It was funny, like a dog eating sausages

I've pinched my title from Ian Whybrow, because it's a good one that often flashes through my mind at inappropriate times. Yesterday I thought it was funny when George climbed onto the biscuit, fully dressed, and floated a short way, while standing, out into the lake; then Ian tugged the rope and George went flying straight off. Of course, when it transpired that his brand-new mobile phone was in his pocket at the time, we all stopped laughing rather abruptly.

I'm trying to remember whether anything else has happened since we arrived here, that's made any of us crack up. Time passes in a way that's hard to describe, when we're on holiday. It seems to dribble past in small amounts, but when you think back, you realise you've read three novels, done 20 sudoku and 14 crosswords, watched 10 movies, and cooked umpteen bloody meals.

There was a particularly good pun cracked by yours truly about 4 nights ago, but the explanatory scene-setting required to share it will kill it stone dead. You'll just have to take my word for it, that it was small and perfectly formed, and used a delightfully old-fashioned word. I'm prepared to share it with anyone who's watched Wind in the Willows (the recent version with real people). Not that I'll need to, as no-one reads this blog!

Well, now I'm going in search of real laughs with Dylan Moran.... and by the way, George's phone dried out.

Some of my best friends don't cook

But for those that do, I would like to say "thank you". I've often wondered why I love food so much, but as my orbit (among other things) has expanded, I find that others share my transports of delight over fresh artichokes, new season's broad beans, and other simple pleasures of this sort.

It all started with my Mama, who had strict rules about food. The main one was "never cook the same meal twice within a month". I can remember being shocked at primary school to discover that a dear friend of mine had a fixed menu that rotated each WEEK! She knew exactly when she'd have mince, F and Cs, sausages and so on. Better than starving - but only just.

We had enormous variety - fresh lamb sweetbreads, toad-in-the-hole, whole sole, rabbit casserole, roast lamb/hogget/pork; I could go on and on - and vegetables and fruit either grown in the home garden or bartered from local market gardeners. Always a pudding - and if it was just ice cream there would be stewed fruit presented with it as a "package deal" (much to my disgust - especially if it was stewed pears).

What mother, or father come to that, has the time these days for all that meal planning and preparation? My children don't get anything like the same variety as I did. I bet they wouldn't thank me if I suddenly started serving up a wild and wonderful menu, either; they're a fussy lot. But every now and then they discover something that I should have fed them long ago - I love to see them hoovering up good food with joy.

So to friends who cook for me - thank you! and to those who don't - it's never too late to start! Ha ha!

So long, Book Book

Well, she was gorgeous and gave us eggs, but Book Book has forsaken us, and for over a week I have gathered no eggs and heard no clucks. I just hope she's moved on to another safe house.

Life sans Book Book does not lack excitement, however. On Sunday I was so busy trying to disengage a small arachnid from the silk entwined around my kebab stick, that I tipped most of the rest of my dinner onto the floor of the sitting room. It was a chicken kebab. Maybe my dinner saboteur was a pal of Book Book's?

I'm proud to have gardened earnestly this week. At the risk of sounding like the ultimate egoist, I'm really wondering whether my efforts at the weekend explain the forecast, which is for frosts and snow tonight. It's November, for heaven's sake! If we can't plant the beans now, when the hell can we plant 'em?

Were they dying of old age?

We've had a dilemma recently. Some of our tropical fish looked sick, and opinions in the household varied about the cause. We tried feeding them less, changing the water, and aromatherapy, but nothing seemed to help. However, having tested the water today and found it to be good, we are left to face facts: fish are mortal too. The sick ones are going to the happy hunting grounds this afternoon - brutal, but true. The pet shop is going to feed them to their turtles!

There was excitement in the garden today, too. Our neighbourhood hen chose a sheltered little pozzie under one of our maple trees to lay six eggs - they're a nice size and are now lined up on the kitchen bench. Lorraine-who-lives-next-door is a little put out that "Book-book" has changed allegiances and is laying at our place. Maybe she won't any more, now that I've pinched her clutch...