Although I had a dreadful day at work, in some respects, it was satisfying.

I am busy writing a children's book, anyway, and no one has ever visited my blog - so, what's the point? Might as well just keep a diary in an exercise book from W H Smith.

Bye!

We had a wonderful weekend. Full of wonder. Literally. Went to the pub on the beach, and the grandchildren found "treasures", and each was examined with appropriate awe. You do actually have to wonder about some of the stuff that the sea washes up.

What I wonder about now is these silly mothers who insist on talking about their daughters as their best friends. It's usually just one daughter, and I always think, "What a burden for the girl!" I have three sons and only one daughter, and I don't want to be her best friend. I want to be her mother: her first point of call with a problem, yes, but not a buddy.

Some of these mothers actually go clubbing and pubbing with their daughters. Yuk. My daughter was at the beach with me yesterday, with her two gorgeous girls, and I was "Nan" for the afternoon - not Bridie, or best buddy - her children's grandmother, and her mother.

I can be anyone I want to be because we all have camouflage and we are all chameleons, but I want to be my daughter's mother and her children's grandmother. Her best friend, whoever she may be, is in place for different reasons.

I think that the sorriest sight of all is a woman over 40 wearing a denim jacket. She's usually her daughter's "best friend".

Too fed up to care. TV broke down a week ago, and it turns out that I cancelled my home contents insurance three years ago. On the bright side, think of the money I have saved!

I have spent these last evenings reading children's stories, and have revisited The Selfish Giant - my all time favourtite.

Work is just too terrible to talk about. The Big Bad Handsome Man is visiting this weekend, and will make everything better.

A perfect day. I took Scarlett and Primrose to the minituare steam railway, and we spent a sunny afternoon having ice creams, swings and slides, the nature walk, the little train, and cup cakes. Then, Prim's mad half hour at home, that was better than any TV ever, then the Wizard of Oz (Scarlett can work out the DVD player much better than me!), and then quiet time with Scarlett watching X Factor and the sublime Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean!

It was just the loveliest day, and I feel so blessed. Those girls make me laugh and smile all day long.

Scarlett and I found a little grave at the railway place. "I'd like to be buried here, " I told her, "it's such a happy place to be".

While we were watching the Wizard of Oz, for some reason Scarlett told me that she never wants to die, and is scared of it. It was just as Dorothy walked out of the windswept sepia cabin into the colours of Oz, and I told her, "That is what death is like - you just open that door, and go into a world of beautiful colour!"

"Will the Munchkins be there?", she asked. "No", I said, "Better than that for me, my mum and dad will be there, and my baby brother Michael. No Munchkins necessary". She was fascinated, and I wondered if I'd gone too far.

But, she just snuggled up into my arms and told me, "I love you, Nan". I love her, too. Very, very much.

Yesterday was strange. The firm working on the ground floor of the building told all their staff at 9am that they were out of a job. They had all packed up and gone by 10am. Unbelievable. You saunter into work, concerned about the fact that you haven't brought a sandwich, and you've got sticky notes all over your computer reminding you of things you have to do - and then you're told that your life as you know it is all over! I think it should be illegal to treat people like that.

On the plus side, the ground floor is now available! Spoke to Boss, and suggested we move in there - and, he agreed! So excited that we may go downstairs. Much as I love the views, I could always buy a postcard and have it framed on my desk. I want to be downstairs! I hate the 4th floor, the creaking lift, and the constant fire alarms.

Boss is off to Spain again tomorrow, and I am taking next week off. I am babysitting at the weekend, but, after that, the world's my lobster! Pevensey Bay, I think....

Boss returns to work tomorrow. Oh, God. I just hope these weeks in Spain have made him a little serene, although that's a big hope.

Yesterday, we all had to evacuate the offices because of a fire on the third floor. We're on the fourth floor, and I could see all the faces of my loved ones flash before me. Fire in that office has always been my biggest fear. It's my job to alert all the others, and I did it double quick - they were so nonchalant, "Oh, what a bore - I've got do something", and "But, I'm in the middle of a phone call"....didn't wait to reason or reply - I was first out, and shaking. Two fire engines arrived. Why ARE firemen so attractive? Is it a requisite of the job?

After 40 minutes, the fire crew explained that the main fuse on the 3rd floor had melted, and was issuing smoke. No worries, they said, EDF are on their way, and we've turned everything off on that floor, and made it safe.

Great. None of us dared take the lift back up (melting cables?), and arrived stunned and scared at our desks. No - that was just me, I think.

Anyway - happier times: it was Henry's christening on Sunday. For the first time in seven years, BBHM accompanied me to an event at which my ex would be present. I was shaking with fear, (I seem to shake all the time in fear - I must, as the BBHM says, 'woman up' here). I just couldn't bear to think of anyone being embarrassed by a confrontation, but the ex stayed in his safe corner. My former in laws all made a point of approaching, kissing, and talking to me, but he stayed well away.

He's had it his way for seven years; I've been to important events alone, and had to endure his wife looking me up and down, and have him patronise me. When he saw BBHM there, I reckon he thought it best to just stay away.

Lovely christening, if I hadn't been so nervous. Henry is so big, and so much a boy, he looked faintly ridiclous in the family christening gown - like a trannie - but adorable, nevertheless. He is one gorgeous baby!

Someone asked me if I was sad that he hadn't been christened in the Catholic Church. You know something? I couldn't care less. We're all singing from the same hymn sheet here, and Demelza and her parents are some of the most God fearing, sincere, people I know. Henry will be a lovely man; I just know it. People say that Godliness is next to cleanliness, but I believe that it is next to kindliness.

I'm back at work, and Boss is in Spain. By 10.30am on Monday, he had rung me three times. Maybe that should read "wrung" me. I don't mind, and even expect, the fact that my desk was piled high with work; it's when the chair is piled high, too, that I get annoyed. Do people really believe that I will stand there, going through their paperwork, (because it's the most important if it's on the chair), and deal with it? No. That paperwork gets shoved to one side, because I think it is OK for me to SIT at my desk to work - no?

I am very fortunate because I love my job, but sometimes it would be nice to ease back into work instead of being immersed immediately in all sorts of "urgent" stuff. And then, the calls from Spain! Rapid notes being taken, thoughts being stenographed - all crap, really. My neck is aching again from holding the phone to my ear while I write at top speed.

I should have taken a fortnight off!

I'm taking some annual leave from midday tomorrow. I dread the morning, and Boss suddenly realising that I won't be about for over a week. My holiday has been in the diary for weeks now, but I know he won't notice until I finally have to say, "But I won't be here tomorrow/next Tuesday/ or whatever day he starts to make plans for that inevitably include me.

BBHM and I are attending Bob's funeral on Friday. We visited him in the hospice at Cheltenham last Saturday week, and he died before we had even got home again. I was so taken aback when I saw him, even though I knew he wouldn't look well. Bob had always looked so immaculate, always in cashmere or linen, and it was shocking to see him lying motionless under the hospice sheets, his top denture missing, and his skin so grey. BBHM spoke to him, and kissed him. I said, "Goodbye Bob", and left the room. I just knew that he would never have wanted me to see him like that. I stood in the hospice corridor, and remembered all the laughter we had shared, and hoped that he was peaceful.

On Sunday, it is my niece's wedding in Brighton. One of those rare occasions when all my family will be in one place, and to be looked forward to.

And then, next week, BBHM is staying with me, and we will cook, and walk, and paint the front door, and do some gardening.

I hope Bob is in a good place now, and that we will laugh with him again one day.

Aaah. Such a strange time.

Strange.

I can't be bothered writing when I'm happy. Big Bad Handsome Man makes me so happy, that nothing else seems important.

There are a few other thoughts, but they will keep. Like anyone is interested, anyway.

The website guy was quite interesting. He is Dutch, and speaks English beautifully. I thanked him for cancelling his dental appointment to be with us, and he said, "It wasn't an appointment I had been looking forward to". Deadpan.

Boss was in and out of the office all day, but no big deal. He is off to London first thing tomorrow though, so I'll hold onto my hat from 8.30pm onwards!

Big Bad Handsome Man is back!!

I know I'm stubborn, and feel guilty that he always has to give in, and make a tremendous effort - but, he's the boy, and I'm the girl! Old fashioned, I guess.

He made a wonderful curry - as usual, enough for a small continent, and I will probably be eating it for the rest of my life.

This morning, I felt so animated, so lucky to be in love, to be loved, I don't think I heard a word anyone said to me. Like a dog, when their owner is chatting to them, I just heard, "blah blah blah walkies blah blah blah", and kept smiling. I only recognised words of import.

I am a very fortunate woman to love and be so in love at this time in my life. Hurrah!

Boss is in again tomorrow, having spent most of the week so far in London. He rang me from the train, asking me to get an IT guy in tomorrow for a website meeting. Yeah, no problem. It's 5pm, I'm sure everyone running website companies will be champing at the bit to come to meet us tomorrow. I was a bit disturbed when the first person I called actually was, and even changed his dental appointment to come in at 4pm tomorrow. To me, this is not a good sign....but Boss thought it was brilliant.

Let's see, shall we? Let's see.

My daughter has been awarded a grant from Inner Temple!!!!! She will be the best barrister in the land. I just know it, She will prosecute, and win. Having worked briefly with us in defence, she knew that she wanted to prosecute rather than defend, and she would like to specialise in prosecuting paedophiles.

Who wouldn't? Working in criminal defence, I have taken a shine to a few armed robbers, and murderers, but the paedophiles make me shudder. No: they actually make me sick.

I am so proud of her - a good, brave girl! Love her to bits. So, so proud.

Boss couldn't get back from London in time for his 3.30pm appointment. What? I was horrified, because this is a big case. "It's OK, Bridie," said Boss, "I'll be there by 5.30pm, and have told him to arrive at that time." Problem? "Erm", admitted Boss, "I don't seem to have any keys to the office".

No, I wasn't phased by the heat, or the fact that I had a 6pm date with a friend, "OK", I said, levelly, "I'll wait for you both". And, I did. I made tea (for client), and coffee (for Boss) and got to leave by 6.10pm. No big deal.

I would just like Boss to do what he is supposed to do when he is supposed to do it. But, in the beer garden, in the sunshine, I thought what the heck, and felt quite affectionate and sorry for Boss for having to rush all over the place.

Tomorrow, I have no doubt, I will change my mind. He will be abrasive and demanding, and I am trying to cope with six workmen and a virus on my PC.

I am so hungry, I think I might faint, but I forgot to shop again, so it will be a tomato sandwich. Happy days!

I love hearing from my eldest son. He is such a gentle person. I don't know, anymore, if that is the same as being a gentleman (probably forbidden under H & S rules). Surprised, and he was too, that he reckoned Blur so much at Glastonbury. He is a music editor, and was standing in a muddy field with a lot of other musical editors when the news of Michael Jackson's death came through.

No sockets for mobile phone chargers, and they were there to cover the festival, anyway. I sympathised with his frustration, but we laughed a lot about the whole coverage of the story. Likened it to Elvis - the naivete, the allowing of doctors and their "prescribed" drugs - we spoke of it all.

No, he didn't fall in love, and was quite tired.

I was, too. And, today! Well, when the lift broke down, my life was complete.

Went for Tapas with my daughter this evening. We were remembering the time a whole crowd of us went to lunch at Birling Gap, and the service was just dreadful. We all got served at different times, some dishes were not what we'd ordered, some were cold, and the waitress was in shrugging mode, as if we were the most terrible nuisances that had ever interrupted her Sunday lunch time.

When the bill arrived, it was hefty, with no reductions for the mistakes we had courteously pointed out, and patiently waited to have corrected. Some of the mistakes were never corrected at all, with a vegetarian amongst us finally just eating the vegetables around a piece of gristly meat served to her. There was the usual business of adding up, and eking out, and notes being swapped and change being counted until we had the correct amount on the plate. I then took a biro from my bag and wrote on the bill. Where it stated, after the total amount, "Service Not Included", I wrote, "No, it certainly wasn't" - and sternly refused the offer of contributions to a tip.

Suddenly, it seemed, I was alone. My friends and family had dashed to their cars. I took the plate overflowing with notes and the defaced bill to the bar, and handed it to the waiter. I waited until he declared the amount correct, read the comment on the bill, and turned to me with a crooked smile. "Goodbye," I said, and walked, alone, into the car park.

Recalling this over the Tapas, my daughter said that it had been an hilarious incident. Had it? "Well, we were all laughing in our cars," she told me, "We did think it was funny". Not funny enough to stick around and enjoy it, obviously.

I guess it's an age thing. I certainly wouldn't expect any extra for doing my job hopelessly. In fact, I would expect a verbal warning. Why do we automatically tip for bad service? Being English has its good points, but when we act without thinking, out of some sort of misplaced intimidation and fear, it's just ridiculous.

I can't ignore Michael Jackson's death. Of course, he was a musical genius and an amazing performer. BUT. Big but. Why, how - did he get to be in charge of three children who are clearly, genetically, not his? What were the US equivalent of Social Services thinking about, especially after he dangled that child out of a window? Cooing fans who keep on about how he spent every day with his children overlook the fact that maybe he wasn't the best influence, being mentally flawed.

I don't recall this fuss when Freddie Mercury died, and I'd take "Don't Stop Me Now" over "Thriller" any day.

Best laugh I had was reading the tributes by so-called celebrities. Chris Moyles (yeah - I know: a celebrity in his own mind), said: "Michael Jackson was to me what I imagine Elvis was to another generation". How old does fat old Chris think we imagine he is? The whole Jacko thing is surrounded by surrealism - and Chris Moyles bought into it by pretending to be young. Elvis was probably born in the same year as Moyles.

Thinking of the eldest son in Glastonbury this weekend, and hope he falls in love. I qualify that by hoping he falls in love with someone who is not an extremist. We've had the Buddhists, the feminists, the vegetarians (actually, one of my daughters in law is a wonderful, undemanding vegetarian, and a terrific cook - to my shame, I offered her tomato and cheese pizza every time she visited in the first two years we knew each other), the bohemians.

Rock on, Chris Moyles.

I actually found Farrah Fawcett's death far more moving than Jacko's. I don't even ask, "Is it just me?" I know it is. People love all this wailing and bansheeing. I mean, if Terry Wogan died, I would, literally, miss him. He is my friend every morning when I get ready for work, making me laugh. How can anyone miss a guy who lived his life as a recluse and made his chikdren wear masks? Well, unless he was popping in for tea with them occasionally, which I doubt.

It's like the Princess Di thing. Mass hysteria about someone the public didn't know at all. They probably show less emotion at their own mothers' funerals. Sickening.

I can't help but think it is deliberate. On the one day this week I had to go home during the lunch hour to meet a plumber, Boss says at 12.55 - "We need to get this case sorted out. Call the officer in the case and find out how he intends to proceed, call the client and advise him; if it's going to be a charge, get the client in!"

The client IS going to be charged - with theft from employer, big time. What rogues a recession makes of us all. Drove home at breakneck speed to meet plumber, who spent twenty minutes fixing the boiler, and thirty minutes explaining it to me. Would it be rude to say that I don't CARE how it works, that I am just grateful that he has fixed it? Why have plumbers become like male hairdressers, who go on and on about the porous nature of hair, and all sorts of crap? Just do the job! When I am working for someone, I don't regale them with tales of research and grammar. I've been asked to do it, because they don't know how to. I'm happy; they're satisfied - end of.

Back to work, with huge bill from plumber in hand, and Boss says, "We need to go through some details". No, actually, we don't. What he means is, could I come into his office while he takes loads of 'phone calls, answers emails, and I sit there, the view from his window etching istelf into my mind forever, whilst I have a huge workload sitting on my own desk.

Then he asks, "Coming to the pub for a drink?", and I say, no. We quite often go for a couple of drinks on a Friday night, and quite a few colleagues were up for it this evening, but I just could not bear one more hour of legal chatter. Illegal chatter.......mmmmm

Boss was in the office all day, and I thought it was going fine, he not being in any mode of transport. We exchanged pleasantries, talked about a few cases, shared a joke - and then, and then! At 5.15pm, he rushed into my office, and said, "I need you to do some research on criminal defence solicitors in Inverness - now". At 5.15pm, when I had the rushabout evening from hell ahead of me. I had to get to Sainsburys for essentials, (shouldn't have put it off all week, but am the only woman I know who detests shopping), then get to my sister's to deliver a birthday gift for her granddaughter, and then on to my daughter's to babysit Primrose whilst she and Ben take Scarlett for a bicycle ride and ice cream (celebrating Scarlett's prowess at school sports day today). I was only asked at 4.30pm, so had no chance of prior organisation.

Did some research, came up with some names, facts, contact details by 5.25pm. Whew! Ran in to where he was having a conference with the client whose case required such information, and handed him my list. I felt chuffed - got it all printed out so quickly, all contact details clear, and he said, "Actually, we probably won't need to go into that right now". Why do I never upend the table, throw a chair through a window, scream like a banshee? Well, I guess punctured balloons don't fly far.

Raced about the supermarket, trying to remember what I had considered so essential, drove to my sister's: kisses, Happy Birthday's!!, hugs, got to go - drove off to my daughter's, jumped out and up the stairs at breakneck speed - and they're having some sort of langorous tea party!!! When the visiting mummy and her children departed, and I thought they were all set, a bloke turned up to look at the water pipes or something. In the end, they didn't leave until nearly 7pm, and finally I got some quiet time with Primrose.

Actually, time with Prim is never very quiet. But, as I observed her, launching missiles (fridge magnets), demanding that her milk was cooled, ordering me to read a story, dancing about on the coffee table (a very imaginative and spontaneous dance), trying to force a biscuit into my mouth, I did laugh. My whole life is like this, I realised, and always has been. Boss, my beloved daughter, all six grandchildren, BBHM, the sons, the secretaries who cry when they don't get THE text message from HIM - it's all about trying to make people happy.

It's a give and take world, right? Boss made me happy the day he bailed me out over my gas bill; my daughter makes me happy every time she smiles; the grandchildren make me happy just thinking about them, and to hold little Prim's hand in mine tonight and sing the ducky says wack wack song was magical; BBHM has made me happier than I ever believed possible; my sons make me both proud and happy; the girls at work are a source of so much laughter and fun....

I shouldn't complain, ever. I have a charmed, amazing life, full of loving, amusing, interesting and wonderful people.

But, right now - this evening......

Sometimes, in the evenings, I feel sad, without really knowing why.

Boss rang from Malaga airport. Could someone travel to meet him at Gatwick with his security pass for the London offices? Where is the security pass? At his home. Key to his home is in the usual flowerpot outside. Who can I send? Who? We are one down with food poisoning, one at a funeral, and everyone else in court or at the nick. So tempted to shut up shop and go, but sent the one person I knew would take the scenic route (and the piss), and probably visit Sainsbury's en route. No other option.

A client arrived this afternoon, and fanned herself with our copy of The Times. "I don't know how you work in here," she said. "Do you think it's too hot?", I asked, "I've got the fan going. I thought it was pretty cool". She laughed, and said, "I don't mean that, I mean the water running down the walls, the workmen climbing all over you, in and out of windows, that drill going....." "Oh, that!", I found myself saying, "Business as usual". I have actually got used to it.

All my marigolds have died, despite constant care and attention. They must have been blighted from the off, since the daisies thrive. What heartache a garden brings, and yet what joy! My little mirrors hanging from the trees send beautiful prism-like colours into my kitchen, and my heart lights up.

Everyone seems to be in the doldrums at the moment. My children, (who tell me at length about their problems in a way I would never have told MY mother), me, colleagues - even the woman I regularly buy my newspaper from. She's usually so happy and smiley, but this evening, she said, "June 23rd, and no proper summer. I do feel, really, as the years go by, that I am getting smaller, like a little gas flame". But, I said, how's your new little granddaughter?, and her face lit up, and she was quite animated for thirty seconds, but then said, "Getting older is crap, isn't it?" Well, I don't know. I tried to think. I wanted to save something for her; make something worthwhile. "We wouldn't have any grandchildren if we were young," I said, pathetically, and she suddenly burst out crying, and howled, "You are the nicest person I know, and I don't even know you."

It wasn't my finest hour. I'm not good at hugging strangers, (even when Lottie told me she had split up with Rob and fell against my shoulder, I had trouble hugging her), and so the counter stayed firmly between us whilst I paid for the paper. "We all have dreary moments," I said, "but the sun will shine tomorrow, and you should make the most of it. Take your little grandchild down the pier, and buy ice cream and candy floss, and both get drunk on sugar".

She laughed; I smiled.

I got into my car, and put my head on the steering wheel. 23rd June! Today is my dad's birthday. Dad, I so miss you. I think I need something stronger than sugar this evening.

Workmen all over the shop this morning, supposedly mending the leak that has made our office like a walk in shower. I had Diet Coke bloke right outside my 4th floor window, wearing nothing but low slung jeans. I could see his appendix scar. Do women ever really find mens' bodies attractive? I prefer the seagulls. Surely a body is only attractive when you love the inhabitant of it? I can't help but think that the younger secretaries are trying to impress each other when they talk about "pecs" and "buns". I don't believe a single one of them find it attractive. I just want them all to go away, and leave me to my office in the sky. This isn't what I signed up for - we used to have such beautiful, calm offices. Hate this building.


Boss returns from Spain tomorrow. Deep joy. Workmen will be back, as threatened.

Why do people groan and moan when it rains because they have just hung out their washing? It's only a final rinse, for heaven's sake. When I mention this, I am told that, no, the rain is dirty. Really? I stuck my hand out of the office window for three minutes last week when it rained, and then made my point. My hand was cleaner than three minutes previously, and it certainly didn't smell.

If rain is dirty and smelly, as so many people believe, why are there so many cleaning and deodorising agents with names like "After the Rain" and "Rainfresh"?

People do repeat such nonsense to each other, and can't even remember where they got it from originally, much less question it.

Boss rang me from the Gatwick Express train, cursing and fuming about the intercom announcements. "How many languages does she need to announce in that this is the Gatwick Express?", he roared over the sound of her voice, "Anyone who's on this train knows it's the Gatwick Express!!"

The upshot of this burst of fury was that he clean forgot what he had called me for. I don't know how many languages that female voice speaks in, but I am going to write to British Rail to suggest that they add quite a few more to the list.

Furious that I had to pay 5p for a carrier bag to take my new shoes home in. (What a badly stuctured sentence!) I questioned the assistant - although I am ever aware that they are just "obeying instructions", and would prefer to be out in the sunlight than serving people like me. "How does me paying 5p to you help the environment?", I asked. She told me that it discourages customers from asking for bags. Bags, I may add, that advertise the store name quite proudly. "And the box?", I asked, since the box she gave me the shoes in was the size you would use to convey a tortoise about. "Oh, the box is free," she said, airily. Remind me again how cardboard is made? Environment? Cashing in? It's laughable - and a tax on guilt. Memo to self: Never enter Brantano again.

Loved the two days of 5.30 am starts - so much more time for waffle-throwing, changing outfits, felt-tipping legs, and hiding car keys. I love those girls, but, boy! How did I bring up four children? I guess they just come into your life gradually, (not that gradually - the first two were only 13 months apart), and become your way of life. But, when you've had years of living alone, and loving it, it's madness when two little girls move in with their Angelina Ballerina trolley cases, special blankets, teddies and dummies, songs, dances, nappies, and behaviour that resembles that of small drunks, it's a wake up call. A remembrance call - ah, yes, I remember this: I know when to say yes or no, when to be tough, or give in.

And the equipment! I used to have striped nylon buggies from Mothercare. You just put a foot on a lever and - pop - it opened. It closed as easily. Now, the pushchairs are all 4 x 4's, and the mechanics of every damn thing from the pushchair to the car seat is like trying to erect 20 deckchairs on a windy beach,

I understood this weekend what my sister meant when she said that Primrose reminds her of me. She reminded me of me - always knowing what she wants, and going for it. As she tore a wooden train out of the hands of a huge boy in the little steam train park, I thought, "uh, oh - doesn't recognise danger or bigness. Bumpy ride ahead, Prim!"

Amazing, really. Boss was in the office all day today, and the words "Good morning" were the only ones we exchanged. It really is transport that gets him thinking - and phoning. He'll be on the early train to London tomorrow, so that will be ninety minutes of stress for me.

I went to London briefly at the weekend, and saw big H and little O. Also, of course, Demelza and Ben. I visited Wandsworth shopping centre, and was alarmed by how alarmed I felt. Everyone seems to rush so much in London, and talk on mobile phones all the time, even though they seem to hunt in packs, (they don't seem to need to say anything to the people they are actually with), and it seems quite soulless and frightening to me.Perhaps I am wrong, and it is just a sort of party that I don't understand, or haven't been invited to, or have forgotten how to behave at.

I have visited countries all over the world, and have slept, for example, in Tokyo airport, but I have never felt so alarmed as I felt in the middle of Wandsworth amongst my own countrymen, all speaking my language, but not to me, and not even to each other. I was glad to get back home. I must be getting old. Who was it who once said they dreaded the "elderly cough on the stair"? Well, I live in a flat, so I shall at least be spared that.

I was so happy this morning to go into my garden and see how lovely it is, and appreciate the work I did at the weekend. I untangled a windchime on the blossom tree, and watered all the plants, and then just stood. I was looking at the garden, and an enormous seagull was looking at me from the chimney stack across the way. I wonder if it's the same chap who perches outside my fourth floor window at work and taps his beak against the glass. Strangely, I had the window wide open today because of the heat, and he didn't come to visit. Maybe, he's like Boss - only wants to know me when I am not actually right in front of his nose.

That dreadful laugh of Elaine Paige's got me out in the garden today, and I have done a respectable job. I took two loads of greenery to the tip, a place I love, and where I always meet someone I know. Today, it was Ray, a man I worked with years ago, who reputedly has a drink problem - but he was at the garden area with me, and not the bottle bank.

Planted all the marigolds, and the daisies, and strung the new wind chimes and mirrors and bells through the trees. Had to do a lot of lopping - very satisfactory work. Of course, I miss the sulking Big Bad Handsome Man, who loves working the garden with me, but some things can't wait.

When I finally returned to the kitchen, that dreadful EP and her horrendous laugh were gone, and I've got Paul O'Grady, who doesn't feel the need to laugh falsely, and is genuinely funny. Perhaps that is EP's problem? She is not funny. Get over it, love, and get on with what you are good at - singing.

I'm having Scarlett and Primrose to stay next weekend, and am hoping the weather will be good. We can go to the little train, or the bluebell wood, maybe. Must remember to get the crunchy nut cornflakes and lots of broccoli. And, a curry for Scarlett, who loves spicy foods.

Apparently, Scarlett has been telling her friends about her up coming sleepover with her Nan, and told them that, at Nan's, she can even eat chocolate for breakfast! No, she can't. Spoke to my daughter about it, and she said, "But, she imagines she can! It's just a blur of freedom and fun for her!!" I've achieved my goal, then.

My love for these little children has the been the biggest and best surprise of my life. Them, and BBHM, but he's less likely to be impressed by Deirdre, the fairy hanging from the blossom tree, if he ever sees her......

Why do female radio presenters think it is necessary to laugh as part of their job? They're all at it, shrieking away like banshees. And, the laughter is so false and unattractive. I find Sarah Kennedy with her Daily Mail politics and pet pussy cat stories hard to take at the best of times, but when she laughs, I have to switch off the radio.

Male presenters seem able to laugh naturally, and only when something is actually funny. Why can't the females learn from them?

I am particularly cross because for some time now I have had to switch off the radio for a couple of hours every Sunday to avoid the absolutely horrid "laugh" of Elaine Paige. It's obvious that the laugh is forced and unreal by the speed with which it ends - unlike Terry Wogan & Co who are sometimes reduced to giggles that prevent them from speaking.

I have nothing personal against Elaine Paige, but really, she should stick to singing.

Why do whole families go shopping together? Does it take every member of a family to choose the week's groceries? It's not as if shopping is a recommended family pursuit - I mean, life may be a beach, but Asda is not. And, they all seem to be sightless - just walking straight at you, causing you to have to duck and dive around them. When two such familes know each other, they stop right beside the very products you are trying to reach, chatting, their trollies akimbo, forcing you to swerve and reach around them, and then - oh, why? - apologise. I found myself saying "sorry" to two familes who were taking up the entire space beside the fish food chiller cabinet, and who looked at me as if I was deranged when I attempted, too politely probably, to reach around them for a packet of prawns. "Sorry," I caught myself saying, as one of their trollies banged into my hip.

My Big Bad Handsome Man is still sulking, it seems.

Boss played golf today, and never rang me once!

Boss was in the office all day. That meant that I had to alert him to outstanding issues. We walked around the building, talking about signage, but he was reluctant.I don't think he remembered what we'd spoken about. He changed all the rules, and I had to contact the sign people with a whole new wish list.

But, when he is in the office, he leaves me alone, mostly. He finds other things to occupy him. Thank God, or whoever it is who works his mindset. It's travelling and the mobile phone that is the problem.

Hannah at Work pointed out to me how many jobs I have. They ring in to speak to the Practice Manager, she said, that's you. They ring in to speak to the Boss's PA; that's you. They ring in to speak to the fee earners' secretary; that's you. Who aren't you? "I'm not the janitor," I told her, "and someone else ought to water the plants, and order signage, and put a hard hat on to take the workmen onto the leaking roof". Who?, she asked. Oh, shut up.

One of our female alcoholic clients came in this afternoon, and collapsed onto the chair next to the tank of marine fish. "I've had enough!", she said. Clearly she had, and all courtesy of the local Wetherspoons. It's so sad to see her like this - she comes from a respectable family, is in her forties, and in an abusive relationship with a much older man. She's up in court soon for throwing a telephone at him, and yet, she sits in front of me with two black eyes and a broken wrist. "What do you think I should do?", she asked me piteously. Erm - get away from him? "But, I lurve him sho mush", she said. She used to be a nurse, with her own flat. Now, she's homeless, and unable to look after herself, never mind nurse anyone else. How does this happen to decent people?

She suddenly spotted our new addition to the fish tank, and became quite animated. "She'sh golden!", she cried, "Wash her name?" We have tried to recreate the cast of Finding Nemo in our tank and have clown fish, a blue Dory, and all sorts. "She's called Marge", I told her, "because she's the colour of margarine". She said, how strange, the names people give you."When I was in HMP Bronzefield," she said, "they all called me Martini. I've no idea why". Sometimes, I don'y know whether to laugh or cry.

Like the guy who came in last week and wanted to take out an action aganst the police. "They violated my Human Rights", he said, with an air of certainty. I sat down and spoke to him to ascertain whether we had a case, and it turned out that the police had offered him a meal of lasagne while he was in custody, and he doesn't eat "foreign muck". Hannah at Work said she could see me trying not to laugh out loud when she passed the interview room.

"Your shoulders were trembling," she told me, "I knew you were either going to laugh or sneeze". I am getting very good at these pretend sneezes...

Boss has rung four times so far from the train to Newcastle. He dictated three letters, an attendance note, and two memos, none of which appear remotely connected with work, and all of which he will probably have forgotten about when he comes into the office tomorrow.

I do wish the fee earners would be prompt about seeing their clients, instead of allowing them to loiter about, chatting to me for what seems like hours on end. This morning, whilst Boss was grabbing my attention every thirty minutes on the 'phone, an extremely grubby man, wearing soiled clothes that smelled sour, and with a can of White Lightning sticking out of his pocket, strolled in for an appointment he had to see JKR. He had hair down to his shoulders, which appeared to have bits of foodstuff matted in it. He sat down and sniffed loudly every twenty seconds. Although I told JKR as soon as he came in, he didn 't come and collect him for a full eighteen minutes (yes, I was counting). "Well thank goodness for that," I said, "Mr X had a crew cut when he arrived!"

It's almost the middle of the working week. Hip, hip..........

I am developing a crick in my neck from holding the phone receiver against my ear with a hunched shoulder while I take screeds of dictation. I think I am going to have to start putting Boss on speaker phone when he calls in with his impulsive ideas, all requiring letters and notes to be written at break neck speed.

As he had pulled away from the office in his car on his way to a meeting, he had decided that our company sign on the exterior wall was not adequate. Could I research signage - metals that might be used, font, size, price, etc, etc. I wanted to say that I would do it directly after I had finished peeling my grapes, but thought better of it. As shop fascias flashed past him, he wondered aloud about plastic signage, about lighting, about lettering, about two and three dimensions.

Surely, even with a flipping blue tooth, this sort of driving must be illegal? Driving whilst one's mind is anywhere but on the road should be illegal. Gritting my teeth, and scribbling copious notes, my silent prayer is that he will run out of signal. And then, suddenly, he shouted, "Bloody cyclist!", and the line went dead. Oh dear.

One of the young secretaries asked me this afternoon if it is really a criminal offence to imitate a policeman. I told her that, yes, of course it is. She was amazed. Think of the possible repercussions, I said. I told her that we once had a client who imitated ambulance men. Imagine the repercussions of that! She looked at me blankly, and then asked, "What? So if I go up to a policeman - or a paramedic or something - and start mimicking him - I could get arrested?" I laughed so much, I couldn't speak coherently. Luckily, she laughed too when she realised her mistake, and wasn't hurt or offended. She is a lovely girl, and very good at the job.

Dreading Wednesday, when Boss is off to Newcastle. That's hours of travel time - hours of phone calls requiring immediate action. I am thinking of going through the diary for the whole year, and taking a day off on every day that he is travelling long distance. Two things stop me: the fact that I would have no real holiday time left, and that I would leave such a burden for Hannah At Work (so called to distinguish her from my daughter named Hannah).

I didn't want to call my daughter Hannah. I wanted to call her Jessica Anne. Jessica, because I love the name, and Anne after my sister. But my husband wanted Hannah after his grandmother, (who was the loveliest member of his family). I agreed, as long as I could have Rachael as a middle name, giving her the initials HRH. The only time I won the name game with my four children was when the third son was born. He having had his way with the first two sons, I was determined to name my third son. When the husband arrived at the hospital, and told menhe'd decided on Ben as a name, I knew he meant Benjamin. When the registrar visited the hsopital, I registered that gorgeous little baby as Benedict, and Benedict he still is. I knew Husband would be too lazy to visit the registry office to change it.

Small memories; big lives.

What a weekend - I don't even know who won the Eurovision Song Contest. They don't seem to feature it in the newspapers anymore. I can't pretend I would have watched it even if I had been at home. I like Graham Norton, but he is a bit too manic - and, then, there's all those dreary songs to sit through.

Anyway, I was in Wimbledon for the weekend visiting two month old Henry. A real chunky monkey, with bubble-blowing kisses. Sat up far too late with Ben and James (Demelza sensibly went to bed before midnight), and drank far too much wine. Woke up the next morning to find a flashing turtle in bed beside me. My sons do love their little jokes.

We had a pub lunch on Sunday, which I thought ridiculously overpriced, but I didn't say so. I got less fish on my sea bass than I would have got in a fish finger. I can't bear roast dinners, so always lose out with the alternative option on a Sunday. Still, the company was great. My children look after me so well, and so prtoectively, it is quite humbling. I feel like that girl in The Sound of Music when she sang, "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good...."

Back to work today. Boss is in the office, safely away from any form of transport, so I am being spared his impulsive thoughts and directions. I am being watched by a huge seagull, who is perched on the balcony outside of the office window. How clean these birds are! People too often call them flying rats when, in reality, they are sparklingly spotless.

I suspect that Tracey has been feeding the gulls from her window ledge because they are becoming overly brave and familiar, tapping on the glass with their beaks. Tracey doesn't seem to understand that some creatures are supposed to scavenge for their food. She told me she puts down dog food in her garden for foxes. She's a menace. If she tells me that she prefers animals to people, we won 't be on speaking terms for long.

We had a secretary a couple of years ago who was forever talking about her doggy woggies, and saying that she preferred animals to humans. I think it's a control thing. And anyway, animals can't laugh. Well, apart from hyenas, I guess. I remember the morning I caught that secretary pouring boiling water onto ants on a kitchen work top. I pretended to burst into tears, wailing, "But they are all God's creatures..." I think she thought I had finally flipped when, in reality, I was trying to give her some insight into how she sounded.

Spoke too soon. Boss in car going home for lunch. He just called me with a thought he has had about one of our current cases, and wants me to research some archived files. Here we go again.....

Boss can't have used any form of transport today, because I got not one single phone call. Perhaps he's lying dead somewhere. If so, I have no doubt that he will call me from the hearse sometime soon.

My best friend of an evening is a good book, but I'm ploughing through something at the moment that I know will intrigue me sometime soon, but hasn't yet. I do miss dead authors. I remember Annie Walker on Coronation Street once envying Mavis because she was beginning her first Catherine Cookson novel. "Oh", she cried, "how lucky! The whole of Catherine Cookson before you!" I wish it were like that for me with Graham Greene or Brian Moore. Living authors that I love are Anne Tyler, Lionel Shriver, Margaret Forster etc, but they don't write as quickly as I read. I re-read my favourites, and they never disappoint. Alice in Wonderland! Pure joy.

The rain is pouring onto my little garden, and I look out with sorrow and hope. Sorrow that all my weeding efforts will have to be redoubled - and, how do you weed a patch that has wild bluebells in it without destroying them? Hope, because I look out and see the table and chairs, the blossom tree, the fairy lights, the folded children's deckchairs, the windchimes and fairies hanging from the tree, the hidden fairies in the beds, and their fairy doors in the walls, and I remember so many lovely afternoons out there, and hope for more, more, so many more. Olivia and Scarlett are too tall now to play their laundry fairies game with my washing line - but Natasha, Francesca and Primrose are just about the right height......

Why does he do this to me? Just as I was closing everything down, and getting ready to leave, Boss calls from the back of a London black cab, asking me to book a restaurant for five people. He mentions three or four restaurants, which I dutifully call, and I can smell the garlic wafting down the 'phone, so hungry am I. No joy. London restaurants are booked up on Thursday evenings. Who has a table for five at 8.30? None of his suggested restaurants, that's for sure. They almost snigger at me for my audacity in expecting them to have a free table so late on a Thursday evening. Oh, for heavens sakes. I make myself a cuppa soup, and keep trying. Finally, I get a table for five booked in a salubrious restaurant that I actually visited once when I was a Londoner.

I call him with the good news, having called him several times with disappointing news, but reassuring him that I was still trying. He was clearly in an ale house, and seemed bewildered by my news of a table booking for 8.30pm. In truth, he sounded bemused to hear from me at all. "It's almost 7pm, Bridie," he said, "Why are you at work?"

He then told me that one of his guest's PA's had booked a table some time ago, and he apologised for not telling me half an hour ago. Well, great!

And, good old guest's PA. Full brownie points, bitch!

I do miss my Big, Bad, Handsome Man when I get home to a microwave meal (although microwave meals are underrated - yes, I know, you can't beat fresh spinach, Mum) - I do hope I will see him this weekend, and enjoy some of his wonderful cooking.

Wonder what Boss has up his sleeve for me tomorrow? Painting the Cistine chapel, perhaps? Counting the grands of sand on the beach? Translating Ulysses into Sanskrit? Can't wait. Just can't wait.

What the hell - ? Boss left the office four minutes ago to catch a train, and he's rung in already. He has had an idea about the new parking scheme in the town. Thank God for railway tunnels! He got cut off midway through dictating a letter to the local paper. Even unfinished, the letter is so long that it will need a page of the paper all to itself.

The thing about these ideas is that, when I remind him of them on his return to the office, he swats them away like annoying flies, and tells me that he is too busy to be bothered with all that right now. If I don't remind him, he will suddenly seize upon them three weeks later, and ask me why I have forgotten to remind him.

Oh, well. Right now, I'm more concerned about one of my teeth. It is what dentists would describe as "mobile", i.e. it's loose. I'm going to have to make enquiries about a dentist because I haven't been registered with a dental surgery for ages. I always thought one of the joys of being grown up was never having to visit the dentist, but our teeth make sure that it's a short lived joy.

The only time I have ever enjoyed a visit to the dentist was when my mother was in the chair, her mouth propped open, and I started to go through everything in her handbag. The gurgling sounds she was making did not alert the dentist to the fact that she was trying to shout at me to shut her bag immediately, and I happily continued to sort through photos, letters, receipts, lipsticks and small, private possession that mystified me. I tried on her (Californian Tan) spare stocking, smeared her (Cherry Pink) lipstick on my mouth, and sprayed myself with Blue Grass. Well, I was only six. I think they've stopped making Blue Grass now; I never smell it anywhere.

Mobile phones should only be used in an emergency when travelling. This is the new law I want to see passed to make my life so much easier. As it is, my boss calls me from every train, taxi and car, expecting me to drop everything I am doing and make copious notes about new ideas he's just had, take dictation for six page letters, and asking me to go to his PC and find emails that he received three or four months ago.

And now, now, I am told that some time very soon we are to be allowed to use mobiles on aircraft. NO-O-O-O-O! Please, no. My only peaceful hours are when my boss is in the air. I look forward to them, and treasure them.

If he goes on holiday, I cannot look forward to a fortnight of peace because he will call me from all over the world, asking me to find scraps of paper on his desk, to find phone numbers for people whose full names he can't remember, to tax his car without any paperwork, and to remember his password for eBay.

Whoever is in charge, and I do include God in this prayer, please do NOT allow the use of mobile phones on aircraft. Please, please, please!