“Eh?” I blink at the screen.

It is all very bizarre. For years, I have been writing my Private Secret Diary at least weekly – yet according to the date on the screen, we have jumped forward in time by ages and ages since I was last here. It is crazy. One minute I am typing away and the next minute I have lost several weeks of history.

Two words flash through my mind. “Time slip.”

I try to make sense of it all, but my brain refuses to respond. It is clear that some sort of wormhole has opened and closed, putting this part of Norfolk in a different time zone. Woah!!! I am a big fan of science fiction, but this is a bit too close to home. I check out of the window to check that the world is not full of strange pyramid structures and ruled by giant ants, but everything seems OK unless they are using some form of docility/obedience implant on my head, like in the TV show ‘the Tripods’.

I check my head in vain. I think I am in the clear. But where has the time gone?

“For Christ’s sake, there are spots all over his arse and legs!” shouts the LTLP, brandishing the Baby at me.

I shoo her away, irritated by her priorities. If the UK really has time-slipped and in the process been invaded by giant ants driving tripods then I am not sure that I completely trust Gordon Brown’s leadership. The Community Bus stops outside the window to pick up one of the old folk. It all seems perfectly normal. But that is what they want you to think.

“Daddy I need a bit of a hand,” calls Child #1, who has been in the toilet for twenty minutes, undertaking her poo.

The Baby toddles over to the cooker and starts turning the gas on and off, on and off.

Things are getting on top of me a little.

“Ram it in harder!” urges the LTLP.

I thrust with all my might, but the drain rod remains ineffectual. My heart sinks a little at this, as it seems obvious that I am going to have to use Plan B, and to be honest Plan B appeals about as much as being rushed into hospital with lethal tropical penis-rot to discover that prior to each operation the surgeons like to help the patient relax by performing a karaoke duet of Deep Blue Something’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

Ten minutes later, I am lying on the ground beside the drain, groping around with my hand to try to break up a Hoover-dam of solidified turd.

I have rigged up a clever system to protect myself from the turds – a bin bag wrapped around my arm up to the elbow, and sealed around there with strong tape. I am quite pleased with my ingenuity.

A little later I will discover that bin bags contain loads of funny microperforations. It is quite clever really – they are tiny, tiny holes that you can’t see with the naked eye and that do not let refuse leak out, but that allow the passage of e.g. turd juice and aromas inwards, up the arm, under the fingernails etc.

I console myself by thinking that it is at least not so bad when they are your own turds, or those of the LTLP, or all the people who have visited you for the past few weeks.

Scrabbling away with my arm in the sewage, I am distracted by a voice.

“Hello, would you like to enter the lottery for the Air Ambulance?” says the voice.

I look up to see the Air Ambulance Man, with a clipboard and a pen. “Five minutes of your time,” he reassures.

I hesitate. I do like to support the Air Ambulance, which I normally do by the means of saying things like ‘I do like to support the Air Ambulance’ in casual conversation. He waves his clipboard at me. I would like to explain that I would be delighted to, but filling in a form is currently impractical due to me scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is gradually filling up with distasteful matter.

“I’d be delighted to,” I say. “But I am currently scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is… well, try Short Tony next door,” I say.

To his credit, the Air Ambulance Man accepts this cheerfully, giving no indication that should I ever need their services they will eject me at a random point over the North Sea, the last thing I ever hear being a cheerful refrain of ‘Yooou sayyyy… we have nothing in commm-onn…’

“I’ll head next door then,” he replies.

The Air Ambulance Man heads next door. I continue with my scrabbling around, my arm both cold and worryingly warm. Suddenly there is a breakthrough and the barrier of turds shifts and then implodes, causing a week’s blockage to hurtle through into the septic tank. I slowly withdraw my arm and stand, dripping yet triumphant.

Two weeks later, Short Tony knocks on my door. He has won over a thousand pounds on the Air Ambulance lottery.

Run! Run! Run!

Up the hill, past Eddie’s house. Eddie is walking back from the Village Shop, and flashes me a sympathetic smile. Run! I plod onwards, motivational running music (John Denver) blasting from my MP3 player. A familiar red van approaches – it is the Postie. The Postie leans out of his window and shouts something; I cannot quite make out what it is, but it sounds a bit like ‘HAHAHAHAHA.’ I run on.

Len the Fish is walking his dog as I reach the crossroads where I turn towards the duck pond. Unfortunately, he is heading the same way as me. This gives me a dilemma, as I haven’t seen Len the Fish for ages, and would like to say ‘hullo,’ but if I stop then my legs will fall off.

I jog on the spot for a moment, whilst I attempt to summon some breath to explain this to him; in the end I manage to emit my ‘hullo’ and run on. Len the Fish laughs good-naturedly at my running – he knows nothing. I press on, past the duck pond. The ducks laugh good-naturedly at my running.

Before too long, I am home. Tired, but content with my achievement.

“The thing is,” I tell Big Andy later on, “Child #1 now wants to wander up the road to the playing field and play cricket and stuff, and I find that I am wheezing and exhausted and out of breath. And then we reach the playing field, and it goes downhill from there.”

“Anyway,” I continue. “I am determined to lose weight and be a bit more healthy.”

“Another cider?”

“Thank you.”

The following day, I go swimming with the rest of the family, despite the fact that I hate swimming and can’t really swim. I force myself to do two lengths, one after the other. Having played bowls the previous night, this completes the triathlon – my own personal iron man challenge. I can feel aches in my shins, my arms, my bowl-delivery hand. But it will be worth it.

There is a knock on the door!!!

It is Mrs. Short Tony, breathless with excitement.

“OMGOMGdidyouhearsmashingcrashbashtractorallovertheroadhayhayhay,” she gibbers, hopping from foot to foot like a frog connected to the electricity and badly in need of a wee. “Policepolicehayroadbashsmash.”

I follow her down the path to see what all the fuss is about. A tractor has brushed the wall on its way round the corner, causing its trailer load of hay to topple over. There are countless bales of hay strewn across the road, along the verge and in Big Andy’s hedge; some have broken open and blown about in the wind. Traffic is blocked, and there is a heavy police presence (3 policemen). Meanwhile, people are running out of their houses with bags and stuffing them with hay as fast as they can.

Free hay! It is an amazing scene. It is like Whisky Galore, but with hay. I run for some bin bags.

“Never get a pie lorry, do we?” comments one of the policemen as I trot past him. Poor bloke – he is presumably not allowed to take any himself. I give him a sympathetic smile, leaving him to think wistfully about pies.

The tractor driver has returned with a big prongy fork-lift thing, and is trying to pick up the bales one by one. People point at him and take photographs with their cameras. I am not much of a body language expert, but he doesn’t look in the best of moods. I start shovelling hay into my first bag. He hoots furiously, narrowly missing me with his prong.

“This is great,” says Big Andy, returning to the scene with fresh sacks. “I must have got at least three pounds 50 worth of hay. Although there was a snake in one of the bales, which was a bit alarming.”

The tractor/prong driver is gesturing to us to get out of the way. We take a step back, let him turn, then start grabbing more hay. Within a short time, I am laden down with the stuff – enough for the chickens for weeks to come.

“I’ve got a couple more bags if you want them,” calls Wallace from across the road.

But I am laden down. The road is almost clear, and the traffic (a lorry) can get through. I walk slowly back to the Cottage, bearing my load of arable gold.

“We don’t get much entertainment round here,” I explain to the policeman as I pass.

“I can see that,” he replies.

It is a beautiful, sunny day, and we have arranged a Village outing to one of the nicest venues in test cricket.

“Booooo!” somebody cries.

“What’s happening?” asks John Twonil, joining in the crowd’s confusion.

It appears that cricketer Ian Bell has been unfairly run out for not knowing the rules. People look at each other, not knowing what is going on. “Booooo!” somebody else shouts as the players leave the field. It is clear that the crowd might be difficult to disperse.

“There will now be a tea break for twenty minutes,” intones the announcer.

There is a mad rush as the crowd disperses for the bar and toilets.

“I am a bit torn,” I tell Big Andy, as we see the queue for Guinness. “I don’t want to be late back and miss my chance to have another good boo.”

We hesitate, before agreeing that I will queue for the bar whilst he goes to the toilet, meaning that we will save time and hopefully be back to our seats for the resumption of the boo. A few minutes later, I hand him the tray of drinks and rush to the urinals. As I relieve myself, a man sprints in and stands beside me.

“Hurry up,” he says to himself. “Must get back to boo.”

I am a little late returning to the stand, but fortunately the game has been held up on some technicality. There is excitement in the crowd as the opportunity to boo grows nearer.

“Here they come!” somebody exclaims, as the door opens and the umpires and Indian team walk out.

“Booooo!” I shout.

“Booooooooo!” shouts Big Andy.

“Booo! Booooo boooooooo!” shouts Mrs Big Andy, John Twonil and the Village Doctor. “Boooooo!”

Cricketer Ian Bell emerges from the pavilion. “Boooo!” we shout. Oh. “Hoooooray! Hooray!” We cheer cricketer Ian Bell, although to be quite honest we are a little disappointed as we feel like we have been booing unjustifiably. “It is like our boo has been taken away from us,” I tell the Village Doctor, who nods sadly.

Later on, the announcer bursts into action again. “Here is an announcement. At teatime, the Indian captain MS Dhoni withdrew his appeal against cricketer Ian Bell,” he informs us.

“Hooooray!” Hooray for the Indians and their captain MS Dhoni. We get to our feet and clap and cheer for this very sporting gesture.

“Please get to your feet and clap and cheer for this very sporting gesture,” the announcer adds, somewhat tarnishing our impromptu appreciation, as earlier on we had been denied the justice of the boo.

The serious business of cricket continues in an entertaining fashion, helped along by a man dressed as a giant fish being repeatedly ejected from the stand. Big Andy accidentally drops his Guinness on the man sitting in front of us.

Later on and back home, I send him a text. “Your big booing face is on Sky TV,” I tell him.

“Golly,” I tell Short Tony. “This is exciting.”

“There are two of them,” he explains. “Arrived yesterday. They seem OK. They’re black.”

“Fair enough.”

“Unfortunately one other fell out of the chicken coop, and a fourth didn’t make it through the night.”

“Do you think the chicken will notice that they are black and she is speckledy?”

“At least they are definitely chickens.”

This is a positive. Having had an annoyingly broody hen for several weeks, we had come up with a bright idea and had sourced some fertile eggs to put under her. Despite these eggs not being anything like this chicken’s own eggs, and the chicks clearly being of an utterly different breed and origin, the process seems to have been a great success. Truly, I am just like Prof. Robert Winston, but for chickens.

“I have set up a chicken intensive care unit in my living room,” says Short Tony, leading me to his Cottage.

The chicken intensive care unit turns out to be Short Tony’s dogg’s cage, with the Cottage’s central heating turned on and an electric radiator placed alongside. It is the hottest day of the year, and it is a little warm indoors. Short Tony’s family lie slumped in armchairs; his dogg lopes forlornly on the floor. “There!” says Short Tony, wiping his brow.

I gaze at the chicks. They appear happy enough, in my expert Prof. Robert Winston for Chickens opinion. The same cannot be said for Short Tony’s family, who are now vomiting and hallucinating from heat exhaustion.

“You can’t carry on like this,” I tell them, an idea for a more sustainable solution forming in my mind. “I’ll sort something out.”

An hour or so later, I reappear at Short Tony’s.

“I’ve bought you some ice cream,” I announce.

The chicks and their surrogate mother peck away happily. We watch them for a short while, but conditions in the room are uncomfortable and I take my leave, promising to return tomorrow. It is a wonderful thing to have new arrivals. I can see this inspiring me for the summer.

“What do you think?” I ask the LTLP. “I have never worn braces before.”

From her expression, I can see that she is awe-struck. My new birthday braces were allegedly used on TV’s Black and White Minstrel Show; they have graphics of musical notes up them and are incredibly snazzy.

“What the fucking hell have you got on?” she replies.

I blink at her, puzzled, before cheerfully ‘pinging’ them, like people with braces do all the time.

“Can’t you adjust them or something? Your trousers are pulled up so high and tight – oh God, I can see the outline of your…”

I fiddle with the adjusty things. I will get the hang of it in a minute. “I have to say that I quite like them,” I report. “They seem ever so fashionable.”

“What’s that stain on them?” demands the LTLP, scrutinising the rust marks from where the clips have aged. “Ugh. They smell.”

That is the trouble with the LTLP. She is so conservative in her fashion sense. I stare at myself in the mirror, for ages. This could be a completely new look for me.

A small doubt crosses my mind. “Do you think if I go out in public wearing braces from the Black and White Minstrel Show then people will think that I am racist?” I ask.

“Well ARE they from the Black and White Minstrel Show?”

I consider this. They were a present from Glenn, who played bass on the song ‘Toast’, so he is a pretty central figure in the world of showbiz and light entertainment. There would seem to be no reason why he would claim to be giving me braces from the Black and White Minstrel Show if they were not, in fact, from such an origin. It would be a bizarre thing to make up.

I am still a little worried about the racist thing. I sit down and strum my banjo for a bit to help me think. Probably the best thing to do would be to establish their authenticity beyond all doubt. I am just about to fire up the YouTube to look for episodes of the Black and White Minstrel Show when it occurs to me that if I wear the braces out of the house and it incites some sort of public disorder and I am interviewed by police on suspicion of being a racist, and I claim not to be, they will probably examine my laptop for evidence and say ‘aha he has been downloading episodes of the Black and White Minstrel Show to view in his own home, throw the book at him.’

It is one of those common dilemmas of modern life.

I remove my braces after a few more minutes. They seem a little formal to be wearing about the house, and besides, my crotch is chafing. I hang them up carefully in the wardrobe. I will have to consider this further before venturing out into the Village.