I am considering getting a sort of dictaphone arrangement. So that I can cook and write at the same time. Retreats for you is getting busier - with the result that I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, rustling up culinary delights for our lovely guests. I adore cooking - I find it soothing and fulfilling, and of course I love the warm appreciation that comes from the recipients of home made fish cakes, warm banana bread, sticky toffee pudding and the like. But sometimes, on days when editors are snapping at my heels, and there are rooms to change and guests to look after, I wish that I could accomplish more than one task at a time. And indeed, I quite fancy the idea of twirling around the kitchen, stirring and chopping with gusto, all the while speaking words of quality into a headset comfortably in place.
I imagine that after my first foray into this kind of multitasking, it would come very naturally, and indeed, in the same way that Barbara Cartland dictated her best sellers while reclining on a pink velvet couch, I feel some of my best writing could be done in this way. After all what more natural environment for writing from the heart, than from the heart of the house - the kitchen.
Writing and cooking - my two favourite occupations. How gloriously satisfying to imagine that both could be done simultaneously - smoothly, effortlessly and in perfect tandem.

Oh so ashamed -that, among the many distractions and duties of daily life, my blog has become sadly neglected. It had foundered by the wayside, cast aside and neglected like a mouldering pile of decaying leaves as the richness of autumn slides into the bleakness of winter.
But shame, like guilt is a deeply negative and draining emotion, which serves no good purpose except to sap the individual of energy, sparkle and zest.
No dwelling then, on the misdemeanors of the past. Only gladness that my noble and trusty 12 followers have not seen fit to desert me. Thank heavens - because, lets face it, I need all the followers I can get.
Be all that as it may, what I really want to blog about at the moment is spring. At the risk of sounding deeply twee, it's here. Ok, the mornings are still chill and frosty, and the white stuff is on car windscreens, but it is light at 6.30. And I cannot tell you how that propels me out of bed - and into my running shoes. The Devon countryside is sheer breathtaking beauty in the quiet and still of the morning, lit up by the blaze of the early morning sun, cresting the hills and bathing the fields. Like so many simple things, an early morning run at this time of year, in this kind of weather, is just the best. Full of light and life and hope.
Which of course, is what we all need - at any time of year.

Bringing my house to life again

Thank goodness my house is alive again. Not that it was really dead - just in a kind of semi coma for a few days.
During the week before Christmas, none of my adult children were in residence,and Retreats for you had no guests. Bob and I were madly busy making and wrapping presents, and we both had bits of work to finish up before the holiday season - but those activities took up only a fraction of this rambling old house. I took my laptop into the kitchen and worked by the Rayburn, and in the evenings, Bob and I ate in the kitchen - and spent the evening there too. We were warm in there, and there seemed little point in heating the rest of the house.
Occasionally, as I whizzed through the gloomy sitting room and the deserted dining room, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. And as I whisked into the tv room one evening in search of a spare lightbulb, I felt a strange pull as I closed the door behind me. Almost as if it were pleading with me not to go. Big old houses don't like being empty, I thought. They need people, and warmth and life.
Three days before Christmas, two of the children arrived. One for a brief visit and one for the Christmas break. The walls of the house seemed to curve slightly, as the central heating cranked into gear and lamps flickered alight. Bob stacked logs into the huge fireplace, and the soft glow of the flames bathed the room in gold. Delicious cooking smells wafted gently from the kitchen, and noise and laughter echoed around the walls. Warmth and companionship filled the house again, and I could feel it start to relax around me.
Christmas came and went, as did the children - only to be replaced by guests. Retreats for you is buzzing again. And the house loves it.

Making Christmas great

Everyone's in the same boat, I'm told. Nobody, but nobody has any money this year. To clarify, we are all skint. So all the people milling in and out of shops in various high streets across the land must be spending money they haven't got then. Far be it from me to pontificate on other people's finances, but I decided that to make things easier for us this year, I would impose a ban on myself - from visiting any kind of shopping area. This is actually easier than it sounds, since the only shop within several miles is of the village store variety. A great little place but mostly stocked with food items, so unlikely to tempt me when it comes to presents.
Accordingly, we have taken a brisk trip down the home made present road, and the result, I have to say, has been deeply satisfying. Home made wine, jam and biscuits, all gussied up with pretty labels, ribbons and boxes, each a tasty reminder that lovely presents don't have to cost loads, or require an exhausting process of battling hordes of tired stressed fellow shoppers.
The tree is up, the presents and home made cards wrapped and delivered, and yes we are ready for Christmas. And while I'm on the subject of being ready for Christmas, I reckon I'm also ready for the aftermath of this one day. Which of course is the rest of the year, and the nice shiny new one waiting for us. It's going to be great.

Aren't we all put on this earth to look after each other? Isn't that the way it's supposed to work? It seems sensible to me - and it also seems to me that the world is divided - into those who do and those who don't.
We hear terrible stories on the news of someone being beaten senseless in full view of a crowd of people. Or a girl being dragged by her partner screaming through a crowded precinct, while shoppers stand and stare. But last time we witnessed a clearly violent man bullying his partner outside a pub, my own partner was only prevented from stepping in by the fact that three other people had got there first. One of them a woman. And when I saw a young girl go into an epileptic fit in the street, she and her carers were immediately surrounded by offers of help, phones and blankets.
There are those who instinctively help and protect their fellow man in this world and those who don't. But I prefer to think there are more of the former.

It's so easy to be sucked into that 'what do you expect at my age?' nonsense. The assumptions by condescending medical staff that if you're over 45 you must be on some kind of medication. The temptation to blame any kind of ache and pain on your advancing age, and worst of all the insiduous and extremely creepy sensation that you are slightly less important than someone twenty years younger.
However, you may or may not be glad to know that I have resisted all this, and am very happy to say bollocks to it all. Personally I intend to remain fit healthy active and presentable until I am ready to turn up my toes - which I shall do with grace and style. And looking around me at people two decades younger, I'd rather, dare I say it, look and feel like me at my age, than them at theirs.
Age rage? Too right.

Scamming the scammer

If the working day drags a bit, why not take a leaf out of my book, and, instead of cursing the scammers, have a bit of fun with them. Sadly, this one didn't go as far as I would have liked - I planned a lot more correspondence with this would be Russian agent. But as you see, our cosy chat came to an abrupt end. I haven't given up though - I'll be emailing him on a daily basis from now on....


----- Original Message -----
From: "TOM WEST"
To:
Sent: Thursday, November 05, 2009 9:17 AM
Subject: ACCOMMODATION BOOKING

Greetings,
How are you today?
I want to make a reservation in your facility for 2 couples from
Russia,
on there forth-coming honeymoon.
Date :20th to 30th January, 2010.
There are 2 couples.
1. Kindly get back to me with your total cost for 2
couples for the duration of 10 nights stay.
2. So that i can send you my credit card for immediate
deposit.
Arrival Date: January 20th
Departure Date: January 30th
Number Of People: 4
Number Of Room :2
Kindest Regards
TOM WEST
tomwest007@gmail.com


On 11/5/09, Deborah Dooley wrote:

Hello Tom, how nice to hear from you. Yes, those dates are fine. Our
rates
are £500 per person, per night (to include champagne in the rooms), and
I
would ask you for a deposit of 20%. If this is acceptable, please send
me
your credit card details and I will make the booking.
all best
The proprieter

----- Original Message -----
From: "TOM WEST"
To: "Deborah Dooley"
Sent: Friday, November 06, 2009 4:23 AM
Subject: UPDATE
Good day,
Thanks for your reply. I am glad to tell you that cost and conditions
of your offer are acceptable by My Friends and such, they are willing
to make a deposit payment immediately. Due to there acceptance of your
offer, I have concluded payment with them also.
I have been instructed to pay you for your services and provision of a
language translator whom would be able to translate every word to them
because they are Russians and do not speak your local language.I have
arranged this with a linguist who is willing to undertake these
responsibilities on their behalf. He would be with them throughout
their stay with you.I will send you my credit card details once I
receive your confirmation email so that you would charge as
agreed/authorized by my Friends.

However upon the receipt of my credit card, confirm you will charge as
follows:Take 50% for the cost of your services plus 7500euros for the
Translator who will also take care of their travel logistics like
insurance,ticketing etc.Then, deduct your deposit and send the balance
of 7500euros to the Translator.I really need you to make the charges
for the Translator as she does not have a POS machines to process her
charge and such all money for the tour has been credited to a credit
card.So kindly Confirm this and provide me with the following
Information:

Your Company full name/address
Name of the Manager/Owner
Telephone and fax numbers
Looking forward to your reply.
Cheers
TOM WEST
+447035942452


On 11/6/09, Deborah Dooley wrote:

Dear Tom, that's all fine, but how can I send the money to the
translator?
In cash, or by cheque?
And will he or she need a room here too?
all best
The proprietor



Dear

Thanks for the email please confirm below the translator also will
need a room and his funds will be wired to his account.i will send you
my credit card details to process on the reciept of the total i have
outlined below. I will send you bank details of were to transfer the
funds to the translator when you have charged the card . I will pay
for the charges of the 7500euros so please so confirm to me below.

1.Cost of your service = 50%
2.Translator Fees = 7500euros
3.credit card fee = ?
TOTAL

I await the total in other to send you my card details now
Regards
Tom West
Mobile:+447035942452
Tel:+447031830872
Fax:+44-7006-002-404


----- Original Message -----
From: "Deborah Dooley"
To: "TOM WEST"
Sent: Sunday, November 08, 2009 12:23 PM
Subject: Re: CONFIRM THIS

Dear Tom, thankyou so much for your reply. But I still don't understand
how I will get the money to the translator. Could you please clarify?
all best
The proprietor


On 11/9/09, Deborah Dooley wrote:

Tom, did you get my email below? I'm waiting to hear more details on how I
could transfer money to the translator? Or, maybe if he/she is coming to
stay here too, he/she can just collect it on arrival.
I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible.
all best
Deborah

----- Original Message ----- From: "TOM WEST"
To: "Deborah Dooley"
Sent


: Monday, November 09, 2009 2:06 PM
Subject: Re: Fw: CONFIRM THIS

Hello Deb,
I tolsd you i will send his bank details for you to make the wire to
him to enable him book for there flights before then. Please send me
your number to call you and advise you my card details to process.

Regards
Tom


On 11/9/09, Deborah Dooley wrote:
Tom, one more thing - will the translator mind having a room with a single bed? I can reduce the price a little, but we only have a twin room left, so that's all I can offer him. And please advise me if any of the guests have particular dietary requirements. We can do most things, including vegetarian, vegan, Halal and kosher. Also, will they need collecting from the train station (included in the price.)
I look forward to hearing from you.
all best
The proprietor.


----- Original Message -----
From: TOM WEST
To: Deborah Dooley
Sent: Monday, November 09, 2009 2:58 PM
Subject: Re: Fw: CONFIRM THIS


Hello Deborah,

Thanks for the mail, they are no need for dietary is okay. please make availabel the room for the translator and add it to the total bill to charge. They will be picked up at the train station also include the bill.

I thinbk i have answered all question please prepare the bill including the 7500euros for the translator and send to me now with your number for me to advise my card details.

Thank You
Tom

On 11/9/09, Deborah Dooley wrote:
Tom, that's all marvellous. One last question - you do realise that this is a naturist establishment? Accordingly we do require all guests to be naked. There are facilities for disrobing at the front door, the house is very well heated - and of course we are naked too, so no need for embarrassment!
If you could just confirm that's all ok, I'll go ahead and send you the number.
Have a good afternoon.
all best
The proprietor.



YOU ARE SICK

Nosey - good or bad?

I fear I may be suffering from small village-itis. (SV)Symptoms are a keen interest in the activities of one's neighbours - often to an unhealthy degree, a heightened awareness of anything even slightly out of the ordinary, and the ability of listen to more than one conversation at a time. Admittedly, I am self diagnosed, and have no confirmation from a qualified expert, but all the signs are there, and I can't help being worried.
Yesterday I was in the village shop, keen to collect my weekly veg box (brimming with veg from a local farm, all lovely and fresh out of the ground and covered in proper earth and everything). While I was waiting for the very elderly Mrs Heard to complete her purchases and finish discussing the relative benefits of gravy granules versus gravy powder, with the endlessly patient Roy, who was serving that day, I chatted with Arnie, from up the road. He was interested in my plan for the large green cabbage sitting plumply on top of my veg box.
'Let's see, I mused. 'I'll probably stir fry some of it tonight, in olive oil, with a few pumpkin seeds and a bit of Tamari.' Arnie frowned. 'Soy sauce,' I added helpfully. His expression cleared and he launched into a joyful reminiscence of his mother's bacon and cabbage, embellished with a rather lovely description of the pinnie she always wore when cooking. I rather enjoyed this mini trip down memory lane, but while it was going on, Anne, from round the corner popped in, closely followed by Lynette, from the other side of the square. They were talking earnestly about a planning contravention by a well known local resident. Fascinating stuff which made one of my ears lean well towards them, so that I wouldn't miss a syllable. In the meantime, Arnie and I had completed his journey into the past, and Arnie had nipped in front of me and asked for a quarter pound of boiled sweets. While they were being weighed up, I got the gist of the planning scandal -and also earwigged a couple of kids chattering just outside the open door of the shop.
'He had a right go at me,' said one. 'Silly old goat,' said the other. 'It's only a stupid car, after all. And you could hardly see the dent.' I had a pretty fair idea who they were talking about, and when I finally got served, Roy was able to confirm it.
So you can see that at that point I was already displaying classic symptoms of SV. But then, this morning, i behaved in a way that really has left me in no doubt at all that I have a full blown case. Every Monday to Friday, as my running mate and I pound our way back into the village square, several miles of countryside under our belts (OK, 3-4), we see one of the local chaps getting into his car and departing for work. 'Morning girls,' he cries, and gives us a cheery wave. 'Morning!' we reply, cheerily waving.
Anyway, this morning, no sign. Nothing. His car was still parked outside his house, and his curtains still drawn.
Mindful of the fact that he lives alone and is not in the first flush of youth, I found this strange.
'I expect it's his day off,' said Bob. 'But supposing he's lying unconscious,' I worried. Eventually, half an hour later, I could bear it no longer. I strode across to his house, and knocked loudly on the door. No answer. Panic rose within me. Clearly I would have to kick the door in - or rather Bob would have to. I knocked again - nay, pounded on the door, in a last attempt to evoke some sign of life, before I raised the alarm. There was a scuffle behind the door, and a bleary eyed person clad in a bathrobe opened the door. He blinked at me. 'Are you alright?' I asked anxiously. He stared at me. 'You woke me up,' he said sadly. 'It's my day off.'

Thursday, 22 October 2009
A place to go
When I was a little girl, I often used to pack a small rucksack with rug, book and apples, and carefully climb halfway up an old oak tree close to our house. I'd swing myself across onto a high wall running close to the house, and jump down onto the small section of flat roof above the utility room. It was flanked on each side by steep sloping roofs and there, in complete seclusion, I'd curl up on my rug, read my book, munch my apples and dream the summer afternoons away. Occasionally listening with some satisfaction to adults shouting my name in exasperated tones. Luckily my family were the type to shrug their shoulders when a child was missing for a few hours, rather than alert the authorities. And when I emerged, dozy eyed and flushed with sun, the answer 'nowhere really' always seemed to satisfy questions on my whereabouts.
In the winter, I scaled a high bookshelf in a little used end room in our rambly old Elizabethan house, prising open the 'secret' doors, which looked as if they were part of the panelling, and slid into the ancient hayloft, now dark and musty with years of dirt and cobwebs. But I didn't mind. A torch, a blanket and some cushions created a nest that endlessly beckoned me, and a haven that soothed, when my childhood world became uncertain and full of anxiety.
Everyone needs a place to go. A comfy windowseat with a view, a bed made plump and inviting with cushions and throws, or a well arranged study with a solid wooden door that firmly rejects the world beyond.
The other day I spent a couple of nights staying with friends, in their new spare room. A shepherds hut. Based on the traditional shepherds huts used for centuries in rural England, it is beautifully made, and about the size of a small caravan, on wheels. Its clean lines show off diligent craftsmanship, and create a cosy, light and draught free space, for spare room, study or children's den. A delight to be in, and, teamed with white cotton bedlinen, a recipe for the kind of sleep one usually says farewell to around the age of nine. The kind babies enjoy.
As I left, the son of the family confided that my room was actually his special place. I could see why he was so pleased to get it back. www.theshepherdsrest.net

My book

I started it with such enthusiasm and excitement. I could hardly wait to begin tapping away at my keyboard, watching in fascination as my new novel really did write itself. Characters took shape, personalities developed - often suprising me, sometimes horrifying me - and situations evolved, all coming together in a lifelike entity that, at times, seemed to have a life of its own. I wrote chapter after chapter, often hardly able to tear myself away from the creation that was so effortlessly taking shape. I called it Irish coffee.
And then, somewhere around the 5o,000 word mark, I lost momentum. An urgent and well paid commission distracted me from a planned novel writing session. A family crisis diverted my attention for a few weeks - in short, life got in the way. I know that many people will say that writer should have the passion and comittment to find to the time and energy to write what they love. But I do love my novel - even though I haven't been near it for over a year. Maybe I should get up at five am and write before the day starts proper. Or perhaps burn the midnight oil. I'd like to, but I get up early anyway, and I need lots of sleep - or I'm proper grumpy.
But it's still there - tucked up cosily in the deepest recesses of my computer. And I still love it. And one day I'll do the next 50,000 words, and finish it.

wheels go round

I have rediscovered cycling - with the aid of a £10 second hand bright red mountain bike, purchased from a local market. And I love it. How could I have forgotten how much fun it is to pump those pedals until your heart is also pumping, determined to get to the top of a particularly stubborn hill (there's a lot of them around us), clunking the gears gradually until they're all used up. And the feeling of huge exhiliration as you crest the hill, and finally stop pedalling as the downward gradient carries you along - faster and faster. Personally I like to scream a bit at this point. The few fellow cyclists I encounter seem to find this amusing....
Now that cycling and I have found each other again, our love affair is deep and intense. Nothing will part us again, and although Thelma, my bike is past her prime, this is no way detracts from her loveliness and her dedication to the art of two wheels going around and around. She's gorgeous. Solid, strong and dependable. Like me.
Now I am keen to open the doors of Retreats for you to other lovers of two wheeled beauties. So that we can share the joy. With this in mind, and also the fact that we are mid point on the wellknown cycle route, The Western Way, I have posted Retreats for you as likely cyclists accommodation on www.thecyclepeople.com

Proud proud proud

I feel as if I've given birth. Very happy and hugely proud.
The name of my new baby is 'How to survive the great recession. A resilient response,' by Dr Ed Deevy, a writer from Ireland.
Ed has made the trip from Dublin to stay at Retreats for you twice, the second time in order to concentrate fully on the final draft of 'How to survive the great recession.' Every day he rose early, put in a full day's work on the book - making sure he sensibly took time out for a walk and a breath of Devon air at lunchtime, and was always excellent company at dinner. His charming anecdotes and wealth of experience provided endless entertainment for us and other guests, and we were sorry to see him go at the end of the week.
And a few days ago, we were thrilled and delighted to receive a copy of 'How to survive the great recession' in the post. It's an extraordinarily positive and intensely practical book, which can't fail to provide inspiration and optimism to sustain us all until things get better and brighter. As they surely will.
I'm hugely flattered that Ed asked me to be one of the guest contributors to the book, and that my contribution on ways to maintain equilibrium when times are tough is now in print. And I'm enormously proud that 'How to survive the great recession' was born at Retreats for you.
A champagne occasion if ever there was one.
Cheers, Ed. Or rather, Slainte!

Couples retreat

You'll never know who thought of it first - Retreats for you, or the nice people bringing out the film, to be released on Friday. No matter - it's a great concept, and it's here at Retreats for you.
Couples retreat - the perfect pampering package for couples who need to get away from everything and focus on each other. And to be honest, quite often that's enough to heal an ailing relationship. Yes really. A couple going through a rocky patch may well not need counselling or therapy. A goodly dose of TLC - good food, good wine and comfortable surroundings with plenty of privacy, may be all that's required. A chance to rebond and rebuild their relationship while snuggling by a blazing fire, enjoying candlelit dinners and strolling through beautiful countryside.
And if a sympathetic ear's required - hey, I'm here. 21 years of mostly happy marriage must make me some kind of authority on the subject. Couples retreat. At a cinema near you from Friday, and Retreats for You right now.

Retreat

When the charming Judi Spiers asked me what we at 'Retreats for you' mean by the word retreat, I must admit that I hesitated for a second. Then I remember that long pauses don't work well on live radio, and quickly launched into my own interpretation of the word.
The freedom to concentrate on whatever you need to - whether it's writing, painting, reading, or just spending some time alone with your thoughts. The space to spend your time as you choose, with all the encouragement and support you require. An atmosphere of friendly welcome, and also a complete lack of pressure to socialise and converse, should you not want to. A place of safety. Plenty of good food, and no cooking or clearing up. A feeling of being nurtured and looked after.
That's what the word retreat means to us. If it means anything else to someone reading this blog, I'd love to hear about it.

Sometimes the phrase 'everything happens for a reason', feels especially pertinent.I recently wrote a piece on how we all need to slow down. It covered the whole business of frantically needing to cram more and more into our days -and feeling guilty if we dare to take a breather. Of course it's good - and healthy - to be busy. But it's also vital to take time out for ourselves and not feel guilty about it. As I wrote, I remembered a conversation I'd had with my daughter Flo, when she was last home for a couple of days. We'd planned to spend a girly evening together, drinking Lambrini (secret vice - oh dear, the secret's out), giggling, eating sushi, which both us adore, and watching Mamma Mia (again). When I proceeded to drag out the ironing board, thinking I could multitask during the evening, I was met with a look of acute disappointment.'Why do you always have to be DOING something?' asked my lovely and sensible daughter. 'Put the bloody ironing away, and just come and hang out with me.' Needless to say I saw her point. A lesson learned - and reinforced when, a couple of days later I did an interview on how 'Retreats for you' came into being, for Radio Devon. The presenter, Judi Spiers was a delightful host, and the interview went swimmingly, until she asked me 'And do you ever go away on retreat yourself? You know, to recharge your batteries.' I think I winged it pretty well, and came up with a reasonable answer, but in fact the thought had never occurred to me. Now however, the idea was well and truly planted. Practise what you preach, I told myself sternly.Yesterday was a glorious warm sunny day. It was Flo's day off, and I drove into Exeter to meet her. By 9.30 am we were drinking frothy coffee in a little cafe down by the quay. I blinked into the bright sunshine, and watched the ducks cavorting on the water. 'I feel like I'm on holiday', I said. After a morning of light shopping, we picknicked on the Cathedral green, along with lots of office workers and students, the girls dressed in brightly coloured tops and dresses. Everyone was smiling in the sunshine. We talked and ate and relaxed, and then we shopped a little more.Eventually we wandered home, to find somebody else making dinner. It had been utterly delightful. And there was no guilt.

Yesterday was a perfect day, spent at the beach with family and friends in the sunshine. Along with a ton of fresh mussels, which we doused in wine and garlic and cooked up on the fire, in a huge cast iron saucepan. Said mussels combine perfectly with french bread and more wine - this time in a glass, and contributed hugely to enormous feelings of completeness.
Mental note to self to take next group of writers on a beach/mussel supper outing. Varied surroundings v good for creativity.
I think that when I am 109 or thereabouts and have finally tired of running about on this earthly plane, I will cast a benevolent eye over my life and see many snapshots of happiness. Yesterday will be one of them.

It was dark at 6.30 this morning as my fellow runner and I started reluctantly on our daily brain rattling, teeth shaking, boob joggling jaunt around the country lanes of rural Devon. We chatted to each other as we ran, and tried, as we always do, to forget the fact that our spouses were still tucked up cosily under the duvet - and the fact that, were it not for our devotion to the temples at which we worship daily (ie, our bodies), we would be snuggled up beside them.
Gamely we chatted as we pounded on and on, grimly ascending the hills, (of which there are many), seizing brief respite as we descended said hills, and desperately flashing our torches at one or two oncoming tractors intent on squashing us. (You can imagine the casual post mortems, held in local pubs. Well, ers shouldna' bin out at that time, runnin' round. Ah wouldn' let mah missis. Would 'ee?')
As we jogged up the final brutal ascent, two or three cars passed us, carrying locals on their way to work. Hearing them before we saw them, my brave jogging pal and I automatically straightened hunched shoulders, tensed flagging leg muscles, flung our heads back and pasted bright smiles on our faces - not forgetting to swiftly swipe a sweaty sleeve over our equally sweaty faces. Waving merrily, as they passed, we continued the enjoying the run charade until we reached the summit - and thankfully the end of the run.
I'd love to say that at this point, the adrenalin rush so apparently beloved by runners, (lies lies) finally took hold, and in a burst of endorphins, we strode glowing into our respective houses, ready to take on the day and all that it could fling at us. Sadly the reality was that our main feeling was one of relief that the entire bloody business was over - at least until tomorrow. There is a bit of a glow, however - of smugness. And I'm happy to report that it lasts all day...

I sometimes tire of the media's endless fascination with women's breasts. Helen Mirren's, gorgeously statuesque in THAT bikini, Ulrika's baggily adroop (thank heavens she's now had corrective surgery, and thanks too to OK magazine for giving us such a comprehensive photographic record of the results). And what one tabloid newspaper so charmingly referred to as Keira Knightly's 'fleabites'. Hard to know which is the greatest crime in celeb world. Too big, too small - or simply too saggy.
But of course breasts are very noticeable. Even covered up they are undeniably and obviously there. Unlike male sexual characteristics, which tend to be discreetly tucked away, for the most part.
This makes me wonder if one way of making sure male sexuality gets a fair look in when it comes to media scrutiny would be for men to put a little more of themselves on show. Nothing too obvious, you understand. Cut away jeans revealing a provocative hint of scrotum perhaps. Or a cheeky glimpse of foreskin.

Real life in the country

All freelance journos draw on their own lives for feature fodder now and again. Lets face it, when times are hard, it's a relatively easy source of ideas, and I've written about my husband, my kids and myself, in a pretty personal way.
Liz Jones takes this idea to a whole new level. In her strangely parallel universe - even for a daily mail feature columnist, no depths remain unplumbed, and no line uncrossed. We haven't yet been privy to the frequency with which she masturbates - but I have no doubt that day will come.
More disturbing however, than her regular bleatings about herself and her few remaining friends, and even her constant, personal and vitriolic attacks on women with children, are her recent and venom coated rantings about her countryside neighbours. Most of which are, if not complete fabrication, heavily embroidered.
What complete bollocks she writes - if you can really dignify her ridiculous wittering with that description. I've lived in the west country for 15 years, and I've never noticed a particular problem with dental health. And what on earth is Illey coffee anyway?
'I long to be clean and warm again,' moans Liz - from her filthy cave on Exmoor? The woman lives in a huge great house - which presumably has heating and hot water.
I know, I know, Liz Jones is paid by the DM to be controversial. But this is just nonsense. Don't shoot at her house. But in the name of common sense and half decent journalism, don't, for God's sake buy her book.

What is it with the shiny eyes? Up until about ten years ago, I prided myself on how rarely I gave in to tears. I scorned those who dissolved rather obviously into moistness at the merest hint of sentimentality, feeling that my rather tougher stance gave me the edge when it came to dealing with LIFE.
Now however, I find that a lumpy throat is almost part of daily LIFE. I don't think there's any more to cry about than there used to be -but good heavens, these days, the sight of a small child being cuddled by its large male parent is enough to provoke said lumpiness. And last Saturday when my gorgeous nephew married his beautiful girlfriend, surrounded by adoring family and friends, my supposedly waterproof mascara was thoroughly tested (and failed.) So is it an age thing? Are my hormones letting me down - or mucking me up?
Interestingly though, I find the whole filling up experience not unpleasant. It's sort of sweetly liberating. So much so that when a particularly moving advert came on the tv last night, and my eyes got really shiny, I allowed them to spill over - and rather wallowed in the sensation. Have I been missing something all these years?