They have to be kidding?

So, I went to see a house today. To be honest it was WAY out of my price range. I mean a hundred thousand pounds out, but I thought 'what the heck? It's been on the market for over a year, why not?' and off I pootled to check it out.

The estate agents (foul untrustworthy fiends) had painted a picture of a 4 bedroom farmhouse with kitchen, sitting room, dining room and utility room, a couple of acres, stables, outbuildings etc etc. Everything I wanted in my dream world (well, a swimming pool, Library and walk in dressing room wouldn't go amiss either). It looked sort of interesting on the site and over the last year of property searching I have looked at this house over and over again and persuaded myself that perhaps the reason I can't find a house is because this one is perfect and naturally therefore out of my budget. But in these hard pressed times perhaps they would take an offer, a ridiculously low laughable offer. I am an optimist. I booked a viewing.

It was blizzarding as I drove through the lanes, following the directions from the foul, untrustworthy fiends. Naturally these were ludicrous and took me 5 miles out of my way on the most circuitous route possible. Finally I find the house. First problem? You can't turn into the drive. Instead you have to drive past it and reverse in with a lovely three foot drop off on one side of the car. Not encouraging.

The yard was a tip. The 'stables' were a ramshackle corrugated shed, with a second shed randomly placed behind it and then bizarrely a small garden shed with a balcony looking, not at the view, but at the road. Turning my attention to the outside of the house, I see that the doors are painted in seventies brown and the window frames in a shade of yellow that should be illegal. That definitely did not show up on the website but it's all fixable so I refuse to run away and instead, knock on the door.

The man who showed me round said they had lived there for 18 years and had not had to do anything to the house. This might be because it was too messy to see that stuff needed doing to it. I mean in all honesty, it was a tip (I'm always amazed at people who don't tidy up AT ALL when they are trying to sell their house). What I could see was not particularly exciting. The utility room is, well, utilitarian. The downstairs loo had a charming blue loo and sink with contrasting cream loo seat (mmm, nice!). It turns out that if you want to flush the loo you have to run the cold tap on the sink. Really, for hundreds of thousands of pounds, you can get charming personal touches like this.

The kitchen isn't nice or horrible, it's just a kitchen and it turns out to be one of the lightest room in the house. I could see my hands and see that there was only 1 metre of worksurface. However there is a narrow room next door that could be knocked into the kitchen with money I don't have so I refuse to let this get me down. Next we go through a biggish room that is the sitting room but is also the corridor so they have only been able to fit one chair and a short sofa into it. The room is bitterly cold and with no doors on the openings leading out of it, I can't see that getting any better. We turn into the old part of the house and move into what I am told is the 'Dining Room'. The ceilings so low the loyal hound might risk concussion and the walls are painted the colour of an aubergine. It's so dark I trip over a chair. Fumbling towards the doorway on the other side of the room I find myself in a lobby at the foot of stairs so steep I may need crampons to climb them. It turns out that the Master Bedroom is on the other side of the stairs, but on the ground floor. It is also dark and icily cold due to the fact that all the floors are tiled. Now I know that a lick of paint can work wonders but this is all starting to get ridiculous. I feel like a mole, a mole facing the eiger.

I climb the stairs wishing for safety ropes and choose door number two. This is apparently bedroom 3. I'm not sure I'd call a room so small that you can't open the door fully into it a bedroom but there you go. Opposite is a tiny bathroom and then there are two more bedrooms, not small but definitely not big. I take a deep breath and go back down the stairs, beaning myself on the meter box that hangs precariously over them as I go.

Emerging back into the cold wind whipping over the hill I stared across the valley and wondered exactly what I would get for the hundreds of thosands of pounds that I don't have. Concussion? Hypothermia? An inability to see in real daylight?

I know that we all put our hopes and our hard earned cash into our property. It is the ultimate nest egg but this is ridiculous. If that house had been half the price I'm not sure I would consider it and they want twice what it could possibly be worth. They have to be kidding. I'm sticking with the hovel. At least I can see inside it without a flashlight at midday.

If I were a lady of leisure I would.....

My feet are cold. Just thought I'd share that with you. I'm in the office and have the wood burner going but I have just put the last log on and that means I shall have to brave my way across the yard through the driving rain and wind to fetch more. Eeeugh. Where are servants when you want them?

So, this is what I would like to do with the rest of my afternoon.

Have a wonderful, leisurely hot bath. I adore baths in the middle of the day. They feel so luxurious and faintly rebellious. I would put in my peppermint and lavender space NK bath oil and read A thousand Splendid suns.

Once I'd emerged clean and shiny and with warm feet I'd slather myself in Chanel Mademoiselle Body Cream and put on my new trousers and jumper that I bought in the sales (though naturally, they weren't actually on sale) and go and make tea and toast and eat it whilst watching Memories of a Geisha which I sky + at Christmas and haven't had time to watch.

At some point I would have to wrap up in every waterproof I own and take the Loyal hound for a walk. Perhaps I shall do this before the bath? Then i'd light the fire before going up for my bath.

Come 7.00 o'clock I would pile into my trusty charabang and head off into the hills where I am having supper with a friend.

That would be heavenly.

In actual fact I am going to have to stay in the office and work all afternoon, oh and fetch the logs. However, at least I know how I would spend my day if I was a 'lady of leisure'. How would your perfect afternoon pan out? Go on, spill the beans.....

Death threat by Sausage Casserole.

I've been feeling bad all week. As I drove through the dawn on Monday to Dorset, froze my little socks off at various meetings and then drove through the Dorset lanes and back to Wales I have been suffering from pangs of inadequacy, guilt and just a soupcon more inadequacy. Why? You clamour. Read on and all will be revealed.

So, to celebrate surviving the puppy experience I spontaneously asked friends over for Sunday lunch. I mean to have friends over all the time, I have a vision of a Nigella like life where my house is filled with an ethnically appropriate mix of people who work in 'meejya' and write novels and who rave about the fabulous time they have at my hovel. In truth, as a result of the minimal amount of time I am actually home, the time I spend cooking elsewhere and my hermit like tendencies invites are issued all too rarely. When they are issued it is to perfectly lovely and thankfully normal friends. Not a 'meejya' babe in sight.

So, invites were issued and at lunchtime on Saturday I suddenly realised that I had six people for lunch and no food to speak of with which to feed them. Now in most places this would not be a problem. You would dash out to the nearest deli / supermarket and stock up on delicious things. This is Wales. They don't do delis, or supermarkets for that matter. Plus, I was puppy sitting so the amount of time I could leave the house was going to be limited. I decided to cook a stalwart favourite; Cider and Sausage casserole with pancetta. This is normally DELICIOUS and one of my favourite things, particularly as I usually have all the ingredients floating around the house.

Reviewing my larder, I discovered that I had not a sausage to my name. A dash to the village Londis was my only option. The sausages looked..... well, cheap. Not particularly appetising and that naked shade of pink that is rather worrying in a foodstuff. At this point I should have changed my menu plan but I thought 'No, the sauce is delicious so the sausages needn't be.' How wrong could I be?

On Sunday I discovered that cheap sausages, rather like Blue Nun wines, are never, ever a good buy. With the best cooking in the world, I was in trouble and there were no other options. I had nothing else I could cook instead, and nowhere to go to buy alternatives. It was too late. I had to serve the casserole even though I KNEW that the rubbish sausages were going to ruin it by being disgusting.

I tried to hide the horror by merrily offering bloody marys to one and all, only to discover I had no tabasco, no ice and no celery, so they had warm tomato juice with worcester sauce in it. And all the while, like a stormcloud on the horizon, lunch amd the repellent sausages were looming. Finally, it was too late to delay anymore and I served up the food.

It was torture watching my poor friends chew away and say in a manful way 'mmmm, delicous' as they reluctantly forced another mouthful down. The sausages were so tasteless and of such a revolting texture I was wondering if it would be cruelty to give the leftovers to the Loyal Hound later on that day.

God, I hate it when my cooking goes wrong. I'm not looking for flowers to be thrown at my feet and guests to pass out at the joy of the gastronomic experience I provide, but I do firmly believe that guests should get good food that makes them feel loved and wanted. Sunday lunch was more like an assasination attempt, or at the very least a hostile death threat. And all because I couldn't be bothered to drive the extra sixteen miles to get decent sausages.

I did make a tart au citron for pudding which turned out beautifully but it wasn't enough to make up for the disastrous casserole. Let this be a lesson to me. Never, ever think I can buy food from the local shop and actually eat it. The food there is for a nucleur holocaust, or hated enemies.

Now I can't decide whether to ask people back so I can try and redeem myself, or never have people over ever again in case they are frightened to actually eat......

Puffin 'eck!

I am a fool. Special Boy was given a puppy by his wife for Christmas. She is the great granddaughter of his much loved childhood Spaniel who went to the great kennel in the sky two summers ago. There was a lot of dithering about whether he should be given the puppy this year. Dithering with good reason.

Special Boy and his wife live in a tiny flat in London. It's known as The Mouse House and with good reason as it is small enough for mice to sniff at it in a sneering way and refuse to live there. If you want to sleep on their sofabed you have to open the oven door in the kitchen to fit your feet into the room as well as the rest of your body.

Anyway, my parents, who already have five dogs, had agreed to look after said puppy, thinking one more dog would make little difference, and the decision was made. Christmas day came and the puppy bounced out of a box with a ribbon round her neck and gave Special Boy the fright of his life. She was christened Puffin and subsequently she has been spoilt rotten by everybody who comes near her, as is only natural with a small, fluffy puppy.

Now, special boy and his wife have returned to London and my aged parents have sodded off to stay with friends having persuaded me that with my first free weekend in months I would surely love to do nothing more than puppy sit. Fool, fool, fool. I said fine.

She has been with me since about 4pm yesterday and in that time she has peed in the office 5 times (despite going out every half hour). She has pierced the Loyal Hound's ear with her needle sharp teeth (truly, she has), and stolen and shredded his favourite toy - The Phuck (so called because it looks like a pheasant but squawks like a duck).

She barks if you shut her in a different room, even if she can see you, and thinks that furniture is her plaything to be chewed, leapt upon and generally mauled so she has to be watched like a hawk. Once she was put to bed in the laundry room she barked until 1.30 am and then started again at 6.30am. When I finally staggered out of bed to let her out it turned out that she had poohed everywhere and then gaily jumped about in said pooh, spreading it all over the room before hurling herself at the door with poohey paws and decorating the door in crap. Quite literally. She is totally unrepentant and joyfully threw herself at my leg when I let her out, covering me in aforesaid crap as well.

I am now exhausted, have cricked my bag from bending over to clear up endless mess, scarcely slept due to puppy barking (and had odd dreams about giving David Tennant a puppy when i did sleep) and I have another 24 hours to go. So much for my luxurious weekend. In addition the Loyal Hound is in a terrible grump about having his toys stolen, his ear pierced, and his peace cut up by the Puffin terrorist.

p.s. I know, I know, all you mother's out there will be chortling to yourselves at the easiness of my task compared to small children but there are supposed to be upsides to being single and childless and this weekend was going to be one of them.

Who says Prince Charming isn't out there?

I have been a little slack recently about checking up on the old internet dating site. What with one thing and another it moved to the bottom of the heap of priorities, and then to the bottom of the heap of things that were lost beneath the priorities. However, today I thought I would log on and have a look at who was out there. Imagine my surprise when I find that ROYALTY is out there a wooing... and wooing me it seems. He is currently my Number 1 fan. This is what he has to say for himself:

"I am Prince Onyeka
Handsome man looking for that special soul mate to share all of life up and downs , very outgoing honest and yes i don't play games , slim build for now chose me and i will do everything to make you happy meaning cook clean and yes i can do laundry and i will even pick up the milk call during the just to hear your voice very kind honest and loyal i promises never to make you cry or even shed a single tear ,if interested just drop me a line trust me your friends will be jealous your friend will wonder why there soul mate doesn't do that for them."

The fact that he lives in Ghana might make dating a little tricky but what do you think? I like the fact that he is 'slim build for now' - is he hoping I will feed him up? It's tempting, very tempting, particularly if you could see his photo where he sports a jauntily positioned white baseball cap in a very Back Street Boys fashion.......