Yesterday was a mixed bag. As it was my birthday I adopted the doing nothing because its my birthday stance and because of this, the day was much like any other. I awoke with the usual birthday feelings- bollocks thats another rung on the ladder to thirty, but still, at least therell be cake.

As Ive already babbled on about, the garden is well on its way to completion and the overall effect is stunning- Ive started viewing the pond as a fabulous water feature and stopped thinking of it as a failed hole, this has been very liberating, and although still not zen-like, Im happy and content.

The break neck speed at which the garden is being tackled is mesmerising, by the time Id decorated my wellies the beds were already down and edged. Mother in law charged me with the very important job of counting seeds into piles, which Husband couldnt be trusted with. Maybe theyll make a gardener of me yet?

Not known for my dedication to a task I was bored quickly and decided it best to get to the Post Office to send the Blue Peter letter.

This is where the day turned to shit. One thing guaranteed to piss me off on a sunny afternoon is old biddies tutting. Im sure that when a woman hits her late sixties shes whisked away to a weekend retreat, probably in the Lake District, where shes taught the lost arts of tutting, sighing and causing injury with a wheeled shopping basket. Ive no real proof of what these women keep in these gaudy looking contraptions but I imagine it to be pilfered sugar sachets, tenna lady and the souls of under 30s theyve tutted to death.

The pissy knickers brigade was out in force, the queue at the Post Office smelled of urine, biscuits and parma violets. I dont think it was pension day so they were probably posting letters to long lost relations who had the good sense to emigrate or writing to Terry Wogan about sexy adverts and the news. Either way, they were all in the Post Office as I popped in to post Husbands pictures to Blue Peter.

I should point out at that this is the first time Ive ever written to the show; I always hated it as a child and felt that the extra 30 minutes of learning they tried to disguise as entertainment at the end of the school day was both unfair and transparent. They also gave us Anthea fucking Turner. Because Ive never written to them before and am unsure of protocol, I make the error of deciding to send the letter by recorded delivery.

By the time I reached the front of the queue, I had a tidy coven of biddies filing behind me tutting and clucking about the price of stamps and kidney stones.

It wasnt until I pulled out a twenty with a massive black cock drawn onto it that I realised my mistake. Never, ever leave the house without checking for Acme traps.

Pol Pot the postal worker loudly informed me that:

She shouted loudly about youngsters who watch too much Dirty Sancho (San c hez who I like)and Jackos (Jack ass, who I don't) and think its funny to play practical jokes.