The dentist spent ten minutes looking at my teeth, my gums and my tongue*. He took two x-rays. He said I have good plaque management, which to me equates with my optician once telling me I’ve got good eye-muscles as I see surprisingly well for the eyesight I have.

The bill was £50. I took this in good humour. I have made another appointment, for 17th September.

I pottered around Norwich for an hour, for the first time this year. Norwich has made it clear that they do not welcome drivers and coming in by bus is more effort than it’s worth. I still come for meetings and such things, but rarely to shop. I had a key cut at the market, visited two bookshops (bookshops, for me, prove to be more expensive than the dentist) and checked out the prices of fruit. Norwich market appears to be dearer than Al’s shop. For example, he charges £2.97 per kilo for plums and the stall I looked at charged £3.30. He charges £1.60 for English Cox apples. It charges £1.80. Grapes were more expensive too. Clementines were the same each, at 20p, but he charges £1 for six. I was in danger of having my eye caught by that of the stallholder, so I did not look at the price of vegetables.

I had paid for an hour’s on-street parking and trotted back on time, smiling cheerily at the traffic warden as I passed him. He had not a disappointed air nevertheless, as he had just filled out a ticket for another motorist who had overstayed his time.

The sun shines. I checked that the key works and it does. I shall eat lunch, change into gardening clothes and spend the afternoon outside. Maybe, later, the Sage will want me to help with more carpentry.

*I appreciate this. I have, in my time, known three people whose first signs of mouth cancer was observed by their dentist, who advised them to visit the doctor, urgently.

Sunday. It’s not always the best day of my week, actually, but I’ve recovered now, due in part to the unexpectedly nice bottle of wine I bought yesterday, which has cheered me considerably and which I’ll buy more of while the shop has still got it.

It started at 6.40, when I woke up and, much as I wanted to, found myself unable to doze before the alarm went off at 6.59.

At 7.30 I was scruffling down the drive on the way to church. By 8, I had put out the communion wine and wafers, fitted up the microphones, put out the brass candlesticks, cross, ewer and tray, found the pages in the Bible for the readings, unlocked the back door (fire exit), greeted a very small congregation and was ready for the service to start.

An hour later, I was clearing away again, ready for C, whose baby was being christened today and who was bringing sausage rolls and sandwiches and a gorgeous cake for the party. I put on the urn, got out coffee, tea (and associated cafétières and teapot) milk, sugar and biscuits, music stands, service sheets, practised the organ, practised the clarinet, made coffee and drank two cups and ate a biscuit (breakfast).

At 10.45 I realised we needed more milk. I walked home, changed my shoes, took a pint of milk from the fridge, drove to church (200 yards), hurried in, put milk in kitchen, went to organ, played a voluntary (introductory tune).

At 11.05 I played the first hymn.

At 11.15 I played the second hymn on the clarinet. Not long after, I played the third hymn.

At 11.30, I realised there was no one to read the second lesson. I read the second lesson. Soon after, I played the fourth hymn.

At 11.45, I belted out after the Rector to make coffee. I, with another, made and served 25ish cups of tea and coffee, washed up, talked in practical fashion about church stuff.

At 12.30, I must have been flagging slightly. Dave, the Fellow ChurchWarden, asked if I was feeling okay. “Don’t I look okay?” “You walk as if you ache a bit.” I denied it. The Rector came in and asked if I was feeling okay. I became anxious. “It’s just that I’m used to evaluating stock” said Dave. “You mean, if I were a fat cow, you wouldn’t put in a bid,” I said. I mentioned that I was wearing flat shoes instead of heels. “That must be it,” he said, reassuringly.

At 1 o’clock, I went home, opened the greenhouse, switched off the propagator and told the Sage that a Gentleman Friend had invited me out for lunch.

At 3 o’clock, I went home (nice lunch, thanks) and got changed and helped the Sage with carpentry work.

At 6.30, I asked him if he would prefer, for dinner, something done with the rest of last night’s chicken, or steak. There was a long pause, while he looked for the catch. “Steak sounds nice,” he said, cautiously.

I wasn’t very hungry, myself, but I wasn’t surprised at the choice. I scrubbed potatoes, washed HOME GROWN SPINACH (YAY – new growth from the overwintered stuff), peeled sprouts and washed tomatoes. I opened the aforementioned wine, poured a glass and drank.

At 7.40, dinner was served. I cheerily decided I liked Clare B@lding, who has jollied up Crufts no end. I booed, however, when her choice of dog (called something like Big Willy) won. I had been rooting for the laid-back bloodhound.

9.00. I checked emails and found one that cheered me considerably and which I replied to enthusiastically, if monosyllabically. Well, briefly. I didn’t count the syllables.

There’s my day so far. Now I’ll read the paper.

I’m going to the dentist tomorrow. Boo.

Not long ago, Ro and I were talking about the amount people eat – being overweight, the effect on what you eat on your health – the sort of thing that young men are interested in nowadays. “You’ll never be overweight,” I said. “I’ve known that since you were a child.” He wondered what I meant, so I explained.

For one thing, he never overate. When he was full, he stopped eating. He was not a fussy eater at all and ate most foods, but if he said he had had enough, even if it meant removing a half-chewed mouthful, that was it. I did, once or twice, encourage him to finish the plateful, or even the mouthful, but since it inevitably made him sick, I quickly learned it was best to accept the situation … he very rarely couldn’t finish a mouthful, mealtimes were not disgusting occasions in the Z household.

But the other reason, and this is the one that counts, is that he didn’t eat crumbs. Tell me the truth – if you are eating something Totally Yummy and bits fall off it, do you not wet your finger and pick them up and eat them? If you are eating something with delicious nuts on, and one falls off, do you not pick it up?*

He didn’t. Never mind how good it was.

I told him this and he was surprised. He didn’t even know – well, I don’t know if he hadn’t realised he didn’t do it, or if other people do (of course, this could just be me, I’m relying on you … relying on you, you hear? … to tell me it isn’t) – but it was something he was unaware of.

Today, Al had in the shop bunches of red mooli. They were beautiful. Great red radishes, still with the leaves on. When he’s had mooli (I don’t know, ignorant woman, if the plural is moolies, moolis or mooli) before, they have been white ones.

He also had bunches of little radishes. I bought both, just so that I could show Ro a radish. “Call this a radish?” I brandished it. “This” – waving the mooli – “is a radish!”

I did him a nice little dish of mooli, radishes, little savoury biscuits and a tomato/chilli dip. He ate it and brought the dish to the kitchen. The bowl which had the biscuits in had a little pile of sunflower seeds and sesame seeds. Now, would you not have eaten them?**

He is 6 feet tall. He has a 30 inch waist. I expect he will retain it.

*Somehow, this reminds me of the Merchant of Venice…”If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
**You may be wondering if I did. No, I didn’t. I put them in the hen-food pan.

I mentioned that I’d tidied the study. Well bugger that. I’ll not be trying that sort of idiocy again. I was about to leave for my meeting in Bury St Edmunds and reached for my papers. Half an hour later I finally left, having rifled through reams of tree-pulp, empty-handed.

“Drive carefully, don’t go too fast” said an anxious Sage, knowing I’d be late. “That is a very unhelpful thing to say!” I snapped.

Of course, I’d not be late for the meeting. I’m actually pretty punctilious about punctuality. All I was late for was the lunchtime buffet. The two colleagues who were also going to the meeting were worried though. It was necessary to give a report and neither of them had a clue what to say. Neither had I, in that I hadn’t prepared in advance, but you know that wouldn’t stop me. Stand me on my feet (yeah, yeah, I’m not going to be standing on my hands, am I. Be cheeky though, and I might stand on your feet) in front of a roomful and I’ll talk as if I know what I’m saying.

Someone asked what to do if a lecturer didn’t turn up. I murmured to my neighbour “I’ve got a lecture, just no pictures to go with it.” This is true. I went to a lecture back in September on my Specialist Subject and I could have done it, to a roomful of non-experts.

Anyway, the meeting finished early and I congratulated the Chairman, not only on the earliness but on his chairmanship. I meant it, too. I’ve known him slightly for some years and have always found him slightly distant, but he’s terrific in this job. Very friendly, warm, but with excellent control of the meeting. Once introduced, he remembers everyone and makes sure he remembers something about them too, always a charmingly flattering thing to do.

Young Ro took the morning off work. He had the afternoon off anyway – a few months ago, his boss offered him every other Friday afternoon in return for an extra half hour four days a week. He came downstairs with a deeply croaky voice. I urged chilli and ginger upon him. He, doubtfully, has taken my advice and now can’t tell where his tongue is. I am sure he will be completely recovered by tomorrow.

I suddenly remembered this morning that I’ve had my car a year so a) the MOT test needs to be booked for the end of the month and b) I haven’t had an insurance renewal. I checked the policy – 3rd March – so I telephoned.

I’ve used the same company for years, because their agent, Steve, is a lovely bloke and they give good service at a cheaper price than the company we used to use. However, a year or so ago they decided to centralise everything and now Steve no longer calls. I still deal with them as their call centre people have lovely Manchester accents and are helpful.

A nice woman called Christine answered. She spent some time sounding puzzled and agreed that, indeed, my policy renewal reminder hasn’t been sent out. She is going to phone back when she tracks down what has happened.

Which is why I’m writing, as I have to sit by the phone and not get stuck into other work that will distract me.

The post has just arrived, with my tickets for the Aldeburgh Festival this year. I was surprised when my son offered to come to a concert with me and my husband to another. I asked if they’d like to look at the programme to pick a concert. “Nah, that’s all right” they said, “We won’t know anything about it anyway.”

I told Ro that, for under 27s, the tickets are half price. He was amused and wondered how old most of the audience are…and agreed to come to two concerts with me. Three visits are enough, in a fortnight, so none of them will be solitary ones. That’ll be lovely.

Made me wonder a bit though, both of them actually volunteering for this – is it ‘be kind to Z’ week?

The other day, I needed to find something in a hurry, that could not be discovered in the piles of paper I call a filing ‘system’ I was obliged to tidy the whole study. I haven’t actually filed everything in its proper place yet, but the room is fearsomely tidy. One thing I found, that had been missing for a bit, was my iPod recharger which is good. I knew it was in here somewhere.

Christine rang back. The department is still busy. She asked if it’s still all right for me to wait. I think that was pretty helpful actually, not just leaving me waiting and wondering if she’d forgotten me.

I suppose I might as well do some work while I’m waiting. Ho hum.

Update – Christine now tells me they no longer do fully comprehensive policies, with anyone able to drive the car. Only 3 named drivers. That means I have to choose between five children, a sister and a husband. I’m plumping for the two children who don’t have a car (and therefore can’t drive mine on their own insurance with 3rd Party cover) and my husband. I need to give full details and I can’t remember my son-in-law’s middle name. I have emailed to ask him. Memory like a sieve, I have.

This one’s from Stegbeetle. It makes one go all introspective, which is a bit worrying.

1. Biggest fear: Water. Deep water. The sea. I can cope with a swimming pool but I can’t go out of my depth unless I have something to hold on to. My daughter didn’t believe me until we were on holiday together and I unwisely let go and then couldn’t get upright again without going underwater and she had to grab me. That was extremely funny actually – she said “I knew you were a bad swimmer but I didn’t expect to have to rescue you from the shallow end!” We stood in the water in fits of laughter – I could laugh about that, but to swallow sea water?
I’m most afraid of drowning in the sea.

2. Most megalomaniacal ambition: I am a reasonable woman. I’m easy-going and, if something matters to you, I’m usually happy to go along with it. Even if I disagree, give me a good argument and I may be persuaded. But if I still say I’m right, then I am and that’s all there is to it.
Therefore, the ambition is to be recognised as always right.

3. When you’re talking to your boss, you’re usually thinking about: I don’t have a boss as such so I’ll give my husband the honour since he is the expert in our business. I’m usually thinking ‘yeah, yeah, I’ll do it when I’m ready. First things first.’ And what they are, I’ll leave you to imagine.

4. Most disgusting habit: I don’t think it is odd at all, but I’ve never met anyone else who admits to it. When cuddling a dog, I sniff its paws. I love the smell of dogs’ feet. Each dog, of course, smells different. In another life, I was a bloodhound.
I also adore biting my nails. I don’t do it much, although I have a lifetime legacy of weak nails, but I enjoy it when I have an excuse such as a broken nail that’s catching on things.

5. Criteria for judging other people: How they treat other people. Particularly someone whose job makes them easy to disregard, such as a shop assistant or a waiter, who has to accept disrespect without reacting.

6. How do you measure up?: I hope, pretty well. However, there are times when I can’t remember the face of a person who served me, or whom I served and I am trying to learn to look at people as well as talking to them.

7. What do you think when you see a fat person eating fast food?: ‘Eat slow food.’

8. How about when you see thin person smoking?: ‘(S)he’ll look old before her/his time.’

9. When you meet someone of the same gender who’s more attractive than you, inside you think: I wish I had legs like hers. And that I was taller.

10. When you meet someone of the opposite gender who’s less attractive than you, inside you think: I don’t take much notice of appearance. I don’t think that what a man looks like has to be the most attractive thing about him.

11. The last lie you told was: I said I was busy last Monday night to get out of an engagement. In fact, I was out every other night of the week and I wanted an evening in, but I felt it wouldn’t be polite to admit that on that occasion (usually I’d just say it, but that time it wouldn’t have been appropriate).

12. Tell us about the time you read someone’s diary/hacked into their emails/went through their stuff: I read my daughter’s housemate’s diary, about 10 years ago. He was training to be a teacher and was writing an evaluation of how the course was going and how he felt about his chosen career. It was rather sweetly pompous. It wasn’t a personal diary at all.
I also once read a letter from my husband’s brother, to him and me, but the Sage hadn’t shown it to me. I understood why he hadn’t, it was a spiteful and bitter letter. The Sage neither wanted me to be upset nor to demonstrate what a person his brother had become. I have never told him I read the letter (he knew I had seen others, in similar vein but not as nasty, from his brother).

13. You know that person who you’re secretly jealous of – and there’s a part of you, that you can’t quite suppress, that wishes they would, just for once, get to taste a bit of your luck? Tell us what you hate about them – go on let it all out: There are some people (eg some politicians, ‘celebs’, journalists) whom I would find it hard to speak to, but that’s not personal.
I don’t know anyone luckier than me.
I can only bitch about someone spontaneously, I don’t want to do it in cold blood!

14. The most expensive thing you’ve ever stolen was: I can’t remember stealing anything. Except that I have a pen from Argos in my handbag, so I must have pocketed it. Dear God, what a prig I sound. I’ve a lot of faults, but stealing isn’t one of them.
Ah yes, I’ve thought of something. When I was a little girl, my mother’s godson spent a few weeks with us each summer. On his last day, we went and bought sweets and cakes and had a feast. Part of the ritual was that we had to use found money if we didn’t have any of our own. We used to look down the back of chairs and in drawers for pennies. We didn’t look outside the house or in a handbag, it had to be ‘lost’ money so we didn’t think of it as stealing, but it was a secret. It was about a shilling’s worth. 5p. A pound or two at today’s prices.

15. Even though all this is true, you’re still a really good person because… children and dogs and horses like me and they are excellent judges of character.

I’m not tagging, but let me know if you have a go at this one.

Jane and Malcolm, newly married, drove from Weymouth in Dorset to Oulton Broad in Suffolk, a journey of 200-odd miles. She must have been very nervous. She was quite unsophisticated and, although 23 years old, her teenage years had been passed in wartime and she had had no opportunities for travel or anything but local parties. Her husband was 36, well-educated at public school and Oxford, had travelled widely and spent six years in the army. She knew that he came from a wealthy family, although he didn’t have any money at this time.

They were met at the door by the butler, who greeted them as “Mr and Mrs Malcolm” and ushered them indoors. The Major and his wife were waiting in the drawing-room, the Major still recuperating from a recent operation on his gall-bladder. The Major was much taller than his son, with a bigger, burly frame. He had dark hair and a red beard and moustache. His wife, Helen, I’ve only ever seen in indistinct press photos. I know that she had the dark brown eyes that her son inherited and that she had been treated in the 1930s for cancer in her face. This early radiotherapy had destroyed her cheekbone and she covered her cheek to hide the hole, which would not close completely as occasionally bits of dead bone worked themselves out (I’m just the reporter, I don’t know how this worked at all. Sorry to revolt you all). She was careless of her appearance and simply wrapped any scarf round her face and tied it in a knot.

The Major greeted Jane warmly, invited her to call him Pa and poured everyone a glass of sherry from a cut-glass decanter. Jane felt more shy than ever. She never drank alcohol – once she had been plied with home-made cowslip wine by an elderly woman she was visiting and, having no idea of its strength, she became totally pie-eyed and could hardly walk home, but otherwise she didn’t drink at all. However, she couldn’t refuse and took a cautious sip and put the glass down on the table.

A few moments later, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hand flash past with the full glass and down again with it empty. Moments later, Pa boomed out “My word, my girl. You enjoyed that sherry, didn’t you. Better pour you another glass!”

I’m sure Malcolm had warned her that his mother was an alcoholic, but she hadn’t expected that. Ma (mother-in-law Helen) was unable to control her drinking and so it was controlled for her. She was allowed a glass of sherry and half a bottle of wine a day and No Gin under any circumstances. She craved more and would sneak a glass if she could.

Jane and Pa bonded immediately. The visit only lasted a couple of nights – there was still a hotel to run and this was June, coming into the holiday season. It must have taken some getting used to – from her father’s bungalow, attractive though it was, to a large house with a butler, cook/housekeeper, cleaner and maid, a chauffeur and three gardeners. It was the last remnants of a vanishing era.

At tea on the first day, she admired the silver tea service. It was engraved with the family crest and the lids of the kettle, the teapot and the hot-water jug were decorated with acorns and is very pretty without being fussy. When she arrived home in Weymouth, she went to unpack and found the whole service, complete with salver, in her suitcase. A little present from Pa to his beloved new daughter.

I left my father here, newly demobbed. His destiny was decided by his father.

My mother was planning her own future.

Jane had, after leaving school, trained as a secretary. The war had ruined her plans to go to university and she looked for a new job. She became secretary to the manager of the R1v1era Hotel in Bowle@ze Cove, Weym0uth. It was not long before he left and then word came that the son of the owner was going to take over as the new Managing Director.

She saw a man in his mid-thirties. Of medium height, with straight black hair which he combed straight back off his face. He wore his demob suit, which was too big for his thin frame. He had dark brown eyes and a pale face. He saw a young, slender woman with curly, dark brown hair and hazel eyes.

They got on well together. Malcolm had no experience at all of business or of hotel work. He knew what to expect of hotels from a guest’s point of view, but that was all. Furthermore, immediately after the war, there was still rationing and price restrictions and no one had taken family holidays for the past seven years.

Jane had a boyfriend, whose name was Ted and who was a local photographer. He had his own business and her father liked him very much. They enjoyed a glass of beer and a chat together and he looked forward, one day, to Ted joining the family as his son-in-law. Jane did not have the same feelings for Ted as he did for her, however. She liked him and they had interests in common, particularly walking and cycling, but she had no thoughts of their relationship going any further. But it was while Ted was on holiday that Malcolm asked Jane out for the evening. I can’t remember what I was told they did for the evening – the cinema, perhaps? – but they got on very well together and soon were going out every night.

A couple of weeks later, when they were kissing passionately in the car, Malcolm broke off. “I can’t put up with this any longer!” he said.

Later that night, Jane had to explain to her father that she was going to marry her boss, as soon as he had obtained the special licence. A day or so later, she had to tell Ted. That wasn’t easy. They were both pretty shocked and upset.

Malcolm phoned his parents to tell them. His father was just out of hospital after an operation and he was unable to travel. His mother was not fit to travel alone, but it was agreed that Malcolm and Jane would travel up to Suffolk immediately after the wedding. They took a couple of staff members to the Registry Office as witnesses and off they set as man and wife.

It is, by the way, a coincidence, that I’m writing this for my 500th post. It’s worked out quite well though.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” said the Sage politely, “But before you go to bed tonight, could you look at that piece on eBay for me please? Not yet. Not this moment.” “I’m not busy,” I replied. “I’m only reading blogs.”

The Sage brightened. “Well, if you’re only reading blogs…”

Still two days to go. It’s not time to bid yet.

Update So he said. But he put in 50p all the same. Taken out again at once. Hm, interesting…
So, what’s the opponent’s top bid? Will we find out tomorrow, or will we wait until the next day and slam him with our maximum with 10 seconds to go?

That’s what I’d do. But I’m ruthless, me.

Ten things I like beginning with the letter G. As requested by Wendz.

Guffawing. Oh, I do like to laugh. A few types of laughter stand out though. Such as waking from a dream laughing – sometimes not even knowing what was so funny – it is so much fun.
Or a fit of the giggles, however inappropriate the moment. I remember a few years ago at a jazz concert – you know how each performer gives his* own little virtuoso bit, so that he milks that extra round of applause. I always wonder why they need that, when there is never a corresponding moment in the spotlight for the French horn or the clarinetist in an orchestra – on this occasion, we had dutifully applauded the pianist, the trombonist, the trumpeter, the double bassist and it was the drummer’s turn. His drumsticks twinkled gleefully and we duly clapped … but too early! He redoubled his efforts and we had to clap again … but he still had not finished. I was finished, though, I chortled and chuckled and completely embarrassed my son who was sitting next to me. Luckily, I was in the seat nearest the wall and near the back, so not many people noticed my heaving shoulders.
And there’s the sort of laughter that leaves you with aching ribs and stomach, when you need to stop because the laugh hurts so much, but you can’t and as one of you starts to regain control, another snorts and everyone starts spluttering painfully again until you are weak and helpless.

*please always read ‘or her’ of course. If just for the fabulous Kathy Stobart (scroll down).

Grandchildren. You might have known I’d say that. They are a total joy. Squiffany knows she can get almost anything out of me. “Granny.” “Yes.” “Granny…” and I’m lost already. And Pugsley beams when he sees me. He’s a friendly lad and probably beams at everyone, but I believe it’s for me.

Grapes. In my younger days, I used to eat them by throwing each one up in the air and catching it in my mouth. I haven’t done that recently. I wonder if I still can. Hang on.
The third attempt, it bounced off my tongue. The fourth, it hit a front tooth and ricocheted onto the carpet. Fifth time lucky. More practice needed, I think.
Come to think of it, grapes aren’t the only fruit (oh, don’t literary references abound?). There’s greengages. I love greengages. I used to gorge on them when I was a child. I wasn’t particularly greedy, but they were one of the fruits, only briefly in season, that I couldn’t resist.

Gardening. Especially Greenhouse Gardening. Growing things. I know I’ve said this before, but I love everything about this. From sowing the seeds to the thrill, which still moves me after all these years, of seeing the first shoots. Then, when the seedilings are big enough, to tease each one gently from the compost and replant it into its first little pot. Later, to pot it on again.
I like all gardening, in fact, except weeding, which I don’t enjoy at all. I know that sensible people hoe frequently, so that the weeds never become large enough to be a nuisance, but I am easily bored and I’m as likely to do this as I am to dust the furniture every day so that the dust never shows. Where’s the satisfaction in that?

Grammar. I love a well-crafted sentence. I think my enjoyment of grammar is rooted in having learned Latin. It is a precise and economical language that appeals to anyone who appreciates perfection.
When I was a child, I used to read the bit at the back of the school dictionary that explained all the niceties of English grammar. It fascinated me. I was taught grammar at school, but even in the 1960s, precision was already being thought of as limiting to a child’s imagination and I learned far more by choice than I was taught by teachers.

Gastronomy. ‘The art and science of good eating,’ says my dictionary. I’m not particularly greedy, though I have my moments, but I have a constant and keen interest in food. It is probably telling that I only really take gardening seriously when it comes to vegetables. The need always to be planning the next family meal used to bore me at times and there was a time when, due to dietary restrictions for two of my family (one vegetarian and one low-fat with various intolerences), I had to plan carefully and sometimes to do three main dishes to suit all of us, which was tricky and time-consuming.
Now I have none of these limitations and the fact that most of the cooking I do is simple and quite plain is because I enjoy the choice of ingredients as much as their preparation.

Grisaille. When I went to the National Gallery a few weeks ago, I showed you a picture that particularly appealed to me, that was painted en grisaille; that is, in shades of grey. ‘ We have a charming teapot, similarly monochrome, that I love. And, when I was at Windsor Castle the other day, there was an exhibition of photographs to mark the Queen’s 80th birthday. One of the recent ones, in black and white,
stood out from the others. Monochrome photography has a clarity that, like a winter landscape, removes the distraction of bright colour and makes it unnecessary.

Graves. Rober Graves, that is, who wrote ‘I Claudius’ and ‘Goodbye to All That’. One of the First World War writers, who survived the war and whose memoirs, like those of Siegfried Sassoon the poet, give a vivid picture of those days. ‘I Claudius’ is a fabulously enjoyable reconstruction of the early years of the Roman Republic, from Augustus Caesar (played memorably by BR1AN BLESSED in the BBC dramatisation) to Claudius (Derek Jacob1) himself. If the book can be believed, they were, in the main, a murderously barking set of megalomaniacs and if you haven’t read the book, I heartily recommend it. And watch the DVDs too.

Ghostbusters. Yes, the movie. I saw it for the first of many times at a cinema in Great Yarmouth with my two elder children when I was pregnant with the third and I was absolutely confused. I couldn’t tell any of the main characters apart – which seems odd to me now, when you think of them. Harold Ramis, Dan Ackroyd, Bill Murray and Ernie Hudson do not look remotely similar to each other.
When my third child was five, the sequel came out and he adored it. There was one occasion when we were travelling and called in at a roadside café with a jukebox. He wanted to play the Ghostbusters theme tune and we inadvisably agreed. Out it roared – “who you gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS!” in the otherwise silent room and there was nothing we could do to turn it off or down. None of the other customers said a word, but neither did anyone smile indulgently.
I saw the film again recently and it’s still damn good.

Gladness. The ability to give and receive joy and pleasure. And that needs no elaboration at all.

Anyone like to have a go? – who hasn’t already been given a letter by Wendz, that is. Let me know if you do and I’ll randomly pick your letter. It’s more enjoyable than you might think and there’s no need to say anything personal, unlike a lot of memes, which is good for those who are more modest than I.