I am not particularly good at the confessional stuff.

Frankly, I would always prefer to keep things to myself. Although psychologists probably recommend it, I am not a big fan of exposing yourself by being all open and shouting stuff from rooftops. That is what Neville Chamberlain did, and he never quite got the same level of respect again.

I think for a while before speaking.

“I am a bit stressed, that’s all,” I mumble, going a bit red. “I’ve got loads and loads of work on, and I’m finding the Toddler quite demanding on my patience and need for personal space. So I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit – you know.”

“Added to that,” I continue, “the LTLP said that I was ‘just fucking odd’ the other night. I’m still really down about the unfairness of that.” I pause for a second. “I’m sorry. You’ve all got your own problems, I know.”

“Cluck,” reply the chickens.

I set down their bacon and beans, which they seem extremely pleased with. Honestly, even if I am a bit miserable, there is nothing better than an appreciative audience for a nice meal you’ve cooked.

“Anyway. I think I need to make a couple of positive decisions,” I announce. “Sort of sit down and work out what’s important to me and what – are you ignoring me?!?”

The chickens peck frantically at their lunch. A couple have already grabbed bits of bacon and run off to the other side of their garden to eat it on their own. I gaze over at them in dismay before stomping out through the door and bolting it furiously behind me.

“You’re just fucking rude!” I shout.

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #3 in a series of 945722572.

I feel that this is some sort of watershed in my life. Once, when I was little and ‘the kids’ was not spelt with a ‘z’, I was abreast of all the new technologies that humanity was embracing.

Now, I am hopelessly out of touch. I think it was when the QL took over from the ZX Spectrum. Gradually, I lost touch with technology and the zeitgeist an’ stuff and discovered beer and music and chickens and girls, or at least pictures of them, on the internet.

But I have Sky TV!!! Sky TV!!! Who says that I am not down with ze kids now???

I settle down to watch the bowls.

Barry Hearn, legendary snooker and boxing promoter, has discovered bowls, and has put it on Sky TV. He is astute, and knows that it will be the next big thing – he has even got sponsorship from a racy poker website. I lean forward on my sofa as the chap draws gently in on the backhand. The bowls is indoors, in an arena, but is otherwise proper bowls, with extra commentary.

Suddenly the lights go out in the auditorium. ‘Power play!!!’ booms a pre-recorded voice over the tannoy. ‘Power play!!!’. Immense spotlights machine-gun crazy zig-zag patterns on the mat.

There is a momentary pause, before a spontaneous ‘oooooh!!!’ erupts from the audience. I have never heard such an ‘oooooh’ before. It is voluminous, and laced with irony, but is somehow not unkind – as if a particularly shiny and high-wattage jug kettle had been revealed as top prize on a remake of ‘Sale of the Century’ presented by Jonathan Ross as a prelude to the categories being announced at the Magazine Display Media Sales Awards 2008.

“He’s taking his power play!” announces the commentator, excitedly.

I am strangely happy about all this. It is reassuring that such a quintessentially English tinkering to such a quintessentially English sport gets such a quintessentially English reaction. I hope the organisers are happy too. You can love something and still take the piss out of it, in fact that sometimes means that you actually really really DO love it, or that is what I tell the LTLP anyway.

I watch the rest of the bowls. It is gripping. We are playing tonight, and I will suggest to the club captain, who has a beard, that we should get some strobe lighting.

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #2 in a series of 945722572.

“Are you sure?” I demanded of Man in Call Centre. “Are you absolutely, totally, 100%, cast-iron, definite, there-can-be-no-mistake sure?”

I received a leaflet from Sky TV. Normally, I throw all leaflets in the recycling bin straight away, since the postman has said that he is not allowed to do this. I do not know why I looked at this leaflet, which promised free Sky TV for three months with no obligations at all whatsoever, and £50 worth of M&S vouchers. There is not an M&S in the Village, but there is no reason why I shouldn’t travel to one, and the vouchers might come in handy for ‘Things that have kept me away from the computer #4′ (to be announced). I looked at the leaflet.

I read the small print. I read it again, and asked the LTLP about it. I held it up to the light to see if the word ‘NOT!!!’ was in very faint writing after the explanation. I looked up ’sky tv offer +scam +ripoff +I will find r murdoch and punch his face’ on the google – nothing was to be found.

I ordered Sky TV. It is one of those things like book clubs, where they take your details and rely on you forgetting to cancel, so it is free for a bit then will cost one million grillion pounds per month. But I will not forget to cancel, as I have written it in the diary, written it in the other diary, written it on the LTLP’s Blackberry, written it physically on the leaflet and put the leaflet in the ‘day to day’ file that I look in daily, sent an email to myself with ‘DON’T FORGET TO CANCEL’, created a blog post that will appear automatically the day before cancellation date, set an online calendar thing to pop up and told Short Tony, Big A, and all the readers of my private secret diary ie you.

I will cancel it as I am not actually that interested in Sky TV. As far as I can tell, unless you want to watch the women’s senior matchplay golf in North Dakota or ‘Inside their minds: America’s worst sex offenders’, there is not much on there apart from Frasier every night and some good cricket every now and again. I do not really watch much television. I am just having my free offer because I can.

I have been trying to find new hobbies and interests that don’t involve sitting at the PC being a dweeb, and I am not sure that Sky TV is anything other than a bit of a cul-de-sac. I will give it a chance. But I do not think that it is the new ‘getting chickens’.

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #1 in a series of 945722572.

Wee.

Wee lakes, gathering in the shallow depressions on the leather sofa. Wee cascading down onto the floor, first a waterfall then a steady drip, drip, drip. Pools of wee on the oak floorboards, reflecting the light of the TV screen in a mirror of wee; finding the gaps and joins in the wood with unerring wee accuracy.

Wee on my hands, wee on my socks. Small trousers soaked in wee, pants that comprise 23% pant and 77% wee. Tiny footprints of wee dotting the parts of the floor that are otherwise weeless. The ‘Review’ bit of the newspaper boasting a new ‘wee’ section, a golden-showered dolly with a glistening leg of wee, drips of wee in a dvd case, fingermarks of wee on the coffee table.

“I’ve done a wee, daddy,” explains the Toddler.

Between the cushions on the sofa is a large crack where biscuit crumbs and other assorted food collects. This now contains an interesting looking type of wee soup, which is particularly resistant to my efforts with the kitchen roll. I have used up so much kitchen roll in the past two weeks that ‘Bounty’ are going to present me with an award. Outstanding contribution to the kitchen roll market.

As far as I can tell, being a Toddler is like being pissed all the time – you occasionally walk into things, you come out with odd sentence constructions, and although you’re desperately apologetic when you wee yourself, you’re not actually much practical help in clearing it up. I chuck the dripping clothes in the washing machine, which gives me a ‘not again’ type look. The awards people from Persil phone.

I am not sure that I am very good at the father business thing. I am rubbish on the patience front, and I am too selfish to happily spend my life doing things to benefit other people. Oddly enough, the wee-clearing-up thing is no problem, however. Sometimes things are so spectacularly ghastly that you get a kick out of sorting them out.

I zip upstairs for new clothes. Most of the wee is mopped, courtesy of Bounty. I will check later on, and go over any sticky bits with some cleaning stuff. The Toddler is happy.