“There you go,” I say to Child #1 as I reach for the handle. “It sounds as if the first of your friends has arrived.”

There is a loud whooshing noise. Seconds later I am scraping myself off the carpet and staring behind me at a room packed with six-year olds.

We have agreed to hold Child #1′s birthday party in the house this year, as it is a lot cheaper than going out, and it cannot be that difficult. The arrangement is that the LTLP will look after the parents whilst I organise the children, as I am good at that sort of thing, being funny and resourceful. “They are here,” I tell her.

“Received,” she replies, on the walkie-talkie from the Panic Room.

I have put the iPod docking thing in the corner, for entertainment; Child #1 has selected ‘Blood on the Tracks’ to make the party go with a swing. I tell the parents to go through to the other room, to be looked after by the LTLP. Instead, they sit around on chairs, sofas etc., studying me.

There is a short lull.

“Right, erm, you have to all dance around now, to the disco,” I say. “Or do musical statues. We will do musical statues.”

I am getting the hang of this already. We play musical statues. I look at my watch. 0.000001 minutes have passed since the alloted party commencement, which means that there will probably be time for another game, even if I eke it out and allow the cheating kids to resume playing even though they have clearly been told that they are out. In the end I give most of the kids some sweets because it is easier and it seems to keep them quiet for another 0.000003 seconds, which is valuable time used up.

We play musical bumps. Again, I have to say that musical bumps is a much shorter game than I remember from when I was a small child. I distribute more sweets, as I am running out of the extensive repertoire of games that I have planned. The parents continue gazing at me, no doubt getting tips for their own parties.

“Right. Now, erm, dance around for a bit. It is a disco,” I command.

The children dance around for a bit, to the disco. I run into the next room, where I find the LTLP hiding in a kitchen unit.

“Get out of there,” I order.

“I am doing,” she responds, haughtily, “the food.”

I have a bright idea and draw a big picture of Prince Charles on a flattened cardboard box. Carrying it back into the lounge, I announce that we are playing a game of ‘Draw the Nose on Prince Charles.’ I see one of the parents shake her head sadly.

The children draw the nose on Prince Charles. Most of them get the nose in pretty well exactly the right place, which is probably something to do with me not being used to blindfolding children, well not in these circumstances anyway, so I give most of them some more sweets and order them to dance around again. I look at my watch once more, but due to some temporal warp, the time is now seven minutes before the party is due to start. The children dance around, although it seems that dancing around is becoming less interesting as the afternoon wears on, so I give them some more sweets.

“Erm, now you need to sit round in a circle,” I say, giving them some more sweets. “And we will play pass the… erm… cushion.”

“How do you play that?” demands one of the children.

“How do you play that?” demands one of the parents.

“It is very simple,” I say, giving them both some sweets. “It is a bit like, erm, pass the parcel, but you use a cushion. But when the music stops and you have the cushion then, erm. It is an exploding cushion. So you have to shout ‘boom’.

“Boom?” says the child.

“Boom?” says the parent.

“Boom.” I confirm.

We have a trial run. I stop the music and the children shout ‘boom.’ They seem to enjoy doing this, so we play ‘pass the cushion’ for two hours, shouting ‘boom’. I give them all some more sweets. The LTLP arrives with some tea.

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I have been sent some exclusive crisps by a Public Relations company. As a key influencer within the online internet sphere, I am regularly offered free products to try, namely and in total – since this Private Secret Diary started in 2004 – a DVD of ‘Third Rock from the Sun’ which only plays on machines in North America, and a magnetic penis ring.

I should state at this point that I do not always take up the offers with which I am presented.

The crisps are in plain white wrappers. They are mystery exclusive crisps!!! I experience a certain thrill at this; one of the key benefits of being a major A-list blogger is that you do sometimes get to see new things before civilians. (nb I am using the term ‘civilians’ like actors do, as a shorthand way of describing people who are not A-list bloggers/actors, it is just a term and not at all intended to be offensive or dismissive, it merely saves time that’s all). I set them aside for my lunch.

At lunchtime, I eat some crisps. They are delicious. This is a bit annoying, as if I am going to influence the online internet sphere it is not much fun if it is in a positive sense. The following day, I eat the second packet. These ones are not delicious, but they are all right; it is not as if they are the PR-supplied exclusive crisp equivalent of something that only plays on machines in North America/keeps slipping off.

It puts me in a dilemma. I have told the public relations company that they are welcome to send me free crisps, but that they should not expect me to say anything about them, and if I do say anything then it will be brutally honest. But saying ‘the crisps are nice’ is the worst of both worlds, as it is brutally honest but looks as if I am just saying it in return for free exclusive crisps, which is unfair on my journalistic standards. I try to envisage what George Orwell/Christopher Hitchens ect ect would have done in the same circumstances, but no inspiration strikes.

A couple of days later, I decide to write about the crisps after all. As an A-list blogger I may be blasé about my biennial insights into major new product development launches, but I should not forget that others may be keen to share in this.

I sit down at the computer to compose my thoughts. As I ponder, the Postman arrives with a parcel. Inside are some more crisps, this time in normal wrappers, along with a letter thanking me and saying that the crisps will be on general release to non A-list bloggers now.

They have released my exclusive crisps to the hoi-polloi and chavs!!! It is infuriating. This is the danger of flirting with public relations companies. You take the Devil’s hand with the best of intentions and the next minute the DJ is spinning ‘YMCA’.

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Some time ago, I told the LTLP that I was fed up with not having a holiday. I had found a website that listed all sorts of posh and funky cottages and villas that were nevertheless toddler-friendly. I proceeded to send her away to the computer, and an hour later she returned, having made a booking.

We arrive at Butlins, Skegness.

It appears to be very much the same as the last time we came here, apart from the fact that it is raining harder and it is December. I edge the car towards the bedraggled man in charge of inmates.

“At least the car is all fixed now,” I comment. “It needed a battery to work! Who knew?”

There is no response from the LTLP. She is busy looking at the Toddler to see if he is going to be sick again.

We are directed to our chalet. It is as cold as the storage area of a minor subsidiary of Findus Foods that’s situated on the dark side of one of the few moons of Jupiter which is presided over by Republican congresswomen. I run around switching on heaters and trying to find extra warm layers. I have been a bit disorganised with regards to this trip – at least the LTLP has bought some warm boots.

“Hurrreeeeabbaaarrrrffffffffff,” explodes the Toddler, into the LTLP’s warm boots.

This cheers me up a little. Perhaps the weekend will not be so bad. The front door opens once more behind me.

“Which room shall I put my bags in?” asks my Mother-in-Law.

My spirits sink once more.

We settle down to plan the itinerary for the break. There are all sorts of activities available, including Santa Claus and a Pantomime. I hunch down with a glass of wine, watching the rain alternate with sleet.

“There is a spa here,” the LTLP reminds me. “Why don’t you head off down there now?”

Again, my mood lifts.

I am given a grocery list and sent over to the Spar. Later on, I see an angry-looking woman slip over on some ice. This is terrific entertainment, and something that Butlins should investigate as an extra paid attraction.

The weekend passes quickly, despite my mood. I find that I enjoy hurtling down the water slides, and going on the bumper cars. When we get back, the LTLP discovers that you can catch vomiting disease through your feet.

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Happy Boxing Day, everybody. I hope you enjoyed your turkeys.

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He unlocks the back of his chicken-transporter truck and we gaze at the beef that towers within.

“Yes,” I agree.

Short Tony and Len the Fish have been at the butcher’s since early morning, sorting out the Community Cow. I take a step back and look at his tired and careworn frame. He carries the unmistakable air of a man who is tired of beef.

We stand for a while, contemplating the enormity of the beef mountain. To my layman’s eye, Len the Fish has done an excellent job of the butchery, in that it is dead, has been sliced up into bits, and put into bags. Short Tony begins listlessly sifting through the cuts. I, also, can summon no enthusiasm for the task. We have been using up stuff from the freezer for three weeks now, and I haven’t consumed a vegetable since the last of the peas.

“When is Len the Fish coming to collect his third?” I ask.

It transpires that Len the Fish has already collected his third.

We start to divvy up the beef. Clearly it is too much to carry back to the Cottage, so I fetch a wheelbarrow. I cheer up as I load. At least we have saved lots of money by buying beef by the cow, and if there is too much for me to store then I will be able to keep it in Short Tony’s new chest freezer, which he has had to buy as an emergency purchase in order to accommodate the money-saving meat.

“I will bring any back that I can’t fit in,” I tell him, disappearing via the secret path that leads between our houses.

I load the beef into our freezer. There is some left over, so I take that back to Short Tony’s, using the wheelbarrow.

Later I speak to the LTLP.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks.

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Short Tony gives me a shamefaced look. “Four hundred pounds,” he confirms.

“Four hundred pounds?!?”

He nods. “Four hundred pounds.”

Four hundred pounds is shedloads of money. This is clearly some sort of gold-plated cow.

“I was a bit shocked as well,” confesses Short Tony. “I’m sorry – you can drop out of the cow syndicate if you want.” He uses his Derren Brown-like telepathic powers to complete the sentence wordlessly: “which will mean that my share will go up to six hundred pounds.”

“Nonono,” I mutter, tramping back to the Cottage. It is a bit of a worry, and the best I can do is to forget it for a while.

“Four hundred pounds?!?” shrieks The LTLP, breaking off from preparing a dinner from frozen chicken, frozen ribs, frozen peas and frozen mixed vegetables. “Four hundred pounds?!? How big is this fucking cow?!?”

“Well I would imagine…” I begin, trying to visualise a cow in my mind. I glance down at the freezer. We have been eating frozen food all week, and have made enough space to accommodate a side of mole. “Do you fancy some fish fingers as well?”

She gives me an abbatoir stare. “It had better,” she hisses, “be substantial.”

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“And where the fuck are we going to keep it?!?” she yells at me. Honestly – any psychologist will tell you: there is ‘practical,’ and there is ‘paralysed into total inaction by a pathologic need to raise silly objections about every little thing.’ Sometimes I think she tips over into the latter category.

Short Tony, Len the Fish and I have agreed to buy third shares in a cow, with the objective of saving money on beef. It is a smart scheme in this economic climate, the sort of idea that demonstrates clearly why Norfolk is thriving whilst Greece and Italy totter. Beef must be one of the major outgoings in this household, and if we can cut our beef bill then we will be in clover, as opposed to the cow.

“We will freeze it of course,” I reply.

We examine the freezer, which is a smallish one connected to our fridge. It is not like it is totally, absolutely, completely full. There is a bit of space between the sausage meat and the ‘Smarties’ ice creams (on offer), and the peas could probably be flattened out a bit.

“How big is a third of a cow?” asks the LTLP.

I am at a bit of a loss as to this. “Well a cow is…” I make a sort of cow sized shape by stretching out my arms and waving them out. She eyes the freezer with some scepticism.

“Don’t forget that a lot of animals are mainly fur, so are a lot smaller than they look,” I add.

Truth be told, the freezer has been badly packed, and will surely offer some more space following a reorganisation. In addition to that, the cow is not due for at least three weeks, and so there will be time to consume much of the contents therein. Not shopping for the next three weeks will save us shedloads, in addition to our cow steakholding.

If it is possible to close a fridge freezer with an ominous air, she does it.

“You will enjoy it when it arrives,” I insist.

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It is all very bizarre. For years, I have been writing my Private Secret Diary at least weekly – yet according to the date on the screen, we have jumped forward in time by ages and ages since I was last here. It is crazy. One minute I am typing away and the next minute I have lost several weeks of history.

Two words flash through my mind. “Time slip.”

I try to make sense of it all, but my brain refuses to respond. It is clear that some sort of wormhole has opened and closed, putting this part of Norfolk in a different time zone. Woah!!! I am a big fan of science fiction, but this is a bit too close to home. I check out of the window to check that the world is not full of strange pyramid structures and ruled by giant ants, but everything seems OK unless they are using some form of docility/obedience implant on my head, like in the TV show ‘the Tripods’.

I check my head in vain. I think I am in the clear. But where has the time gone?

“For Christ’s sake, there are spots all over his arse and legs!” shouts the LTLP, brandishing the Baby at me.

I shoo her away, irritated by her priorities. If the UK really has time-slipped and in the process been invaded by giant ants driving tripods then I am not sure that I completely trust Gordon Brown’s leadership. The Community Bus stops outside the window to pick up one of the old folk. It all seems perfectly normal. But that is what they want you to think.

“Daddy I need a bit of a hand,” calls Child #1, who has been in the toilet for twenty minutes, undertaking her poo.

The Baby toddles over to the cooker and starts turning the gas on and off, on and off.

Things are getting on top of me a little.

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I thrust with all my might, but the drain rod remains ineffectual. My heart sinks a little at this, as it seems obvious that I am going to have to use Plan B, and to be honest Plan B appeals about as much as being rushed into hospital with lethal tropical penis-rot to discover that prior to each operation the surgeons like to help the patient relax by performing a karaoke duet of Deep Blue Something’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

Ten minutes later, I am lying on the ground beside the drain, groping around with my hand to try to break up a Hoover-dam of solidified turd.

I have rigged up a clever system to protect myself from the turds – a bin bag wrapped around my arm up to the elbow, and sealed around there with strong tape. I am quite pleased with my ingenuity.

A little later I will discover that bin bags contain loads of funny microperforations. It is quite clever really – they are tiny, tiny holes that you can’t see with the naked eye and that do not let refuse leak out, but that allow the passage of e.g. turd juice and aromas inwards, up the arm, under the fingernails etc.

I console myself by thinking that it is at least not so bad when they are your own turds, or those of the LTLP, or all the people who have visited you for the past few weeks.

Scrabbling away with my arm in the sewage, I am distracted by a voice.

“Hello, would you like to enter the lottery for the Air Ambulance?” says the voice.

I look up to see the Air Ambulance Man, with a clipboard and a pen. “Five minutes of your time,” he reassures.

I hesitate. I do like to support the Air Ambulance, which I normally do by the means of saying things like ‘I do like to support the Air Ambulance’ in casual conversation. He waves his clipboard at me. I would like to explain that I would be delighted to, but filling in a form is currently impractical due to me scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is gradually filling up with distasteful matter.

“I’d be delighted to,” I say. “But I am currently scrabbling away at solidified turds, within a bin bag that is… well, try Short Tony next door,” I say.

To his credit, the Air Ambulance Man accepts this cheerfully, giving no indication that should I ever need their services they will eject me at a random point over the North Sea, the last thing I ever hear being a cheerful refrain of ‘Yooou sayyyy… we have nothing in commm-onn…’

“I’ll head next door then,” he replies.

The Air Ambulance Man heads next door. I continue with my scrabbling around, my arm both cold and worryingly warm. Suddenly there is a breakthrough and the barrier of turds shifts and then implodes, causing a week’s blockage to hurtle through into the septic tank. I slowly withdraw my arm and stand, dripping yet triumphant.

Two weeks later, Short Tony knocks on my door. He has won over a thousand pounds on the Air Ambulance lottery.

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Up the hill, past Eddie’s house. Eddie is walking back from the Village Shop, and flashes me a sympathetic smile. Run! I plod onwards, motivational running music (John Denver) blasting from my MP3 player. A familiar red van approaches – it is the Postie. The Postie leans out of his window and shouts something; I cannot quite make out what it is, but it sounds a bit like ‘HAHAHAHAHA.’ I run on.

Len the Fish is walking his dog as I reach the crossroads where I turn towards the duck pond. Unfortunately, he is heading the same way as me. This gives me a dilemma, as I haven’t seen Len the Fish for ages, and would like to say ‘hullo,’ but if I stop then my legs will fall off.

I jog on the spot for a moment, whilst I attempt to summon some breath to explain this to him; in the end I manage to emit my ‘hullo’ and run on. Len the Fish laughs good-naturedly at my running – he knows nothing. I press on, past the duck pond. The ducks laugh good-naturedly at my running.

Before too long, I am home. Tired, but content with my achievement.

“The thing is,” I tell Big Andy later on, “Child #1 now wants to wander up the road to the playing field and play cricket and stuff, and I find that I am wheezing and exhausted and out of breath. And then we reach the playing field, and it goes downhill from there.”

“Anyway,” I continue. “I am determined to lose weight and be a bit more healthy.”

“Another cider?”

“Thank you.”

The following day, I go swimming with the rest of the family, despite the fact that I hate swimming and can’t really swim. I force myself to do two lengths, one after the other. Having played bowls the previous night, this completes the triathlon – my own personal iron man challenge. I can feel aches in my shins, my arms, my bowl-delivery hand. But it will be worth it.

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