Happy Valentine’s day!!!

I have already got one card. It has a picture of two rabbits on the front and says ‘luv ya! xxx’ in it.

It is a good thing that the rabbits are trying to build bridges by sending me valentine’s cards. I am very impressed with their thoughtfulness and the fact that they were able to write it directly to me (as they do not have opposable thumbs).

I have so far got nothing from the LTLP.

I would also be disappointed not to get a delivery from at least two of the following:

THE FOXY GIRLS WHO WORK IN THE VILLAGE PUB – they might not as I am a client and it would be unprofessional. THE VEGETABLE DELIVERY LADY – ditto. She may just include a suggestive parsnip next time instead. KIRSTIE ALLSOPP (presenter of Channel 4′s ‘Relocation’ television programme) – not sure if she has my address, but it would be easy enough to get hold of as she has contacts in the estate agency business. SONIA THE TRAFFIC ANNOUNCER (ex KLFM, now Radio Norfolk) – she sends me secret coded messages in her traffic reports, so may not bother with a card and just stick to this.

I sit and eagerly await the post lady’s knock.

I’ve been working in London this week, so I stayed with my mum and dad. They live in a medium-sized Essex commuter-belt town (whose name I must keep secret from you for now).

My mother plays badminton on Monday nights, so my father and I were left to our own devices.

I decided to take a bath.

It was at this point that I discovered that, despite having been married to my mother for about 1 grillion years and living in the same house since 1967, my dad had no idea whatsoever where the towels were kept.

I marvelled at the way that he has managed to retain his natural male authority in the household. In contrast, not only do I know where our towels are kept, but I cook dinner and load the washing machine as well. A wave of despair hit me as I wondered when it was that I became so oppressed.

Do not get me wrong, as I was very in favour of the emergence of ‘feminism’ in the seventies, even though I was only about five at the time. I was a bit young to understand Ms. Germaine Greer and all that, but I was certainly impressed by the day-to-day achievements of people like Ms. Bonnie Tyler, who proved that ladies could do just as well in previously male-dominated professions such as soft rock.

I reflected upon this as I took my bath. What the vast silent majority (all of whom agree with me on everything) did not realise is that the Liberal Elite that run this country would turn this once-great nation into literally being like ‘The Worm That Turned’ by the Two Ronnies.

I do not resent the LTLP for her complicit role in this, as I love her so and she is constantly being bombarded by propaganda from hilariously biased organisations such as the BBC who never question the current orthodoxy. These liberals are just like the Taliban in their way, but without the beards (except goatees).

I got progressively angrier as I washed my armpits.

I dried myself off with my dad’s towel.

Strange noises from next door!!!

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I hurry over to Short Tony’s to investigate. If there is some mysterious thudding sound going on in the village then I want to know about it.

Mrs Short Tony opens the door, a resigned look on her face. Short Tony bounds over, excitedly, and invites me into the dining room.

I walk into the dining room and my brain does somersaults. It is no longer a dining room.

Short Tony has converted his dining room into a pub.

The pool table is set up in the middle of the room. There is a new dartboard on the wall. Already, there are dart holes in the artexing around it. Thud, thud, thud. Notices indicate the way to the toilets, and the name of the licensee.

“Glub, blig, frrrrrrt, gaaaaah,” I observe, momentarily unable to form coherent words.

“It’s great isn’t it?” enthuses Short Tony, handing me a bar menu.

Mrs Short Tony reappears, presumably having finished packing her suitcases.

My sheep has arrived!!!

New readers will need to understand that I have ordered a whole sheep from the organic farm on the Marquess of Cholmondeley’s estate.

I move in these circles, you see.

A Land Rover draws up outside, and I bound to the door. It is, as expected, a man in wellies carrying a box of sheep. Presumably this is the Marquess of Cholmondeley. He seems a very nice chap if not as well spoken or well dressed as I thought he would be.

It is all neatly vacuum packed, and he explains which bit is which (chops, legs, neck etc). I grin at him enthusiastically and try to engage him in some interesting discourse, but he disappears off quite hurriedly. I expect he has an important vote in the House of Lords.

As I gaze at my purchase I feel a big stab of guilt in my heart. The box of meat is still quite warm and suddenly I am seized with remorse for this lost sheep.

I try to revive it, but with no success.

Miserably, I start to pack the freezer.

My bird bath is occupied!!!

With the Iraqi elections etc. this might not sound like big news to you (especially my Iraqi readers, whether you voted or whether you are logging on from the insurgents’ base).

But I have been gazing forlornly at my unoccupied bird bath since I was given it for Christmas.

“Wooohooo!!! Wooohoooo!!! Come on birdies, come and have a nice bath!” I have cooed, as I have stood out on the patio waving and beckoning to them, my pants round my ankles.

That last bit was a joke.

But now it is occupied!!!

I stare through the French windows, watching it take a bath. (But not in a pervy way). It seems very happy, and I am hoping this will encourage more of its fellow species to enjoy the facilities that I have provided.

Norfolk is full of birdwatchers, and I wonder whether they would be interested in this one. They are all a bit sad, but you must remember that they get the same thrill from seeing a bird as normal people do from witnessing the first heave of an early Class 37 drawing heavy freight out of the sidings and onto the West Coast Line.

My new birdy friend finishes its activities and shakes itself off (I do not provide towels). I would like to think that it chirps a happy ‘thank you’ to me.

But I cannot hear it through the window.

“Helloooo!!! It’s me!!! Over here!!!”

I do a little tapdance across the lounge.

But try as I might, she will still not look up from The Da Vinci Code.

Or it might be the Illustrated Da Vinci Code. Or the Rough Guide to The Da Vinci Code. Or the Da Vinci Code for Dummies. Or Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch and Da Vinch. She has the lot.

Honestly. If I came home unexpectedly early and found her dressed as the Mona Lisa discussing plans for building the first helicopter in bed with Dan Brown then I would not be surprised (although a little disappointed).

I retire to the other end of the room, morose. I decide to play her a nice song on the piano. She will like that.

“Life is a moment in space,” I warble, playing an E minor chord, which is beautiful. I think for a bit before switching to an A minor (also very nice), but then it goes back to an E minor quite quickly which is difficult. “When the dream is gone – it’s a lonlieeer place.”

She does not look up but I know in my heart she is listening and is touched. I get through the verse only having to stop a couple of times, marvelling at the genius of Mr. Barry Gibb.

I go crash heartfeltly into the chorus. “I ammm a woman in love – and I’ll doooo anything…” I trill. At this point I wish Mr Gibb had written it in a slightly lower key, but what is good enough for Barbra Streisand is good enough for me. “To get you into my worrrld! And hollld you within!”

I finish the song, but she does not look up from the book.

It has her bewitched.