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!