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.