I scratch my chin. “Right. I’ll think about those.”

She turns back to the television. Being a responsible father, I do not let her watch too much television, even when I am really really bored with doing all the interactive paternal stuff. It is important that she does not grow up to be a yobbo.

Tom, the cat, smashes Spike, the dog, in the face with a big anvil.

“Hahaha!” I laugh. “It is funny. Did you see? He hit him in the face with a big anvil!”

We continue watching. It is excellent that quality programming like this is on every day, as it creates a shared experience between father and child. Jerry sets light to Tom’s tail, the cat erupting in a ball of flame.

“He put his tail on fire!!!” the Toddler announces with delight.

I am pleased with the development of her comprehension skills. Later, when it is more quiet, I go through her suggested names with the LTLP.

If it is a girl:

Daphne, Velma.

If it is a boy:

Fred, Shaggy, Scooby.

“It’s a Cliff Richard record!!!” I cry gleefully.

As we moved into the Cottage eight or nine years ago, it seems about time to unpack all our cardboard boxes. I am opening the last box, which is the LTLP’s. I wave my discovery around in the air.

“That’s not mine,” she replies.

“What do you mean ‘that’s not mine,’” I retort. “Of course it is yours. It’s not mine.”

“But it’s not mine!” she insists.

I brandish the sleeve, which features Cliff Richard holding a posed pose with a white Fender Stratocaster. “It is in your box. These are all your things. Admit it. This is yours.”

Thrice she denies the Cliff Richard record.

“Are these not,” I demand, “all your old textbooks? ‘An Introduction to Animal Parisitology?’ ‘Chemistry in Action?’ ‘A Colour Atlas of AIDS?’”

“Of course they’re mine. But it’s not my record. It must be yours.”

I scoff at the unlikeliness of this. I may have my faults, but I wouldn’t own a Cliff Richard record and yet deny it. I have a bit more dignity than that, I consider, slipping into the LTLP’s bra and pants in order to put ‘Michael Winner’s Dining Stars’ on the television.

“It is probably from when you were a student,” I muse.

“It is not my fucking record! It is your record! It must be!”

I pause. She does appear to be sincere. If she is telling the truth then this is a real mystery. The same sort of thing happened to us years ago, when we were living in a newly-rented house. We tried a TDK video tape that neither of us recognised, to see if it was okay to record over. It showed the news for a minute or so, before cutting to a German transsexual fellating a man on a motorbike, followed by a collection of lewd scenes in a butcher’s shop, followed by the second half of a speech by Dr David Owen about the deteriorating situation in the Balkans. There were some subsequent awkward conversations, as we both tried to establish our ignorance of the tape’s origins.

But the Cliff Richard thing is even more of a mystery. I let the matter rest temporarily. If she wants to own Cliff Richard records then she should not be ashamed, as ‘Wired for Sound’ and ‘It’s So Funny That We Don’t Talk Any More’ were perfectly good songs and contained some profound sentiments.

She should not deny her habit though, as that is the behaviour of an addict.

I release a book!!!

Or at least I’m having one released for me this summer by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. But I did all the writing an’ stuff. If you missed yesterday’s unhinted-at announcement then the book’s website is here and it’s now available on pre-sale at Amazon here.

This is all clearly both exciting and scary and pretty well everything in between. But I’m hoping to get to grips with all that.

One question that a lot of people have asked so far is: is it the same as the blog? The answer being: no. It’s written in the same style, and covers the same sort of ground, and being a memoir it’s inevitable that longer-term readers (hullo!!!) will recognise some of the events. But it’s not a collection of blog posts, if that’s what you’re asking. I suppose it’s the back-story, if you like. Mixed with – erm – the front story.

Statistically, blogs have been demonstrated to become less interesting just as soon as their author finds a more glamorous outlet for their talents, before picking up again as the writer realises that online diaries are still quite fun after all (known as the ‘belle curve’ effect.) I will try not to let this happen, but do bear with me when I start trying to write amusing things about sales figures.

It is odd writing as me online, so I am retaining JonnyB, who has been my friend for years now. I suppose it is a bit like pop musician David Bowie. He adopts an assumed name and persona as Ziggy Stardust, in order to do lots of gigs and a record ‘in character’ – but when it is all done, he reverts back to his original real name, David Bowie. So there you go.

Thank you – everybody – for reading, commenting, linking and saying nice things over the years that this little Private Secret Diary has been on the web. I got my millionth visit a month or so ago, which I hadn’t really anticipated when I started writing little inconsequential snippets about nothing particular. It has been… gobsmacking, and the book wouldn’t have happened without you. It seriously wouldn’t. You are like – so to blame. Thank you also to all the people who twittered and linked and stuff yesterday. I got a bit overwhelmed. Booooooo.

Oh and the LTLP’s pregnant. But back to me. That’s all for now. Obviously it would be lovely if you all ordered eight copies and told all your friends to as well – but really I’m just happy with peoples’ good wishes.

No – who am I trying to kid? Sex and Bowls and Rock and Roll is available to pre-order from Amazon (UK), and internationally (with free postage) from The Book Depository.

I will stop going on about it now.

It’s: My name is Alex and I play bowls.

(I’ll write a bit more about this tomorrow)

I stare over the LTLP’s shoulder. They are clearly visible through the scullery window.

There is a dead, ominous silence, which I don’t understand, as she is shouting and screaming at them and banging the window.

“Get OFF the garden!!! PISS OFF!!! GET OFF MY PLANTS you little shitbags!!!”

Such language that chickens should never be forced to hear.

She turns to me. “I thought you said you did their wings or something?!?”

I shrug, confused.

No more is said. The LTLP does not care that I have hyperintelligent chickens with super powers. I will have to deal with them. I had been planning to make my big secret announcement, but now I will not have time to write a proper diary post about it. It is a shame, as I know people are bursting to know my news, and I have been religiously careful to not drop any hints as to its nature, spoil the surprise, let the chicken out of the bag, etc.

The LTLP storms off into the kitchen, brushing past me awkwardly in her new shapeless top and trousers with an odd bit that covers her tummy, whilst muttering something about needing a rest and something to eat but not unpasteurised soft cheese or paté.

I will have to make my big secret announcement on Monday.

“Ok,” I say, resolutely.

“Ok,” Short Tony replies.

There is a short pause whilst we accept the fact that saying ‘ok’ resolutely before doing a difficult job does not really affect the difficultness of the job at all. Meanwhile the chickens look on suspiciously.

“I think the best thing to do is to sort of lure them back into the chicken enclosure,” I ponder. “Then they will not have so much room to run away, when we start chasing them.”

Short Tony nods his assent. “Do you still have your chicken catching device?” he asks.

I go to fetch my chicken catching device from the shed. This is a big sheet of board with some handles, which you can brandish in front of you like a riot shield. I was very pleased with it when I made it. It enables you to back a chicken into a corner and then keep it there whilst you grab it, plus it would be very useful should they riot.

I should try to market my inventions a bit more. Other individuals, organisations, governments etc would be grateful for my know-how, if they needed to catch any chickens or, for instance, if there was any serious trouble at the chicken G7.

But I cannot see the organisers of the chicken G7 buying into my idea. They would stick to straightforward first-generation nets. It is not what you know, it is who you know, and it is impossible for a lone-wolf inventor like me to get a foothold in the competitive tendering environment, no matter how good my product. I lift it from the shed, proudly.

“Right – are you ready with the scissors?” I ask Short Tony.

You clip chickens’ wings so they cannot fly any more, and destroy the LTLP’s plants. She has been really cross about this lately, what with her being in a heightened emotional state, and we are grasping the nettle accordingly. If we clip their wings, they won’t be able to get over Short Tony’s gate and thus into our garden.

In a way, clipping their wings will ‘clip their wings’ (as in the phrase ‘clip their wings’, meaning to restrict somebody from doing something, which essentially is what will happen when we clip their wings. This is just one of those delightful little etymological coincidences that makes the English language so interesting.)

I run towards a chicken, brandishing my riot shield. It yells in alarm and scuttles towards the corner, where I grab it.

“It’s these feathers. Yes,” confirms Short Tony, snipping away at the bird.

To avoid getting the snipped chickens mixed up with the unsnipped one, I put the first chicken over the fence into Short Tony’s garden.

“Oh. I’d forgotten they can’t fly any more,” I say, as it plummets like a small boulder onto the grass. It is unhurt, but adopts a reproachful air. I chase a second chicken around the enclosure. The second chicken has seen what has happened to the first chicken, so is unenthusiastic about co-operating, but not as unenthusiastic as the third chicken or, indeed, the fourth.

But within ten minutes, all the chickens are snipped, and pecking around on the grass, resolutely grounded.

“Is it just me, or was that unexpectedly easier than anticipated?” I ask Short Tony.

Short Tony surveys the chickens. “I can’t believe we just managed to do that,” he replied.

“The LTLP will be really pleased, what with her heightened emotional state thing going on,” I conclude, remembering that I mean to make a special announcement soon, but being careful not to hint as to its nature.

I replace the chicken device in the shed and walk slowly back to the Cottage. It is not often that a plan like that goes with any degree of smoothness, and I want to savour the moment.

It is spring!!! So we have decided to go away for an extended weekend somewhere, to celebrate the fact.

The chickens will not be travelling with us, so Short Tony is tasked to look after them. I am hoping that there will be no fowl pox in my absence, but if there is then he is quite capable of coping.

We are travelling quite light, as the LTLP can’t seem to fit into a lot of her usual clothes for some reason. But that means that I will be able to take more pants. We’ll be back next week sometime. I have turned the comments off to foil the spammers.

* * *

I was a bit gobsmacked (although nicely so) to be featured in the acknowledgements of Zoe Margolis’s new book along with a few other of the old/old-middle school blogging people. It is very humbling, but credit where credit’s due, and she would be nothing without me, nothing. I am just about to start reading the book itself (obviously I have read the acknowledgements page 1000000 times), but suggest it would make a good present for somebody, although perhaps not your Auntie Jean, or loony hook-handed ex-Imam of Finsbury Park Mosque, Sheikh Abu Hamza.

(Yes – I know she writes as Abby Lee. It is confusing, I appreciate.)

* * *

Since I wrote, months and months ago, about the highlight of my rock music career – supporting indie rock legends the Sultans of Ping – I have bizarrely and coincidentally encountered two whole people who were in the audience that night. So I’m writing this here so that it’ll be picked up by Google and hopefully more will come forward, and I will organise an audience reunion, with warm beer in plastic mugs and perhaps a fight at chucking out time. The LTLP may come, but she never really rated my musical career, and she is not drinking at the moment, anyway.

* * *

Finally – a happy announcement!!!

I will be making a happy announcement in a week or so when I have told all the people face-to-face that I should tell that way. I have been very careful not to let the cat out of the bag, inadvertantly drop hints etc. etc. so I hope my news will be a lovely surprise for you all. I can’t wait to say something, but you mustn’t rush me.

Enjoy your weekends, everybody.