Winds of change

Such a beautiful, beautiful day today, I thought 'I'll go for a walk later, in the park.' 'Go for a walk NOW!' shouted my Inner Self, whom I shall refer to as Matilda. 'Go on! Get out there now. You know when you say you'll do something later it 's likely not to happen.' Matilda is very bossy and in this case, I think, rather unfair. Generally I am good at doing things when I say I shall, but because I know she'll be yelling in my ear for the rest of the morning if I procrastinate on this one, I put on coat, scarf, gloves and boots and away I go.

It takes me nearly an hour to walk all the way around the park and that's with me legging it some. During this time I am greeted cheerfully by many people walking their assorted hounds; occasionally I am attacked by said hounds, but only once do I have a near death experience when a black labrador puppy flings itself at me and nabs the end of my scarf for a playful tug-0-war. Most people in the park appear to have a dog or five with them. I think 'Do I look like a weirdo, walking purposefully around the park sans pooch?' I think, maybe I should have a dog so I don't look so suspicious and, well, in a pointless pursuit. My other option is to don exercise gear and then people would look at me say 'Ah, she's power walking to keep fit.' ('GET FIT YOU MEAN!' shouts Matilda. Is she still here?)

Then I think, I could take other people's dogs for walks, earn some money, kill two birds with one stone. I could take a couple of dogs a couple of times a day, get fit ('Thank you!' trills Matilda) and assuage the guilt I feel that I am not bringing any money into the household coffers at the moment and am therefore a 'kept woman.' I think, when I get home, I'll research dog walking services.

I get home and there are three pieces of mail on the mat, only one of which is actually for anyone in this house. The other two are addressed to a Mr Allen and a Mr Smith, offering discount cars for car dealers via an auction house in Essex and membership to a money saving voucher club. I don't want Matilda to start so I add notes to both letters to the effect of please remove this address from your file - Mr Allen doesn't live here and neither does Mr Smith and then I march up to the post box by the corner shop and return them to sender.

Back home (having walked at least 5 miles by now) I am just putting the kettle on and Mrs Poo knocks on the back door. 'Has the postie been?' she asks, looking over my shoulder at the hall table. (She has to stand on a step ladder in order to do this). 'Yes,' I say. 'Right,' says Mrs Poo. 'Er...was there anything for a Mr Allen, by any chance? Or a Mr Smith?' I frown. 'Yes, actually, there was,' I confirm. 'I've just reposted them.' 'Oh,' says Mrs Poo. She looks a little annoyed. 'Were they for you?' I ask. 'Of course not!' says Mrs Poo. 'My name is Mrs Polovitska. Why would I get mail addressed to, for example, a Mr Allen or a Mr Smith?' And she marches off, dragging her step ladder behind her.

Why indeed, I think. Unless you are up to something. Which, knowing Mrs Poo, is highly likely.