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Cows -There seems to be a discrepancy in my family about whether to get a cow or not. When we move to Dorset/ Devon I am keen to have a cow. I like butter and I like cheese. I like the way cows look and I like the way they can lick inside their nostrils with their rubbery tongues. But according to Mum, Auntie Pollie says, don't get a cow. Because they need milking twice a day. Which means we'd be tied to our farm/small-holding/field and not have days out/ holidays etc. What makes Auntie P. think we'll be able to afford to have days out and holiday by the time we've purchased our farm/small-holding/ field, is what I want to know? Besides, with my developing agorophobia I'm unlikely to set foot outside the house let alone far enough away from the cow to be unable to reach it for milking. And given the choice between sitting on a sweltering foreign beach or sitting on a squishy sofa with a cheese sandwich made from homemade cheese, I'd prefer the second option any day. Discrepancy solved - we'll get a cow.

Knives - With our old set of knives having reached the point where they can reduce a wholemeal loaf to a pile of breadcrumbs rather than neat slices, and where you have to hack at your Sunday roast rather than glide through it with ease, I procured a new set of Sabatiere blades which, I have been assured, are the Rolls Royce of knives, or at least a nice top-of-the-range Toyota. They look lovely in their block next to the cooker, with their ergonomic handles and their very, very,very sharp and shiny blades. Only I'm too scared to use them because I've had a premonition that I'll lose the tops of my fingers if I do. This stems back to an 'incident' that happened in October 2004 when I thought, on the day we moved house, it would be a good idea to scrape the bottom of the oven with a knife in order to remove the accumulated crud of the previous few years. I scraped, I screamed, I bled all over the kitchen floor, the dining room , up the stairs and bathroom, I swore and bled some more as Andy drove me to the surgery to have stitches and for the doctor to inform me that I'd severed a nerve in my forefinger and I was bloomin' useless for the rest of the day as we moved house with my hand bandaged up like the Pilsbury doughboy wearing extra thick mittens. And to this day, I have a little bump and poor feeling down one side of my finger and it really hurts in cold weather, too. My own stupid fault. But next time, I just KNOW it'll be a whole finger. (My maternal grandfather severed his thumb on a saw bench. My finger is an hereditary accident just waiting to happen.)

Patios - there has been a saga unfolding during my early morning swimming sessions regarding a old bloke and his patio. He swims up and down regaling his lady friend of the latest installment and I earwig as I paddle past. Three weeks ago, the builders 'had been in and lain the base.' Last week they were 'off with the weather.' This morning, they were 'back with the slabs.' This, I gather, has been going on since before Christmas. What I want to know is why do people start these jobs in the middle of winter and then express amazement at the lack of progress? It's like Grand Designs on the telly. 'Neville and Claudia began work on renovating their 15th century monastery in mid-November. A week later, the builders had called off because of the hurricane,' says the dour Kevin McCloud. Well, there's a surprise. Bad weather in the winter? Who'd've thought it? My dad was a builder. He did 'indoor jobs' between October and February. Unless he could persuade one of us kids to go with him to a job where we would be sent into building foundations with a bucket and told to 'bail out.' That didn't happen very often, I can tell you. It's cold and muddy in building foundations. It was also unpaid child labour.

Muscles - I am v.unhappy to discover that since starting my swimming campaign I have gained a pound or three in weight. (No, Andy, it has nothing to do with the fact that Sainsbugs is selling huge bars of Dairy Milk for a quid. Absolutely nothing. So hush!) That wasn't the idea at all. The idea was that swimming would help me to shift the last stubborn twenty pounds I need to lose in order to become 'normal'. (I could always lop off my second head and third leg with the new Sabatiere's I suppose. That might do the trick. How much do a head and leg weigh?) I can only assume I am 'building muscle mass'. (I can now do 50 lengths in half an hour which is 10 more than when I first started so something must be happening.) But this isn't helping the weight loss cause so I'm back to weighing and writing down everything I eat in order to ensure I don't go over my recommended daily calorie intake - just in case it is the chocolate. We walked into town this morning after I'd done my 50 lengths. I NEARLY DIED, I was so hungry.

Ah well, out to dinner this evening with friends. And the weather is warming up. There are bluebells and daffs in the garden, buds on the magnolia and chits on the potatoes and this can only mean one thing - WEEDS AT THE ALLOTMENT! It's time to get digging again. Only a couple more weeks before we can get some seeds in under glass. It takes me half an hour to walk to the allotment. That's an extra hour's exercise, plus what I do when I'm there. And until I can work out how to grow chocolate, or smuggle a cow onto the plot for cheese and butter making purposes, I think I might be on to a weight loss winner!