one before. It is hot and dreamy and just incredibly gorgeous. Knowing everyone and everywhere on this tiny island makes it just even more fun. So many friends are here though sadly some have died however everyone left just marries each other and the island becomes ever more incestuous. Well, it's time for my first rum punch of the day - no it's not breakfast time ... yet.