"I had the strangest dream last night," he says. "We were in a bi-plane, and you were flying it, and then you made me go outside."

"Get outta my way!" I shout, waving my wooden spoon at him. He doesn't move. He's not stupid.

"Well," he says, "you've got three laughs; the small fat boy one, the sort of cackle thing and the guffaw."

"Why don't we just cut your legs off and put you on castors? That would make it really easy for you to move about."

He says, "She's hiding behind the cupboard door because she hated it."

"Did you just try and squat and then fall over?" I ask him after a few seconds of deliberately not laughing. "Yes," he says.

I shall have my work cut out coping with both our dog and his rubber compulsion and Mr Young in a schoolboy cap and shorts.

I have to say this so often that I condense it to squeaking, Tourettes-style, "Cobbles!" at regular intervals.

Archie and I retreat to the other side of the kitchen and offer supportive advice until Mr Young tells us to go away.

"My reader loves it when I talk about you. You are a figure of fun, the bumbling husband character, the target for my rapier wit."

I am showered with gifts (free biro, miniature toiletries, dirty laundry) and entertained for seconds on end

Watching House until 10.30 and then going to bed and reading half an hour didn't sound anywhere near as exciting

Thank goodness for Strategically Placed Rocket Leaves. They are the culinary equivalent of opaque black tights.

It was a wonderful party. I may even have been the life and soul of it at one point. Unfortunately, neither of us can remember.

"It's what he wanted!" I shout indignantly, making Joe jump back in alarm. "He asked for a sausage maker!"

Mr Young is still huddled over his cauldron of simmering spiced wine and refusing to let me serve it to anyone.

"No, riot shields, you stupid woman!" he shouts at me. "Why on earth would they be wearing riot shorts?"

I am having to totter about the icy pavements in little tiny steps, like a ponderous elderly geisha