Fleam

I don't know what's going on with this Chromebook. Every time I go on it, I keep getting your father's email. It's no good telling me to log it off. How?! I never used to have to log off the old one, but this one's just far too complicated. What do you mean, 'Control Shift Q'. That's just nonsense to me. There's nothing that says control anywhere that I can see. I'll just have to go back to my Tiscali.

Anyway, I've just sold a fleam. Misspelt it on the label with a 'ph', because I had 'phlegm' on the brain, but I changed it and it sold straight away. You don't know what that is, do you? It's for bloodletting. They're surprisingly popular in Stoke, fleams. Must be a bit of a bloodletting hotspot. Sold it to a tall man with tattoos and a shaved head. Made quite a good profit on it, anyway. Anyway, I've got another virus and it's knocked me out, so I'd better have a fag and go to bed...

Owl / mice

Oh, yes, I've remembered why I rang you. Your father's gone to bed so that he can go to Belgium at three in the morning for cigars, so I need help with this Chromebook. How do you send an attachment? I want to learn how to attach a photo to an email. I haven't taken the photo yet, but if you just tell me how to attach it, then I'll know. No, I can't see where it says 'Attach a file'. It's just all white boxes. Oh God! I can't use this touchpad. It's too sensitive. You think you've selected one thing and then all of a sudden you've placed a bid on a pressed glass ashtray on Ebay. I need a mouse. I need two mice. One for the old laptop and one for this Chromebook.  I can't do anything without mice. 

Anyway, this woman brought in a Capodimonte owl the other day. It's got sticky-out ears and it stares at you when you look at it. Can you find one on Ebay and tell me how much it's worth? What?! £280! That's ridiculous! I was going to put £15 on it. Well, that's just stupid American prices. There's no way anyone's going to pay that for it at Dagfields. There's a bloody recession on. The Capodimonte owl market's gone totally flat... 

This bloody Chromebook...

Well, how the hell am I supposed to know that you're not supposed to put the charger in the earphones socket? They're both round holes, aren't they, so how are you supposed to know the difference? Why you can't just get Chromebooks that stay plugged in all the time, I don't know. If I can't get to my Peter Wilson Auctions, I'll have a nervous breakdown. I can't even bloody print properly with this - it just keeps saying that it's being sent to a Cloud. I mean, what's that supposed to be? I'll just have to ask Sharon when she next comes round. I'm not asking your sister. I'm not talking to her. She said that I've never taken any interest in horses. Can you believe that? I spent half of my life up at those stables in the 1980s and we even had to sit there once for 5 hours when the battery went flat in the Saab. And then she accused me of only bring some Morrison's profiteroles for Christmas dinner last year. Can you believe it?! Anyway, how do you spell 'epiglottis' again?

First go on the Chromebook

I don't know how people manage to cope with new laptops. We've only had the other one for five years and now I've got to get used to this Chromebook. I'll be dead before I can work out how to use it, I'm telling you now. As long as it's got my Barclays, ebay, Peter Wilson and Louis Taylor's on it, that's all I care about. Everything else is just too much for me to handle at the moment, what with my spine.

I'm too old for this

It's nearly killed me, I tell you, having to empty and price up six boxes' worth of antiques. It's hard enough as it is trying to work at Dagfields at the best of times without that kind of pressure. And then I'm confronted with a box of books and a bathroom cabinet to deal with. At least I'm not stranded in six feet of water in a static caravan in Talybont. They'd never airlift me out of that with my pelvis, I'm telling you now. I'd just have to drown...

Somewhere that begins with 'Ll...'

Having a very stressful day. Kirsty has made me come to somewhere in Wales for this horse show. I've no idea where, but it begins with a double L and it's near Oswestry. And now I'm stood here looking after the horse, the dog and Evie. It's not on. I can't even go to the toilet because I can't leave the horse and I'm stressed up to the nines after the journey. I mean, you can't reverse with a horsebox, you know. So we've had to drive over the pavement and all sorts. Added to that, Michael's gone out on a bike ride and your father's out playing golf with Paul and he's asked me to babysit Robbie the dog as well. I mean, I can't babysit that dog, this dog, a gifted child and a bloody horse, can I? It's ridiculous. I don't know whether I'm coming or going. People just use you for their own ends, is what I think. Your father's no use, either. We took that reproduction oak court cupboard out to Dagfields the other day, and you've never seen such a rigmarole to move the thing. Moving furniture's just not in your father's meaning structure. So, by way of relaxation, I'm just trying to teach Evie knitting with some wool I brought back from Portugal...

If I die in the next two weeks...

...make sure the undertaker doesn't cremate me with my gold teeth in. They must be worth at least £400, so you can all go out for a meal on my fillings. Kirsty's getting the rest of the jewellery, Julian can have the clothes and you can have the mule chest. You're an executor, you know, so you're not to just give away the antiques to  the Salvation Army, do you hear? I think it's Portugal that's nearly killed me. It was far too hot. 25 degrees at least. I just can't cope with that kind of heat any more. Not with my blood pressure being sky high all the time. And I can't cope with the airports. Or the airlines. Or the air hostesses. Or the food. Or the language. Or the money. Or the smoking bans left, right and centre. Or the lack of decent antiques. I just pine for Dagfields, that's the problem. They don't know a Regency Davenport from a drop-leaf washstand with barley-twist legs, the Portuguese.