Half Term: Day 3

Why are half term holidays perpetually grey, dank and dreary? Spring comes later to the North, I see no signs of it here yet.

I am not meeting my ambitious half-term targets. I certainly haven't spring cleaned the house, or organised cupboards and drawers. I did manage to pick up 7 weeks worth of underwear, socks and t-shirts from the bedroom floor. When I looked at the grubby, scuffed floorboards underneath I almost wished I hadn't bothered. I dusted round the items on my mirrored glass, art-deco dressing table, exposing the angry looking crack where I'd dropped a bottle of Jo Malone cologne. Oh, I did clean the extractor fan hood last night, a first for me. I haven't been splattered with that much grease since being in the front row of a Bryan Ferry gig in the 1980s.

Anyway, a few other half-term bulletins.

• There are several unequivocal signs of the aging process. Being the approximate age of the main protagonist in a Werthers Original advert is most certainly a potent one. (Even more so when this thought occurs, as it did to me, during an ad break for Rosemary and Thyme).

• Modern life is toxic. Apparently Radio 4 announced yesterday that oral sex gives women throat cancer. The Daily Mail cited conclusive proof of a link between red meat and stomach cancer. Oh dear. All of Rochester's hobbies condemned on one black Sunday afternoon. I couldn't resist texting him the phone number for The Samaritans and a bolstering message,

'Never mind petal, you can always take up SoDoku and the Linda McCartney range does a passable Chile non Carne, if I recall.'

• I had a saucy dream about my much despised sanctimonious and priggish Headteacher, Pompous Pilate the other night. It was terribly upsettling. There were three of us in the dream: me, him and a rather noble looking black greyhound called Brian. I must stress the greyhound did not participate in any 'funny business', he was simply stood, tethered to an iron railing outside a Scottish teashop. (Yes indeed, afternoon tea even features in my erotic dreams). Pompous simply kissed me. That was all. But it was one of those lingeringly intense and heart-quivering kisses. Dear God. In daily life I find the man physically, intellectually and morally repellent. What is going on?

I am off to see The King's Speech this afternoon. Pilates and a dog walk next. I have not actually done any pilates since I was struck down with swine-flu after Christmas. I have Radox, Arnica gel and Galaxy Bubbles on stand-by.

Later this evening I shall be selling my soul (and a couple of Boden skirts) on EBAY and selling my body on Match.com. I wonder which will engender the most interest? My money's on the Boden skirts. They are 'brand new with tags', which is more than can be said of my soul, or my body.