I am not particularly good at the confessional stuff.

Frankly, I would always prefer to keep things to myself. Although psychologists probably recommend it, I am not a big fan of exposing yourself by being all open and shouting stuff from rooftops. That is what Neville Chamberlain did, and he never quite got the same level of respect again.

I think for a while before speaking.

“I am a bit stressed, that’s all,” I mumble, going a bit red. “I’ve got loads and loads of work on, and I’m finding the Toddler quite demanding on my patience and need for personal space. So I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit - you know.”

“Added to that,” I continue, “the LTLP said that I was ‘just fucking odd’ the other night. I’m still really down about the unfairness of that.” I pause for a second. “I’m sorry. You’ve all got your own problems, I know.”

“Cluck,” reply the chickens.

I set down their bacon and beans, which they seem extremely pleased with. Honestly, even if I am a bit miserable, there is nothing better than an appreciative audience for a nice meal you’ve cooked.

“Anyway. I think I need to make a couple of positive decisions,” I announce. “Sort of sit down and work out what’s important to me and what - are you ignoring me?!?”

The chickens peck frantically at their lunch. A couple have already grabbed bits of bacon and run off to the other side of their garden to eat it on their own. I gaze over at them in dismay before stomping out through the door and bolting it furiously behind me.

“You’re just fucking rude!” I shout.

Things that have kept me away from the computer - #3 in a series of 945722572.

I feel that this is some sort of watershed in my life. Once, when I was little and ‘the kids’ was not spelt with a ‘z’, I was abreast of all the new technologies that humanity was embracing.

Now, I am hopelessly out of touch. I think it was when the QL took over from the ZX Spectrum. Gradually, I lost touch with technology and the zeitgeist an’ stuff and discovered beer and music and chickens and girls, or at least pictures of them, on the internet.

But I have Sky TV!!! Sky TV!!! Who says that I am not down with ze kids now???

I settle down to watch the bowls.

Barry Hearn, legendary snooker and boxing promoter, has discovered bowls, and has put it on Sky TV. He is astute, and knows that it will be the next big thing - he has even got sponsorship from a racy poker website. I lean forward on my sofa as the chap draws gently in on the backhand. The bowls is indoors, in an arena, but is otherwise proper bowls, with extra commentary.

Suddenly the lights go out in the auditorium. ‘Power play!!!’ booms a pre-recorded voice over the tannoy. ‘Power play!!!’. Immense spotlights machine-gun crazy zig-zag patterns on the mat.

There is a momentary pause, before a spontaneous ‘oooooh!!!’ erupts from the audience. I have never heard such an ‘oooooh’ before. It is voluminous, and laced with irony, but is somehow not unkind - as if a particularly shiny and high-wattage jug kettle had been revealed as top prize on a remake of ‘Sale of the Century’ presented by Jonathan Ross as a prelude to the categories being announced at the Magazine Display Media Sales Awards 2008.

“He’s taking his power play!” announces the commentator, excitedly.

I am strangely happy about all this. It is reassuring that such a quintessentially English tinkering to such a quintessentially English sport gets such a quintessentially English reaction. I hope the organisers are happy too. You can love something and still take the piss out of it, in fact that sometimes means that you actually really really DO love it, or that is what I tell the LTLP anyway.

I watch the rest of the bowls. It is gripping. We are playing tonight, and I will suggest to the club captain, who has a beard, that we should get some strobe lighting.

Things that have kept me away from the computer - #2 in a series of 945722572.

“Are you sure?” I demanded of Man in Call Centre. “Are you absolutely, totally, 100%, cast-iron, definite, there-can-be-no-mistake sure?”

I received a leaflet from Sky TV. Normally, I throw all leaflets in the recycling bin straight away, since the postman has said that he is not allowed to do this. I do not know why I looked at this leaflet, which promised free Sky TV for three months with no obligations at all whatsoever, and £50 worth of M&S vouchers. There is not an M&S in the Village, but there is no reason why I shouldn’t travel to one, and the vouchers might come in handy for ‘Things that have kept me away from the computer #4′ (to be announced). I looked at the leaflet.

I read the small print. I read it again, and asked the LTLP about it. I held it up to the light to see if the word ‘NOT!!!’ was in very faint writing after the explanation. I looked up ’sky tv offer +scam +ripoff +I will find r murdoch and punch his face’ on the google - nothing was to be found.

I ordered Sky TV. It is one of those things like book clubs, where they take your details and rely on you forgetting to cancel, so it is free for a bit then will cost one million grillion pounds per month. But I will not forget to cancel, as I have written it in the diary, written it in the other diary, written it on the LTLP’s Blackberry, written it physically on the leaflet and put the leaflet in the ‘day to day’ file that I look in daily, sent an email to myself with ‘DON’T FORGET TO CANCEL’, created a blog post that will appear automatically the day before cancellation date, set an online calendar thing to pop up and told Short Tony, Big A, and all the readers of my private secret diary ie you.

I will cancel it as I am not actually that interested in Sky TV. As far as I can tell, unless you want to watch the women’s senior matchplay golf in North Dakota or ‘Inside their minds: America’s worst sex offenders’, there is not much on there apart from Frasier every night and some good cricket every now and again. I do not really watch much television. I am just having my free offer because I can.

I have been trying to find new hobbies and interests that don’t involve sitting at the PC being a dweeb, and I am not sure that Sky TV is anything other than a bit of a cul-de-sac. I will give it a chance. But I do not think that it is the new ‘getting chickens’.

Things that have kept me away from the computer - #1 in a series of 945722572.

Wee.

Wee lakes, gathering in the shallow depressions on the leather sofa. Wee cascading down onto the floor, first a waterfall then a steady drip, drip, drip. Pools of wee on the oak floorboards, reflecting the light of the TV screen in a mirror of wee; finding the gaps and joins in the wood with unerring wee accuracy.

Wee on my hands, wee on my socks. Small trousers soaked in wee, pants that comprise 23% pant and 77% wee. Tiny footprints of wee dotting the parts of the floor that are otherwise weeless. The ‘Review’ bit of the newspaper boasting a new ‘wee’ section, a golden-showered dolly with a glistening leg of wee, drips of wee in a dvd case, fingermarks of wee on the coffee table.

“I’ve done a wee, daddy,” explains the Toddler.

Between the cushions on the sofa is a large crack where biscuit crumbs and other assorted food collects. This now contains an interesting looking type of wee soup, which is particularly resistant to my efforts with the kitchen roll. I have used up so much kitchen roll in the past two weeks that ‘Bounty’ are going to present me with an award. Outstanding contribution to the kitchen roll market.

As far as I can tell, being a Toddler is like being pissed all the time - you occasionally walk into things, you come out with odd sentence constructions, and although you’re desperately apologetic when you wee yourself, you’re not actually much practical help in clearing it up. I chuck the dripping clothes in the washing machine, which gives me a ‘not again’ type look. The awards people from Persil phone.

I am not sure that I am very good at the father business thing. I am rubbish on the patience front, and I am too selfish to happily spend my life doing things to benefit other people. Oddly enough, the wee-clearing-up thing is no problem, however. Sometimes things are so spectacularly ghastly that you get a kick out of sorting them out.

I zip upstairs for new clothes. Most of the wee is mopped, courtesy of Bounty. I will check later on, and go over any sticky bits with some cleaning stuff. The Toddler is happy.

“Norm!” I cry, giving a hearty back-slap to a man called ‘Norm’.

Big A follows me in. “Norm!” he echoes.

Norm gives us a sheepish look, like a defence barrister concluding his explanation of how the blood got into the jelly. I pull out my deeply unfashionable shoes from the bowls bag and return him a kind smile.

“It’s just that we weren’t sure whether we’d see you again,” persists Big A. “There was quite a lot of swearing and everything.”

Norm shakes his head. “I spent most of the next morning apologising. It was just, with tempers running high, and then words and stuff, and then he [jerks head] got involved, and…”

“We’re not really used to fights at bowls,” I reflect. “I think there were a couple of raised voices last year when a mobile went off inappropriately, but no actual physical violence. Did it come to that in the end?”

“I think it was just a bit of silly squaring up,” confirms Big A.

“Nice of you all to go straight afterwards, leaving me on my own to sign the cards,” complains the Club Captain, a man with a beard. We make apologetic noises.

“Anyway - good to have you back here,” I assure. I like Norm. He is a jovial and friendly chap; one of those people who is the heart and soul of a club.

My deeply unfashionable shoes are donned; I take my woods and my mat out onto the green to participate in a satisfying draw. There are no blows exchanged.

“This’ll be all right,” I tell Big A.

We leave our bowls bags in the car and saunter towards the pub. He has a doubtful expression on his face.

“Pint?” I enquire.

“I’ll follow you in,” he replies, indicating his cigarette.

I am unused to going to pubs that are not the Village Pub these days. I mean, I go elsewhere for luncheons and the like, but not for drinking. Having seven pints further afield and then driving home is a bit frowned upon, even if Gordon Brown and his meddling nanny government haven’t quite yet got round to banning that last particular pleasure we have.

I walk into the pub.

“WAAAAANKKKAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” is the noise emanating from the saloon bar. It is not aimed at me, just at the world at large. I blink, and order a Guinness.

Taking a look and listen around, I have walked into the family bar. It is the family bar because it is full of children running around being shouted at by their parents. I decide that it would be more hospitable to walk through to the other room.

“You CAHHHHHHHNNNNNTTT!!!!” explodes the other room. Big A enters, looking around doubtfully.

“I thought we’d stay and drink these in the family bar here,” I explain.

There is a whirl from beside me. A barmaid scoots in from the other room and hides behind the door, breathing heavily. A colleague hastens up to her and provides reassuring words, clasping her shoulders firmly.

“It sounds quite busy next door,” I ask the landlady.

“Just some high spirits,” she replies. I glance at my watch. It is 6.15pm.

I am thirsty, so I do not linger over my beer. We leave and wander over to the bowls green. The Village Pub provides a microcosm of the gritty reality of life in 21st Century Britain, I know - but I sometimes wonder whether I should expand my horizons a bit more just so I don’t get insular about the world around me. I would hate that to happen. In a way, it was quite nice going to a pub that was a bit more lively and had some young people in it.

Later on, I lie in bed watching roaches climb the wall. I do think of giving my dad a quick bell so that he can stop it all. But he is on holiday, in Cornwall.

The Children’s Entertainer smiles brightly.

“And does your granddad still do that?”

“No. He’s dead.”

There is a short pause whilst the Children’s Entertainer processes this information. “Shall we do the Hokey Cokey now?” she concedes.

I turn to the Chipper Barman, who has the face of a man who would rather be in the Village Pub. “Did you ever consider Children’s Entertaining as a career?” I ask.

His detailed reply is cut short by the approach of one of the Village Young Mums. “We saw you going for a run the other day,” she offers, clearly impressed by my sporting athletic prowess.

I shoot her one of my best wolfish FILFy smiles. “I…”

“We did wave, but you didn’t wave back. I’m not sure that you could lift your own arm.”

I am crushed by this, and it renews my determination to get my body back to its previous tempicular state. Somebody approaches with left-overs; I take a hot dog and a slice of pizza. It will not be easy, but it will be worth it.

A small child approaches and grabs the Chipper Barman.

“These are our Saturday afternoons now,” I call after him, as he gets pulled away screaming into a swirling morass of children.

Run! Run! Run!

Through the gate, across the road to the tiny bus shelter, up the hill towards Eddie’s and Eddie’s house. My MP3 player blasts fashionable and motivational running music in my ears.

Is this another one, I ask myself? Another false start? Another stuttering and short-lived attempt to fend off the lumbering and inevitable onset of middle-aged fatblokeness that forms the horror of my own doom?

Or am I just going for a run.

Truth be told, I have been afraid. That is why I have put this moment off. I am not afraid of many things, apart from big snarling dogs, people who merge with the motorway at forty-five miles per hour, pubs with no real ales and blue lights in the toilets, being given two tickets to see the band ‘The Feeling’ for my main birthday present, forgetting to cancel my free Sky trial subscription, comments (0), a Clegg government, the LTLP, the LTLP deciding that she wishes to become a man, discovering things contain marzipan, other big dogs that look like they might start snarling at some point, social situations, phone calls out of the blue from Tim Smith from the Steve Wright show saying ‘I hear you have a spare ticket for the band ‘The Feeling’, do you fancy going together?’, last orders, putting petrol in the diesel car, being caught re-using jokes, people who like snowboarding and any form of social shame whatsoever. But I am afraid of running.

I am afraid of the pain that I know it will cause. I am afraid the pain will, basically, hurt. I know that I will need to feel the pain before the running becomes easy again. But that does not make the fear go away.

I continue my run. Up the hill, towards the war memorial.

There is a famous bit in the Superman film where he flies so fast, so incredibly fast, that time itself goes backwards and he is able to go and rescue Lois Lane.

My running is not like that. If anything, the opposite is happening.

I put on a spurt as I pass Eddie’s and Eddie’s cottage. I would be embarrassed for them to see the slowness of my running, should they be looking out of the window in case of passing runners. I slow my spurt immediately I am past their gate. I need to reserve my energy, as I will require another spurt when I get to pass Len the Fish’s, and the Village Shop, and the Village Pub.

It has been an odd few weeks. I am working a lot more than I am used to, which is ‘a bit’, and I have been trying to stay away from the PC screen in my spare time so that my eyes do not fall out and I stop getting headaches. I have had to remember what I do when I am not pissing around at the PC screen. It is a depressingly short list.

Run! Run! Run! I stagger on, the Anti-Sportacus. I am so scared, I am hardly moving my legs at all. To call it a ‘trot’ would be pushing it. I abandon my spurts policy. Hopefully nobody will be standing outside the Village Pub smoking, and I wil not be laughed at.

Big futuristic buildings start springing up around me, and the world falls under the rule of giant ants.

When I return home, I am grateful just to be alive. If this is what life is like away from the PC screen then it is harder than I realised. The pain is there but, to be fair, it is not as bad as I’d anticipated, which, to be fair, was very bad indeed.

If I am going to do my triathlon then I will need to do much more of this. It hurts. It hurts. But I cannot just give up again.

The LTLP stands with hands on hips.

“Don’t tell me,” she threatens. “It’s another…”

“It’s a railway sign!” I exclaim delightedly.

“It’s another railway sign,” she agrees. “You really are the saddest, saddest…”

“It’s really nicely made.”

“The place is starting to look like some sort of period signage museum,” she complains, inaccurately.

Later on, we are sitting in the comfortable swinging seats in the garden. My gaze falls on the gable end of the cottage. Despite my resourceful erection of trellis and the picturesque foul drainage downpipe, the wall is mostly a plain slab of bricks that lacks interesting features. I mull this over for some time.

“You know what would look really good on that gable end?” I muse.

“Would it be, perchance, some sort of large painted vintage advertising sign?” she replies sarcastically.

I must have mentioned my good idea previously. I keep quiet for a bit.

“Actually that would be a really good gable end for a rousing mural,” I suggest. “It is a shame that there is not more sectarian violence in the Village.”

I am told that I am not allowed to paint a mural on the gable end, nor even any slogans.

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.