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?

Croatia? What do you want to go there for?

The majesty of the landscape? You can get all of that if you rent a static caravan in Abersoch. I wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone in Croatia, besides. When I go to Lanzarote, I can say Gracias, but you can't expect me to learn the Croatian word for Gracias, not at my age. I've just been virtually bed-ridden for two weeks with this virus and I've only been able to get out to Dagfields 8 times, so I'll be run off my feet until October now, I suppose, so I haven't the time to even think about holidays. I've got to shift these bloody teapots. Why won't anyone buy this rabbit-shaped one? I just don't understand it. Wouldn't you want that on your breakfast table every morning? I would.

On my last legs...

Will you check what these Matchbox stunt cars are worth on Ebay, because I may not be here in a couple of days. I reckon it's turned into bronchitis and I'm just burning up all the time. I feel that bad, I had to go out and spend £350 on clothes yesterday, just to try and make myself feel better.
But everyone's dying at the moment. You get to my age and it just starts happening all around you. You're lucky. You don't have to think about death at your age. But your father keeps spending money like it's water, so I'm going to have to talk to you about this bond I've got. And the unit at Dagfields should be easy to clear out when I'm gone, because I've managed to shift a lot of stock the past couple of weeks. I've got this Bullnose Morris Cowley and I'm sure I can get at least £50 for it, because I've seen a similar one go for that price just last week, only that was in a box, you see, so it could be worth less, I just don't know. You could look that up for me.
So anyway, I've got to start thinking about what hymns I want when I’m buried. I know what I don't want. All Things Bright and Beautiful. I mean, what's all that about? Animals. What's that got to do with death? The problem is, I'm more of a pop person than a hymn person, so to be perfectly honest, I'd sooner have You Never Walk Alone, I Want to Break Free by Queen and just anything by Elvis, really. Oh, and Memory by Barbra Streisand. I like that. The problem is, I'm just too exhausted to write anything down, so I'll just forget all this and then I'll be back to square one. I haven’t even read an antique book today, which is bad news.

Decisions

Thank God they've all gone! I just can't cope when everyone descends on Stoke for the weekend. It wouldn't be so bad if you're father would help out, but he just goes out on his motorbike and I'm left to decide who has to sleep where. It's just exhausting having to make all these decisions. I've got Sean asking me whether I want fried eggs or scrambled eggs one minute and then I've got to work out what clothes to put on the next. How are you supposed to cope with all of this stress? I mean, I can't decide what kind of eggs I want, can I? Not with all these hot flushes and what with trying to keep the bungalow clean and free of vomit. It wouldn't be so bad if that physio on my hair had worked last month, but it's been three weeks now and it's still limp and got no body... I think I'm just going to cry and be done with it.

Skiing in Obergurgl

I don't know how you expect me to be able to work this modern technology. I can barely keep my eyes open today, and it's only the chronic pain in my hips that's preventing me from slipping into a coma. You'd better not expect me to get on that chair lift this afternoon, I'm telling you now. And you'd better not vomit all over that chalet tonight. I know what you young people are like.

Why's everything all sideways?