Ooh, I like that jacket with the orange ruffly bits. I'll have that.

He'll never notice if I just take this one... He's got hundreds of haute couture fashions lying around as it is...

Escaping from the Paparazzi

I wish these photojournalists would stop bloody well pestering me. I'm worn out enough as it is without constant hounding by the press... Oh, well, there's Madonna in that taxi. Flag her down! She'll give me a lift. She understands what it's like...

London Fashion Week

What a weekend! I'm totally shattered now after all that fashion. It's made me that style-conscious, I've felt compelled to change my font to something a bit more with-it, and it's taken me all evening just to work out how to do that.
And it was all over as quick as a flash, this fashion show of Julian's. They go at a hell of pace, those models, strutting along like giraffes on hot coals. I could barely take it all in. But I do like this dress. Might have to take a few inches off my arms and lose 5 stone before I can get into it, but I can see it causing a stir the next time I go out to the cafe at Bridgemere Garden World. I said to Evie, '"What did you make of it all?" She just said, "I thought the classical lines offset the eye-opening colour juxtapositions rather effectively. The melding of texturally antithetic fabrics with a bravely uncomplicated sense of 50s Parisian chic was particularly refreshing. Can I have a strawberry Yop now?" She is funny, what she comes out with.
But I tell you, my blood pressure just can't cope with all of this excitement. I must have walked ten miles yesterday getting over to Portobello market, my feet killing me the whole way, and then it turns out to be jam-packed, with parts of it what I would call very arabic. And somebody was trying to sell the Whistling Boy for £120! I tell you, I'll be filling up the Honda and bringing stuff down here from Stoke before long, if you can make that kind of profit. Only they don't have any balconies where you can sit and smoke a fag in London, that's the only problem.

London

Right, are you listening? Can you go on the internet and find out if there are any restaurants in London? We've got Julian's fashion show http://www.julianjsmith.co.uk/ to go to tomorrow and there's going to be about 15 of us, and if they're not going to let me have a cigarette by the catwalk, then we're going to need to get to a restaurant quickly so I can smoke on the pavement outside. And it will have been hours since I'll have last eaten, so my thyroid will be going mental. And I've been put on these tablets for my hot flushes because I'm just burning up, but your father says they don't work, so I might just have to have access to water and air conditioning. And besides, I'm going to need a decent lunch after two hours forced to sit there watching a load of Latvians parading up and down in fuchsia catsuits. It's enough stress having to put up with London as it is. It's a lot busier than Cheshire, I'm telling you now. It's ridiculous.

Where are you supposed to smoke these days?

I've given up trying to find somewhere to go on holiday, because they just don't let you smoke anywhere. I mean, Turkey's not an option, obviously, and now that it's banned in Lanzarote, there's just nowhere left, is there? It's stressing me up enough even thinking about this fashion show of Julian's next weekend. Last time we went to a fashion show, they told me and your father off for smoking outside on the pavement. I'll just have to get some patches, I suppose.
So we're not going on holiday in October, just day trips. We've never been to the Cotswolds, so I suppose we'll just have to go there to smoke. And at least I'll be able to pick up a Wade cottage or two, and maybe a Moorcroft cufflink dish. They've got them coming out of their ears in the Cotswolds.
Only, I'll have to make sure Paul's available to look after the dog, because he's getting old. The other night, he'd been eating some pasta or a curry or something and ended up vomiting by the back door. Bloody typical. I shouldn't be wiping up dog vomit every five minutes, not with my leg. And I haven't slept properly in weeks, either. I've got this new bathroom in the bungalow to get organised and that will just create more chaos. I just wish they'd give me some oestrogen...

Cult status

I can't cope with this cult status. There's even some Australian woodcraft experts from Brisbane following me now. I'm not in the right frame of mind to be a celebrity, not with my pelvis torturing me night and day. And I've got Evie starting school this week to worry about on top of it all. She had her first day yesterday. 'What did you do at school today?' I asked her. She just shrugged and said, 'I spent a highly satisfactory hour producing a pastoral composition of grazing cattle in mixed media and was subsequently absorbed in a fascinating absurdist novella detailing the epic struggle of a menagerie of animals to disinter an unfeasibly gargantuan turnip. What did you do, Grandmother?' 'Ooh,' I said, 'I'm just totally worn out. I've had to assemble this Matchbox car set to check that it's complete and then I've priced up those pressed glass ashtrays. Wait till you're my age. Then you'll know what hard work is...'

Aviatiana and aeroplanalia

Sacrum

Paul! Paul! Get off that Bucking Bronco! What do you think you're doing getting on that thing at your age? Do you want a crushed sacrum or something? Because that's what you'll get. Don't think I'll come over and clean up after you if you're laid up on codeine for a fortnight.
Who's forced you to go on that Bucking Bronco, anyway? I bet it was Leo. You're too easily led astray, that's your problem. I've given up trying to look after the lounge carpet in that bungalow, what with you lot partying on it all round the clock. I suppose you've got half the scrapyard there most of the time. Well, I'm telling you now, there'll be hell to pay if any sump oil ends up on that settee. I only had it reupholstered 8 years ago.
Feel that! My pulse has gone up to 120 now. That's you getting me all anxious, going on that Bucking Bronco. I'll need a cigarette now. And I was supposed to be giving up as well. Typical.

What do I want with pot pourri?

I'm running out of space for things now. It's beyond a joke. I've got to try and shift this near-life-sized statuette of a whistling agricultural boy and a bag of outsized pot pourri. I mean, what do I want with pot pourri? The gypsies might buy it, I suppose, and your grandma might have been tempted, but I'm trying to appeal to a different kind of clientele. And I still can't shift the erotic Italian picture of the naked man, not even for £30...
See if you can get hold of another one of those budgie jugs for me, will you? They must have hundreds of them down in the South-East; they're classier down there.
Stop driving so fast! Are you trying to give me angina?