Private Secret Diary

The rain whips horizontally across from the south west, blattering us in its raininess, threatening to sneak its wet fingers inside my anorak like a drunk girl at a bus stop. I grit my teeth and search the horizon for some blue.

My opponent’s wood skids across the green, water spraying up behind it as it goes. She is a very pleasant elderly lady, with whom I have already enjoyed a laugh and a joke. Her wood comes to a halt several yards short of the jack. Again.

Bowls is a very tactical game, and one of the key skills is knowing where to put the jack. Sometimes, you will find your opponent is very good when the jack is a long way away - in which case you will try to roll it short. Conversely, some prefer the shorter game - in which case you will try to bring it to rest right at the end of the green.

“It’s no use,” she turns to me. “I just can’t get it that far. I’m not strong enough.”

I return her a weak, guilty, smile.

It is one of those accepted things that is not exactly gamesmanship or unsporting or cheating, but is just a bit awkward, especially when you are playing a nice old lady who is just a bit weak in the arms. I avoid her for the rest of the end.

“Put in another long one,” hisses Nigel as we cross over for the next go.

I make mumbling noises. I do not want to be unkind. I am not Robert Mugabe. But nor am I Nelson Mandela. I am somebody in the middle, like Kenneth Kaunda.

I throw the jack quite long; long enough to be a bit difficult for somebody with a bad arm, but not as long as I could so that she might think that it was an accident. She gives me a reproachful look. Nigel gives me a reproachful look. I have tried to please everybody and now they all hate me. It is typical.

The rain eases off after a while, and the green speeds up. My dilemma vanishes with the drying grass. This is the thing about bowls. It is a microcosm of life, but with unfashionable shoes.

Eleven chickens. Eleven!!!

Honestly, I do not know how I get in to these things. One minute I have a few chickens trotting around in my garden, the next minute I have become some sort of emergency chicken looker-after and advice service.

I slurp down my morning tea and hare across the road to my first appointment.

I am growing a bit concerned about the Vicarage chickens. They do not seem to eat much. Here I am, dashing to their immediate relief, a chicken knight in shining armour, Egg Adair - but they have not even eaten their dinner from yesterday. Or the day before. I try to encourage them by making hungry chicken noises and flapping my arms and miming eating things, but they are not at all interested. I take their eggs, thoughtfully.

It seems apparent that they have anorexia. I am not sure whether I should feel responsible for this. They are a year or so old, and I have just introduced six healthy fine young pedigree chicken specimens into the Village to compete with them. They definitely have a self-image problem, and I do not know what to do to address this, apart from point out to them that one of ours got shot, so things are not all bad for them. I will speak to the Vicaragers on their return.

Eleven chickens!!! I am like some Norfolk version of Bernard Matthews.

I zip round the corner to Big A’s. His chickens start throwing themselves at the wire as soon as they see me approaching with food. I open their door, checking for post, and they mob me, surrounding, jostling and squawking. I am surprised nobody has made a horror movie about chickens. I tip their food into their tin and they launch themselves in it with ravening beaks. This tin was totally full up yesterday.

They are clearly bullemic. It is fairly obvious what has happened: as rescued battery hens, they are enjoying eating things other than mashed-up pieces of other chickens, but are alarmed that they are putting on weight quickly. If I search hard enough I will find some chicken sick. It is very sad. I take the eggs and stomp home.

My chickens are happy as always. They are the best chickens in the Village, not that I am competitive dad or anything, oh no. I would get some work done, but by the time I have finished chickening it is almost nightfall, and there are emails in my inbox from people who have chicken problems and have discovered my expertise by using the internet.

This is probably how Dr Raj Persaud started. I would start penning a chicken column for the quality Sundays, but I cannot get to my desk for eggs. I am proud to have demystified chickens for the masses, but it is perhaps time to move on a bit.

Big A stands impatiently at the front door. I dump my woods and hurry out to Nigel’s car.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise, leaping breathlessly into the back, “I had to have the usual conversation with the LTLP. ‘Are you going to the Village Pub again then?’ ‘Yes, of course I am going to the Village Pub.’ ‘But you went to the Village Pub two years ago.’”

We go to the Village Pub.

Big A gives a sad nod as we pootle up the road. “Mine said something like ‘why don’t you go a bit later?’”. We tut. It is already almost nine o’clock. This is the trouble with bowls WAGs. They start off by supporting you and being all interested in the game, but the next thing you know they are demanding to be taken to the glitzy venues and then roasted.

There is huge testosterone bouncing around the car, with Nigel turning up Classic FM extra loud. He is the Fernando Torres of drawing in gently on the forehand and under his skippership we have administered a sound beating to a strong local rival. This is likely to send us towards the top of the table!!!

I consider buying some Cristal champagne, but decide to have a pint of Olde Tripp instead, which is a sort of bling London Pride. There is the feeling that for the first time this season or, indeed, any season, we have got our act together as a remorseless and determined bowls unit. I stay for another couple of pints, but leave quietly despite Big A’s entreaties to stay - I need to conserve my energy and am wary of tabloid attention. This season could be it. It could be it.

“It is a magic worm!!!” I cry in delight.

I am not sure what to add to this, so there is a brief pause. “This is the best Father’s Day ever,” I assure everybody, diplomatically. My eyes scan the room - there is a lack of other big manly presents, such as shaving equipment or CDs of driving music.

I open my magic worm. It is a three-inch long strip of cloth, with two printed eyes on sticky paper. There is a very fine thread that you must tie to the nose of the worm, and then apparently you can make the worm appear to crawl along and up and over your hands and body by subtly jerking this invisible lead. The instructions don’t exactly say ‘amaze your family and friends!’ but that is their gist.

The Toddler is enthralled. The LTLP gives me an apologetic glance in an ‘I haven’t had the chance to go to the shops’ sort of way, but I am determined to make the most of my new magic worm.

“Later on this special father’s day, my darling,” I purr, fixing her with my smooth gaze, “I thought I might show you my other magic worm.”

The LTLP withdraws her apologetic glance.

I sit at the table and try to affix the invisible thread to the magic worm’s nose. My fingers are strong and agile, but are built for strumming the banjo and playing bowls rather than affixing invisible thread to magic worms, and I shout and swear as the knot keeps slipping. I try to grasp the thread tightly between fingernails, but it keeps looping away from me and then I have to scrabble on the table for it, what with it being invisible. Fifteen minutes later, thread is finally affixed to worm, but by this point its eyes have fallen off and the Toddler is interested in something else.

“Look! Look! Magic Worm!” I cry, clutching the invisible thread in my left hand and moving my arm rapidly up and down to make the worm jump on the spot. The worm jumps on the spot. Unfortunately, the thread might indeed be invisible, but the correlation between the worm jumping up and down and my arm moving up and down would fool none but the thickest infant. I try to make the worm wriggle on my hand, but it slips and hangs, suspended by invisible-but-obvious-it’s-there thread.

Booooooo - I am a rubbish puppeteer. I will never get a job on the Muppets now.

I never really believed in father’s day until I became a father myself and could suddenly see its full profundity. It is a bit like the way ‘World’s Best Dad’ mugs are barf-inducing until you get one yourself. But I think it is important that men should get at least one day in the year when they are fussed over a bit and don’t have to do everything in the world.

I thank the Toddler for my magic worm. She is only young, and I am grateful to her. But she will have to raise her game in future.

It is as exciting as exciting can be.

“You’re Not the Only One,” edited by Sarah J. Peach and published by Lulu, in aid of the Warchild charity.

I mentioned this one before - and I hope I encouraged at least one of you to send something in, or at the very least to chat about needy orphans at your dinner party that night. Sarah J. picked a post from here that she thought would fit in well - it’s always odd when that sort of thing happens, as you never know what other people will find funny, or profound, or deeply moving - and although I usually write deeply moving and personal stuff apparently people always laugh at it. Bizarrely, she then went and chose the same thing that I’d set aside to send her should her choice be embarrassing and weak.

So hopefully it is a Good and Popular One.

Anyway - it’s got laughter! It’s got tears! It’s got ‘an interesting dipping-into read’ written all over it. Everybody must know SOMEBODY with a birthday coming up - - go on… why not?

Here’s the link to buy it.

There is a crisis in the kitchen!!!

I search the fridge in some agitation. Milk is nowhere to be seen. Without milk I am unable to make tea, and without making tea I will be unable to drink it.

My search is fruitless, and also pointless as I know very well that we have no milk. I used the last of the milk a while back, whilst making tea. And I have forgotten to go to the Village Shop to replace it. Boooooooo - we have no milk!!! Life is not good after all, what with not having any milk. Boooooooo!!!

The nearest milk is a six-mile round trip away. I really do not want to drive six miles for a single pint of milk.

I stomp into the lounge. “Do we need anything else from the shop?” I demand of the LTLP. We rack our brains. Driving six miles for a single item is ludicrous, and would be bad for the environment. But if we needed two items then that would make the trip a bit more worthwhile, and be only half as bad for the environment. We cannot think of a single extra thing we need aside from the milk.

I swallow my pride.

“Iwasjustwondering,” I mumble, as Short Tony answers the door, “ificouldborrowabitofmilk.”

“Again,” I add, a little shamefacedly.

Short Tony gracefully assents to my request. “Good oh!” I exclaim, bringing out a large jug from behind my back.

Milk!!! We have some milk!!! Thanks to the generosity and good-spiritedness of our neighbours, I will be able to make a nice cup of tea!!!

There are no teabags.

I stare, boggle-eyed at the teabag tin. No matter how hard I look, it remains a nothingness void of teabags. I grip the tin in astonishment and fury; astonishment because clearly this is a particularly annoying time to discover a lack of teabags; fury because I now distinctly recall using the last teabag for the same cup of tea for which I used the last of the milk (see above). The LTLP is unimpressed.

“Are you SURE we don’t need anything else from the shop?” I demand. I really do not want to do a six-mile round trip just for one item (teabags). If I required two items (eg, teabags and milk) then it might be worthwhile, but that journey for a single item would be ludicrous.

“Thankyoueversomuch,” I mumble at Mrs Big A, as she hands over teabags. “I would have gone next door again. But I was a bit embarrassed.”

I take my kindly donated teabags. I have to hurry past Short Tony’s house on my way back. I sort of cover my face with my hands so he won’t see me and come out and call me an idiot.

Zigzagging, down the hill from the Village Pub.

A line of Sunday afternoon traffic passes in the opposite direction. They are holidaymakers, who have to go home. But I do not - I can stay here!!! “Yah boo!” I shout, in my head, so that nobody stops their car and gets out and hits me.

I always have mixed feelings about drinking at lunchtime - even on a Sunday. On one hand, I do not like the way that lunchtime drinking uses up the entire day. On the other hand, it involves drinking, and lunchtime, two of my favourite things. I had tucked into the free bar sandwiches with gusto, until they had hardened off beyond reasonable human consumption.

My other problem is that I am always able to haul myself away from the pub after a few drinks in the evening, as they close it. Nowadays, pubs are able to stay open all afternoon, so there is not this safety net available for the lunchtime drunk. Gordon Brown should investigate this and perhaps take action. It will surely make him more popular than he is now.

Eddie left early and morosely, having agreed to attend a local event in the afternoon. Len the Fish remained until his dogg had had his fill of sandwiches; Short Tony stayed for just another half as I lumbered from the double-doors.

I have enjoyed my week of doing nothing in particular except eating and drinking and not looking at the PC screen. I resolve not to go to sleep as I arrive back at the cottage - it would waste the rest of this sunny day. Ten minutes later, Mrs Short Tony pops round. I accept her invitation and head next door with a bottle of wine.

The sun is shining and I am very relaxed and chilled out. It makes for rubbish comedy, but life is good.

The LTLP’s holiday has been planned for ages.

“I’m really busy,” I warn her. “I’ve been so up against it that I’m going to have to work. Sorry.”

She gives me one of her Rosemary West glares, and I change my mind. We do family type things instead.

“Want to wander up there for a game of snooker?” enquires Short Tony, a bit later on the Tuesday afternoon. I tell him that I cannot, as I am busy having a holiday with the LTLP, and that anyway I would not be going up there on a Tuesday afternoon at all, as I am very busy with work under normal circumstances and do not spend my life playing snooker. The LTLP nods vigorously.

It has been nice spending a bit of quality time together - a bit like when we first met but with fewer bad haircuts. We have done some DIY and been to pubs and gone shopping.

“I really can’t,” I tell John Twonil on the telephone later on. The LTLP looks on with a querulous expression. “We are doing nice family things. Plus I don’t know what gave you the impression that I would ever be available to play snooker on a Tuesday afternoon at any point, as I am always busy working.” I replace the receiver hurriedly.

By the time Big A has wandered over on Wednesday morning to see if I fancy a game of snooker, I have got quite defensive. The LTLP says nothing. I can tell what she is thinking.

To be honest, I have very much enjoyed the week. I had forgotten what it was like being away from a PC screen for any length of time, apart from when playing snooker, and I have found that it is refreshing and energising. I will return soon, when the refreshing and energising process is complete.

“It is crazy,” I confess. “I’m just so totally busy.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. Egg production has restarted in earnest, with the chickens particularly liking their treat from Patisserie Valerie, and I pack a basket to the brim.

“I mean yesterday,” I continue, “I must have started at around ten, and I honestly didn’t stop until at least half-four. I just don’t know how I’m managing.”

Short Tony gives me a sympathetic look. Any more of this and I will become stressed or contract yuppie flu, if it still exists. In fact I am sure I can detect the beginnings of yuppie flu in my arms. I stretch them, anxiously.

“We’re going away all week,” he replies. “Can I leave you to look after the chickens?”

I am a bit taken aback by this. Here I am, working harder than anybody has ever had to work in the world ever, and he is leaving me with sole responsibility of the chickens. I do not reveal my annoyance as I nod my agreement.

I carry the basket of eggs to Eddie’s house. Unconvincingly-voiced magician Derren Brown appears over one shoulder, telling me not to drop them. “Do not drop them…” he insists. “Do not drop them…” I swat at him irritably, worrying that I am going to drop them, what with him telling me not to drop them and the yuppie flu in my arms.

I do not drop them. But Eddie is out. I knock for ages, but realise that I will have to take them home again. Derren is very amused by this. Despite the arm situation, I carry the basket out in front of me, ensuring that everything is level and that no eggs crack against each other. “Do not drop them… do not drop them…” he maintains.

Later, I ring Eddie. “Are you at home?” I demand. “I have your eggs.”

Eddie confirms that she is at home, by medium of answering her home telephone. “Don’t drop them,” she barks.

I head up the hill with the basket of eggs. Derren Brown has switched to the other shoulder, and is taunting me once more. Despite the fact that it is really uncomfortable, I maintain my rigid and unyielding grip on the basket of eggs, keeping my worried eyes peeled for potholes in the road where I might trip.

I knock on the door. There is no reply. I knock again, and ring, and knock. There is still no reply. After about ten minutes I head grumpily back down the hill. Derren Brown is pissing himself by now, telling me that on no occasion must I drop the eggs. I am so busy that I do not have time for such tomfoolery, and the yuppie flu is really getting to my aching limbs by now, although I am aware that I am going on about that a bit. That is the thing with yuppie flu. It is all ME ME ME.

I reach the cottage without dropping the eggs. Comedy’s misfortune is my gain!!! Later, Eddie calls to apologise for not answering the door, claiming showerdom. She walks round to pick up the eggs. I advise her not to drop them as she carries them home.

Big A pops round. He is going away, and wants me to look after his chickens. I agree. I am a martyr.

“WHAT are my Denby bowls doing in there?!?” snarls the LTLP.

I shrug my shoulders and make vague noises, which is what I generally do when I don’t want to answer a question. She is as unimpressed with this as was the woman in the Registry Office.

“I thought perhaps the standard of crockery might make a difference,” I mumble, hiding a Le Creuset behind my back. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I have suggested inviting the reclusive Barclay brothers for dinner, but only if they dress as giant staplers.

Short Tony is stomping around in the chicken enclosure. “I’m getting my gun out if it carries on like this,” he warns. The chickens back off in alarm.

“How many did you get yesterday?” I ask.

“One. Just one.”

Something occurs to me. I give him a funny and askance look. We have an ‘every other day’ arrangement, by which I take the eggs on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, he takes the eggs on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and there is a free-for-all on Sundays. A grave and uncharitable thought is forming in my mind that Short Tony might just be pretending that his yield is down, in order to cover up the fact that he is swiping production on Days That He Is Not Allowed. I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

“Here you go,” I tell the chickens, setting down their Hummus salad, and immediately regretting my suspicious nature.

“We’ll see how it goes today,” I sigh. As I leave, I notice Short Tony looking at me in a funny and askance way. I haven’t a clue what that is all about. I collect the empty bowls, and take them in for the dishwasher.

Please talk amongst yourselves for now.

Back next week.

Horribly busy. Sorry. Plus I need to put some wood treatment on a wendy house. Sorry sorry.

The liquid scalds the back of my throat. I blink in surprise and pain.

“Not bad, is it?” asks Don.

I decline a second helping. The sporting authorities are far keener these days on fostering a clean-living and healthy look - Lord knows what the image-obsessed International Bowls Federation would make of a team that blatantly distributes home-made cider from a vodka bottle before the start of play.

“It tastes a bit… spirited,” I agree, as I stagger towards the mat, coughing in agony, my eyes streaming and face melting.

We complete our handshakes. “I’m very sorry about the green,” says my opponent. “The groundsman was meant to mow it today. We’ll kill him if we get hold of him.”

His tone leaves no doubt that they will, indeed, kill the groundsman should they get hold of him. I make conciliatory noises, as does Big A. It is the same for both sides and frankly anything that evens things up is ok by me. My conciliatory noises are interrupted by more cider-originated coughing; my eyes and ears don’t appear to be working properly.

My first wood stops about ten yards short of the jack. My opponent’s stops next to it. I glare savagely at the uncut grass, a surface fit only for amateurs.

When it’s Nigel’s turn I have a decent idea. “If you can come in round this way,” I shout, “you might be able to knock these two up.”

Big A prods me tactfully in the ribs. “Nigel’s just had his turn,” he explains. I look confused. Somebody offers me more cider.

“I was a bit surprised when they just stole that end and you started muttering ‘fucking bastard,’” muses Big A in the Village Pub afterwards. “You seemed to be getting a bit competitive.” I sip my pint sheepishly. “I was having a bit of trouble getting into the zone,” I reply.

The season is but a few matches old, and we are already looking like we might challenge for honours. I need to keep my head if we are to keep this standard up.

“Are you sure you can do that?” insists Eddie. “Are you sure?!?”

I give Eddie a contemptuous look. She will rue the day she doubted my chickens. I order Eddie and Eddie more drinks, and we discuss terms.

It is my first major order!!! John Twonil is getting married, and I have won the contract to supply eggs for the wedding cake!!! This is the sort of break that really makes a difference to the hungry business executive; I suspect it is how Bernard Matthews, Mr Kipling etc. started.

Becoming a supplier for the big society wedding of the year fills me with pride. The event has been planned for months - specially printed invitations, a privately-made dress for the bride, one of the top venues in the region (Village Pub). I would imagine that I can now put some form of crest on the side of the chicken coop, perhaps in gold lettering. They will need a website and perhaps a mission statement. There is so much to think of.

“Two dozen. It must be two dozen,” Eddie maintains, poking me and fixing me with a stare. I give an involuntary shiver. If I am to be the egg equivalent of ‘The Apprentice’ then I will have to harden up and get used to dealing with such people.

“It’s pretty fucking important,” I explain to the chickens as I put them to bed. They have had it easy up to this point; now is the time they start earning their keep.

“My chickens have arrived!!!” exclaims Big A, from the other end of the telephone line, over the road.

I am pleased for him. His run has everything the modern chicken enthusiast could want - including a covered area, a bespoke constructed house and a letterbox - except some chickens. Now this gap has been filled, and he can join our international brotherhood. I give him my congratulations.

“What are they like?” I ask him.

A note of doubt creeps in to his voice. “Well - they look like chickens,” he ponders.

“I need some advice from the expert,” he continues. “What time should I be putting them to bed?”

I am an expert!!! The words resound with me resoundingly. I am so proud of my chickens: they have given me love, and eggs, and the status of an expert. And more eggs. I haven’t been the expert at anything for as long as I can remember. Truly these chickens have changed my life.

“Well I don’t let mine stay up too late,” I caution. “Except on Thursdays when they are allowed to watch ‘Heroes.’”

There is a bemused pause. I am not sure whether he knows that I am joking. They would not be interested in ‘Heroes’, or not the second series, anyway. That is the thing with being an expert - you have to watch what you say as people will take your word as law.

“I think one of them might have an egg stuck -” he begins.

“You’ll need to speak to Short Tony or Len the Fish,” I interrupt immediately.

Short Tony gives me a very satisfied look, like an Austrian who has just refastened his trousers having made a careful and contented tick on his clipboard against the words ‘Timmy the Dog’.

“You didn’t plant any in there this morning, did you?” he adds, anxiously.

I assure him that I did not. Five eggs!!! That is exactly one per chicken. Productivity is going through the roof.

I glance round at my new Egg-Skelter (R). This is a marvellous device for storing your eggs, and keeping track of which ones are freshest. It is overflowing with eggs. There are eggs piled up everywhere; on the table, on the surfaces. My kitchen is like Eggs ‘R’ Us. If I opened the wall cabinet, eggs would probably cascade out in a humorous fashion, burying me under a pyramid of them like the Tribbles in Star Trek.

I think the problem might be that I don’t eat eggs very often.

I should have thought this out more. If we are getting five eggs a day, divided by Short Tony and I, then that is seventeen and a half eggs per household per week. A quick burst of mental arithmetic reveals my usual weekly egg consumption as one (fried, with breakfast at the weekend). I have been coming up with new egg recipes, such as scrambled and hard-boiled, but I think my chances of raising my consumption by a significant factor are slim.

I have already given a half-dozen to Len the Fish. When you have chickens, giving people eggs is the most neighbourly thing that you can do. Unfortunately, Short Tony turned up about a minute later, with another half-dozen for Len the Fish. Len the Fish is now sick of eggs. I have given some to the other neighbours, but there are still loads left. I sense that what was once a neighbourly thing is going to turn in to ‘oh God here comes bloody Captain Egg again; pull the curtains and pretend we’re out, or vegan’.

The LTLP is getting a little tired of Egg Surprise for her dinner when she gets home; I am finding it increasingly difficult to populate my dinner parties. I am grateful to the chickens for their continued efforts, but if they could - haha - hahahahaha - ‘lay off’ - haha - a bit then I would not complain.

The spring rays of evening sun trickle down on the Village; chirping birds dwarf any noise from the road. I gaze out on to the front garden, in a reflective mood.

None of us have been very well recently, with a cough. And we are very tired, as the Toddler refuses to wait until the rabbit clock opens its bright bunny eyes before waking up and expecting us to be entertaining. Plus I am sure that I am approaching a crossroads in my life.

The thing about crossroads is that you can either turn left, or you can turn right. Alternatively, you can go straight ahead, being sure to give way to traffic from the left or right (depending on whether you are on the major or minor road). The problem is that if you stop to think too much at the junction, then a man in a lorry behind you will start hooting, and after a while perhaps get out and punch you in the face. (For the purposes of the analogy there is no safe place to pull over off the road, as there is a high wall on both sides and no pavement/layby etc).

It is a dilemma.

I start worrying that the LTLP might be getting a bit eccentric, as I wander outside to take the chickens their pudding. Yesterday she was in a well-to-do establishment, and retired to ‘freshen up’. It was only after wondering for ages why the toilet paper was on the other side of the room that she realised that she had performed her ablutions in the bidet. She has been working very hard recently, and I hope that she is not losing it.

“Here you go, chickens!” I offer, setting the pots down. They seem to have enjoyed their asparagus. We chat a while before I retire back towards the house.

‘I would do anything to make the LTLP’s life a bit easier,’ I think to myself as I scrunch across the gravel.

Smoke starts curling up around me from my pants.

I waft it away irritably. Spring is coming. We need to relax a bit more.

The smell of the fresh-cut grass; the ‘clunk’ of the colliding woods; the gentle and friendly handshakes at the end…

I have looked forward to this moment all winter. Things have gone a bit tits up with various professional stuff recently, and I have been a bit stressed out an’ stuff, and there is nothing quite like a relaxing game of bowls to ease one’s mind back into the pleasures of the English countryside.

“And so I started chasing… well I sort of went after him,” I explain later to the Police Sergeant, choosing my words carefully. He glances at his Constable for support. “I have to say I was pretty pumped up.”

Big A nods in agreement. “That’s when we rang you.”

The Police Sergeant alternately shakes his head and shrugs. “I can only apologise we weren’t there sooner,” he offers. “If we’d have got the message from Control…”

Nobody asks me what I was planning to do if I’d have caught the chap. I cast a nervous eye at my bag, which contains four very heavy bowls woods.

No official action is taken.

“You’re in the Mail on Sunday!” gibbers Big A.

I am taken aback. Fearing some sort of expose regarding the chickens, I hurry over to his place to investigate…

Hm. I drop a note to John Wellington, who is the Mail on Sunday’s Managing Editor. It reads:

‘Dear Mr Wellington,

On page 74 of the March 16th issue of ‘The Mail on Sunday’ you published a 392-word piece headlined ‘Blog of the Week – Adventures of a family man who gave up his high-powered job and moved to rural Norfolk’.

The piece (in its entirety) consisted of copyrighted articles lifted without my knowledge or consent from a website for which I am the registered owner…

[bit more blah, yours sincerely, etc.]‘

Not having worked for the Mail on Sunday before, and a stated wordage figure proving elusive, I pluck a conservative amount out of the air and stick it on the bottom of an invoice, which goes off via the kind auspices of the G.P.O. To the Mail on Sunday’s credit, they pay me my two hundred quid quicker than most biggish companies would, and John Wellington sends me his (what I am sure are sincere) apologies.

There’s nothing quite so Rikfromtheyoungonesesque about people with blogs getting on their high horse about print journalists, except perhaps print journalists getting on their high horse about people with blogs. Clearly, however, there’s a little bit of a mutual-understanding issue here. I always go for cock-up over conspiracy, but one paragraph of his reply to me does seem a bit… a bit not quite fitting in with what I thought things were about.

‘We generally take the view that blogs published on the internet have already been placed in the public domain by their authors and, in case of amateur writers, most people are happy to have their work recognised and displayed to a wider audience.’

Discuss.

The evening is unexpectedly beautiful; I smile contentedly as I slam the car door. Lugging my bag with me, I step through the gap in the fence and into the arena.

“You’re looking fat this year,” are the words with which I am greeted. I take this with cheery good heart. It is a competitive environment after all - people will take any advantage that they can.

The chickens have taken over my life a bit recently. This is fine, as they are chickens, but I have been getting a bit concerned that it might be getting boring for the readers of my Private Secret internet diary. Fortunately, just in the nick of time, the bowls season has started up once more, bringing with it an injection of fresh excitement.

The pre-season roll-up is sparsely attended; worryingly so. I join Ned, who has a beard, in playing a friendly against Big A and his mate, but if we are to get a strong team out to challenge for the title this year then we may have to recruit new blood. I am hoping that what with all the excitement in the region about the Olympics being held in London in years and years time, I will be able to persuade some more hopefuls to join us.

“Evening!” - a couple more players have arrived. “You’re looking a bit porky!” they call across.

It is worrying. I put on a lot of weight anyway over the winter, as I do not really do any exercise during the bowls close season. Also I am having two dinners a day - one with the Toddler and one with the LTLP. We play a few gentle ends, but I do not find myself out of breath at all, which is encouraging. Maybe I am fitter than I thought. AND there is a slight slope on our green.

The competitive season begins in earnest on Friday. I hope to write up full match reports here, which I know will cause some interest worldwide. For too long the followers of bowls have been starved of information about their favourite passion; web 2.0 will change all that.

It is good to be back in the saddle (which is a metaphor for ‘on the mat’ as you do not use a saddle for bowls, the expression is from riding horses).

Booooooo - we had to shoot Chicken Four.

It lived for only a few weeks. That seems desperately sad and unfair, given that Jeremy Kyle is 43. So five chickens remain: Chicken One, Chicken Two, Chicken Three, Chicken Five and Anne Robinson.

Chicken Four was always smaller than her sister chickens, and it is possible that the strain of coming up to her first egg-production did for her. She became completely paralysed in the leg and pelvis area, and thus was unable to get food or water. There was talk of trying to use an old remote-controlled car to move her about, to create a kind of chicken Ironside without the ability to solve crimes.

I have always been clear in my mind about shooting things - I have no problem if I am subsequently going to eat them, or if they are suffering or in distress (unless they are Jeremy Kyle). For two days, however, Chicken Four remained resolutely cheerful as I popped in to chat to her and to stroke her little head. Not being about to eat a chicken that had been paralysed due to unknown causes, it was difficult to know what to do. Then she fell out of her box, shat all over Short Tony’s conservatory and started making piteous noises. Boooooooo.

Interestingly, the other chickens started laying eggs almost immediately after they heard the ‘bang’. They have clearly been intimidated, although not as much as to stop them making two more escape attempts. I have acquired them some nice new hay from the farm, however, to show that I am not all bad.

Booooooo, boooooo and triple boooooo. I have only been chickening for a few weeks and already I have lost around 17% of livestock. Perhaps this is another thing that I am not cut out to do, like arm-wrestling and getting a proper job. I hope that the other five understand. I would be miserable if I thought they hated me.