How to...

When Molly was very small I took her to a puppy class where a smart lady of a certain age was complaining vociferously that her cocker spaniel wouldn't "do his business” on walks, only in the garden, meaning she had to dry his wet feet twice. As the adoring owner of two dogs and a cat, if that's the worst mess she has to put up with, she's lucky!

Cats are mercifully fragrance-free, but inclined to bring in between 1 and 3 rodent victims a day, plus most of the Welland Valley on their paws. Surely I can't be the only cat owner who has to shake the bottom sheet out of the window mid-week to get rid of the crunchy bits?

Talking of the cat - who is a loving brother/ grovelling little git - he regularly brings Molly a freshly-killed mouse to suck. Unfortunately, we often don't realise immediately, then Molly hides it down the sofa cushions for later. It is upsetting to be searching for the TV remote and make contact with something squashy, damp and furry.

Face licking is another delight. One of my friends - yes, I mean you, Mrs P - stoutly maintains that dogs have “healing mouths” when Molly decides to provide an unsolicited face-wash. (To be fair, she hasn't seen her eat as much sheep poo as I have.) I also spend most of my toddler niece’s visits shouting “Molly. Will you stop licking that baby!” and brandishing a damp flannel.

Perhaps most disgustingly to non-pet-people, Molly is a closet alcoholic, and furtively dips her tongue in my wine glass given half a chance. I’m ashamed to say that I tend to think “Ah well, alcohol's antiseptic" and sip on unperturbed.

I consider myself winning, though, because none of my pets have pulled the same trick that Mr Jeebs, my parents’ much-loved CKC spaniel, pulled on Dad one night.

Suffice it to say that he never puts his shoes on nowadays without shaking them out first.










Molly considers herself an essential pre-wash stage for plates.


Footnote:
In case anyone thinks I'm exaggerating, yesterday we had the following conversation about our second dog:

Oh god! Bessie's face is covered in brown stuff - is it poo or just earth?

I don't know. Sniff her.

Resolutions update, 13 weeks in

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge’s scruffier cousin.

Erm, I kept it up for two weeks them reverted to my Compo-like ways. Best not mentioned. Success: 1/10

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

Achieved on two occasions! Success: 10/10

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

Realised there's absolutely no point doing this, because however comprehensive a list is supplied the husband interrogator will scan it with a slight sneer that suggests they could have done it in half the time AND gone for a 10 mile jog, even if you know they haven't operated an iron since 2007. Success: 5/10

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

Achieved. By not having gone to Cambridge. 10/10.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

Achieved, but a struggle. Superfluous day cream was bought instead. Success: 8/10.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people’s hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.

Achieved, by the hand of fate. Poor old Mum broke her ankle and by the time I went to visit, my aunt had cleared out the fridge. It was quite a shock to find it full of edible food.

I also maintained a fixed smile when someone was banging on about there being no need to use washing powder because some weird hippy eco-pellets that "aerate the water" do the job just as well. (These have been proven by Which? Magazine to be no better than nothing. But my smile did not slip.)

Success: 9/10. One point deducted for judging her inside.

How to... Tell if you live in the country

Sometime in the 19th century, country living suddenly became less a sign of woeful unsophistication, more the rural idyll to which a nation aspired. Nowadays any home sited towards the edge of a suburban housing development is described as “semi-rural” and you only have to back onto a scrubby patch of wasteland to have the estate agency frothing at the mouth at your “rolling countryside views”.

So how do you know whether you’re a real bumpkin, or just playing at it? Our handy quiz is here to help.

Question 1. Wellies are:
A) a crime against fashion
B) cute for festivals (but you’d only be seen in Hunter or Le Chameau)
C) your footwear of choice for five months of the year. You only buy cheapies because you know they all split after 6 months anyway.

Question 2. You run out of milk. Do you:
A) Nip out to Starbucks
B) Walk to the corner shop
C) Grudgingly get in the car and drive 12 miles round, cursing yourself for having allowed this to happen.

Question 3. How well do you know your neighbours?
A) Wouldn't recognise them.
B) We exchange Christmas cards, and occasionally the kids play football together.
C) I turned up on their doorstep in my bathrobe for a shower when the hot water broke. They didn't bat an eyelid.

Question 4. Mud is:
A) That embarrassing 70s band your Dad used to like
B) Horrid, horrid, horrid.
C) The inevitable patina of your house and car between October and March.

Question 5. Describe your takeaway options.
A) Manifold.
B) We can get pizza, Chinese and Indian delivered.
C) Once a week I drive 3 miles out to the mobile chip van.

RESULTS

Mostly As: An urbanite through and through.
Mostly Bs: You are as suburban as Terry and June. Your privet hedge is neatly trimmed and your Joules wellies fool no-one.
Mostly Cs: Congratulations, you are a fully fledged country dweller! You will probably die from being trampled by cows, but you wouldn't want it any other way.

Real resolutions

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge's scruffier cousin.

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people's hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.





NB This list has been accused of being under-aspirational. I can only say that that person obviously doesn't realise how addicted I am to scruffiness, fridge-tutting and the purchase of unnecessary toiletries.

November

In November life in the Southwold household became dominated by one word: MUD. A combination of heavy rainfall and clay soils means that there is now literally nowhere to walk the dog that she won’t come back looking, but alas not smelling, choc-dipped. A waterproof doggy trouser suit had been suggested by a well-meaning acquaintance, but when showed to Molly her response was profane in the extreme, including the phrase “I wouldn't wear f***ing tartan if you paid me in sardines, Mother”. Work on a disposable, cling film-type alternative was halted when Molly began to lose consciousness, although Simon maintains that she was just holding her breath to scare us.

How to... Eat abroad

I come from stock where anything that can't be grown, hunted, fished or foraged in East Anglia is dismissed as “foreign muck” (with the noticeable exceptions of coffee, wine and tobacco - hmm, Mum, Dad?) I was 19 before I ate in a curry house, 28 when I first tried sushi - I remain the only person in my family to have done so. So sheltered and scared was I that on my first self-catering holiday in France, I took my own body weight in tinned goods and dined, the first night, on a Fray Bentos pie. Now a sophisticated and cosmopolitan woman (stop laughing at the back!) I present my guide to Eating Abroad.

Tea: The only country where you're all but guaranteed a kettle in your room is Blighty. Worse, the tea served abroad is universally revolting: weak as a kitten and either served with hot milk (ugh!), UHT milk (blee!) or no milk at all (waiter!). There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with sacrificing a corner of your suitcase for a travel kettle and 40 teabags. You're British, after all.

Vegetarians: I'm not, my husband is. Absolute nightmare. He nearly starved in Brittany, as the French resolutely refuse to believe that lardons (the bacon bits in salads) count as meat. As the spouse of a veggie, be prepared for the disappointment of walking past 50 top-class restaurants until you find a dodgy-looking establishment that smells of drains, but sells Margerita pizza.

Tourist Traps: Every year I forget about them. Every year I get ripped off. In 2009, we paid €27 for a glass of wine and a Coke on the Champs Élysées. At least in Fornells last year I realised the famous Menorcan lobster stew, caldereta, was €70 for two BEFORE we sat down.

The USA: Prepare before you go by tripling portion size, dousing everything in cinnamon and getting your wife to introduce herself when she puts your dinner in front of you. Set fire to a few £10 notes to desensitise yourself to the shock of tipping 20% for the privilege.

My week in pictures

Monday.



Tuesday and Friday.



Wednesday and Thursday.

Small pleasures

I love the current combination of sunshiny days and freezing nights.

At the risk of sounding like some patchouli-scented hippie, I never realised how beautiful nettles are when they get iced!