“Taste this,” he said, poking the thin drizzle of sauce zigzagging over his plate. He did not look happy. “Hmm, apple pie and cough medicine. Interesting combination.” “What’s yours like?” He peered across the table, over the top of the tea pot. I scowled at the ugly square white plate sat before me, on which rested a thin, sunken floppy brown wedge. “Stale chocolate cake softened with cheap diluted sherry then warmed up.” I, too, had been presented with a miserable whisker of zigzagging cream. Look, chefs, if I order pudding I want pudding , and not someone else’s idea of a break in an anorexic’s diet, ok? And what’s with the miserly drizzles? Humph! The main meal had been pleasant but the portions meagre. I’d had to paddle through my korma to find any chicken, and I’d seen bigger stock cubes than his salmon steak. To top this, the place possessed all the aesthetic charm of a school dining hall – think N-O-I-S-E plus a constant flow of people pushing past us. So, having

"Mmm, this tastes good," he said, sipping a smoothie. "What's in it?" "Oh, you know... Live yoghurt, a dash of pure orange juice for liquid, four bananas, two plums, two apricots, a big spoonful of honey, a carrot, half a brocoli and ten sprouts." May I introduce the newest member of this household? At just a few weeks old, Emily currently weighs 3lbs 4oz.

Revealed - the mystery behind the poem (mistakenly attributed to me) which appeared on Terry Wogan's radio show:  SylviaTaylor  - actress, playwright, stalwart of medieval battle re-enactments, and soon-to-be film director (shooting starts this spring) - and old school pal. We were reminding each other of the dubious delights of our old school days just recently. Sylvia volunteered the information that it was she who had caught me when I passed into blissful unconsciousness during The Human Biology Film. You know, the one with some brave woman howling, "Oooooww!!! Arrrrrrgh!" rather a lot. How could I resist reminiscing about the day Sylvia fell into a cesspit during a cross-country run? Ah, the joys of youth. Well, our builders have finished plastering the bathroom walls, the new bath is plumbed in and some of the floorboards have been repaired. If any of you would like some dust, we have plenty going spare.

Apparently one of my poems was read aloud on Terry Wogan 's radio show this morning. My sister Evelyn told me this in an email, and I honestly don't know a thing about it. I haven't submitted any work to the BBC. My friend Wendy has just phoned me to say she'd heard it on the car radio around 7.30am. She was on the way to work at the time. A rapid Google search didn't identify any other poet with the same name as myself, however. Then again, it can't yet be presumsed that everyone has internet access. So, I'm still none the wiser. As I write this, the house is in a state of controlled chaos. Screaming drills and stomping workmen’s boots, hammering and sawing herald the arrival of B-Day! That’s Bathroom Day, in case you wondered. Our old and extraordinarily vile bathroom suite is currently sitting on our front lawn awaiting proper disposal. Upstairs, in what truly is the smallest room of the house, various repairs are starting to take place prior to the

What exactly is the point of Christmas cards? Why do people who've not picked up the phone to say hi once during the last twelve months suddenly feel compelled to mail me images of bloated snowmen? One card arrived with "write soon" scribbled in one corner. Hmm, if memory serves me well, this same person had written a similar message on the card she sent last year, and when I did write a letter no reply was forthcoming. I won’t be bothering again. Bah humbug. Certainly we’ve had no real snowmen here this year. In fact, we’ve not even had an overnight frost. It’s so mild that I’ve got roses coming into full bloom in the garden, and around the village are cherry trees in flower. This is not normal winter weather! Anyway, half of the seasonal nonsense is now over, and the shops are desperately trying to sell us the same junk which we didn’t want before the 25th. We had to brave the insanity of Birkenhead on the 24th, unfortunately, as my digital camera isn’t working pr

So there I was, contentedly strolling home from the village, drenched despite my umbrella. In my other hand swung a carrier bag plump with a new jumper. As I approached the dog-legged walk-through which cuts five minutes off the journey, I could hear a man’s heavy footsteps getting quickly closer behind me. Call me paranoid if you wish, but I took the long route which brought me within sniffing-range of the takeaway. “Hmm,” said my inner alter-ego, the one who has no regard for calories, “it’s light years since I had a curry. I’d really like something hot and spicy.” And so, my will power being somewhat soggy due to the torrential rain, (she says, grasping straws - or should that be "oars"?), I thoroughly enjoyed a rather tasty chicken curry served on a bed of steamed rice. Now, understand this: this household rarely dines on takeaway food. It’s expensive, often tastes mediocre at best, and tends to be saturated in goodness knows what kind of fat which is goodness knows how