I watch as they are paraded around the ring. For a moment I decide that I fancy number one, then number four catches my eye and I am torn. Then I decide that the ‘best-dressed lady competition’ is really not worth caring about one way or another, although the horror is drawing me in with the siren call of a road accident.

I don’t know why sporting venues feel that they have to do this sort of thing. I suspect it is because they don’t have the confidence that the sport itself is interesting enough, so they add cheerleaders, dancing children or ‘best dressed lady’ competitions. There are thousands and thousands of people here to see the horses racing. It would be like the managers of the Louvre hiring Tom O’Connor to stand beside the Mona Lisa telling jokes.

“And we have the gorgeous Louise Owen, wife of Michael, here to be our judge,” announces the announcer. “Louise – you’re looking gorgeous today.”

A sea of uninterested faces gaze down from the balcony’s shade aside except, interestingly, an elderly man beside me who appears to be concentrating very, very hard on looking at specific bits of Louise Owen through his binoculars.

“Now – contestant one. You’re looking gorgeous! Where is your hat from?”

The hat is from Marks and Spencer, contestant one reports, in a voice that could be used for deforestation.

“Was that in Reading? It’s gorgeous.”

The hat was bought in Manchester, a fact that causes much amazement. “So you’re from READING, you bought your hat in MANCHESTER and you’re here at SANDOWN! How does that work, then?” he hoots in bafflement that a woman should, at one reckless point in her early twenties, leave the confines of her own house.

“Well it’s gorgeous! Now – our second contestant. Isn’t she gorgeous everybody! Louise – isn’t she gorgeous!” enthuses the Announcer, forgetting to add the required “knowing you, Louise Owen – aha.”

Contestant two is probably gorgeous, but I could never be interested in a woman who enters herself for best-dressed lady competitions. Her dress is from somewhere, her hat is from somewhere else. Contestants three, four and five are also described as such, although in my opinion contestant four should be disqualified as she entered a best-dressed lady competition at a racecourse the previous week, and is thus probably researching a book.

Louise Owen picks a winner. The levels of excitement fail to even approach a whelm. I head off to the bookies. Everybody has laughed at me, because I have a hot each-way tip from a bloke with tattoos who was at bowls. The horse romps in second and they are not laughing any more, oh no.

“Ooooooh!” go the audience.

There is some loud rock music.

“I really think that we should introduce the Power Play,” I tell the bowls people later on. “Like on the bowls on Sky TV.”

We discuss the mechanics of supplying loud rock music and erecting spotlights so they zigzag crazily across the green, which is what you need for a proper Power Play. It is decided that introducing a Power Play would be impractical due to technical reasons, even if the league did allow it.

It is not as if we really need to inject artificial excitement into the game. The bowls season has been one of drama and high tension: there was some conflict over team selection at the beginning of the year, and then in a game two or three weeks ago there was a disagreement about positioning of the mat. We have also had our equivalent of Tom Jones returning home to the UK after all these years – viz, Short Tony came out of retirement to help us out last night, despite his doubt as to whether he would be any good or not.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be backing you up,” I said.

“Ok. You lead. How did you get on last week?”

I thought about this. “I played the worst that I’d ever played ever, we got stuffed and I split my trousers on the twelfth end,” I admit.

He paused. “Well, thanks in advance for your support.”

“No problem. It is funny – I have never realised that when you split your trousers, they make a comic ‘trouser splitting’ noise, exactly like they do on old sitcoms. I had always thought that noise was some form of comic convention, and that actually splitting your trousers would make a totally different noise. But they actually do make that sort of unmistakeable splitting sound.”

“Look – are you ready to start playing?”

I had planned to do lots of blog reports about the bowls this year, as I know there is great demand – but for one reason or another it just hasn’t worked out. I do not have a phone that I can live Twitter from between ends, but I will try to do occasional updates as the season hots up.

“I think,” I begin, speaking slowly and softly as I collect my thoughts, “I think that it’s a fairly common thing for father to feel… to feel as if they take last place in the family unit. It’s not jealousy as such – it’s just that the man often gets overlooked and ends up – illogical as it might seem – feeling a bit neglected. And that’s just a bit poignant today of all days.”

There is a sigh from the end of the telephone wire. “I’m sorry we’re not there,” admits the LTLP, who is away with the Toddler. “Have you made yourself some breakfast?”

“Yes,” I reply. “And thanks for leaving the card. It was nice. It would just be good to… I… well, anyway. I’ll see you when I see you.”

I ring off.

“It’s brilliant!” I say to Short Tony in the Village Pub, 0.00001 seconds later. “I had a really nice breakfast, get to go to the pub AND get the sympathy points. Could I have another pint, please? And later on, I can watch the cricket and motor racing and then perhaps listen to some Jethro Tull.”

“Even though motor racing is shit,” I add, taking a roast potato from the bowl on the bar, and passing them to Len the Fish. “But it’s the principle of the thing.”

We sway down the road some time later. Father’s Day!!! I am feeling particularly manly after beer, roast potatoes and several large Martini Rossos. Time for more man-stuff.

“Mmmm – that’s good,” I breathe, as I roll the soft texture of Len the Fish’s tongue around my mouth.

“I’ve cured a huge batch,” he says. “Would you like me to cut you some to take back with you? And I tell you what – I brewed some elderflower champagne.”

Most of the elderflower champagne has exploded, but he gives Short Tony and I an unexploded bottle each. I look at it, very impressed. My bottle erupts almost immediately, the cork narrowly missing my face as it shoots skywards in the direction of Fakenham.

“It’s a little lively still,” he admits.

We drink elderflower champagne and munch on tongue. It is a shame that we have been neglected on this, our special day, and sad that I have been forced to spend it alone and miserable.

Unfortunately, the exact suitable moment turned out to be at about eleven o’clock on a Saturday night when I was a bit pissed. I haven’t found anything too amiss with it this morning, but if you do find things going alarmingly wrong then please let me know in the comments box.

Other administrativey news stuff

Ooops – I logged on to Facebook yesterday and there were about a grillion friend requests, some of which were very, very old. Booooooo – I am rude. Sorry if you have sent me a request, and think me rude. I only really set up that account so I could leave a message on the Bizarre Appreciation Society to thank Oli and now Lawrence for setting it up. Although I don’t use Facebook, I am a bit more sociable on Twitter especially now I have worked out how to see replies that people have sent to you. So please do say ‘hello’ there.

And other

I’ve been sniggering stupidly at Bête de Jour’s book (’The Intimate Adventures of an Ugly Man’), especially the bits about Dartford. (If you are an angry resident of Dartford, you can ’search inside’ via the link, and type in ‘Dartford’, and then perhaps get your face in the local paper, holding the book, with a cross expression on your face). It is available, believe it or not, from Amazon – very much recommended.

Thank you for your patience during the Essential Maintenance, and for your continued enjoyment of my Private Secret Diary.

Essential!!! Hahahahaha!!!!!

I stare at it, agog. Granted, it is a bit more like a giant grill than the real thing, but its saunaness greatly exceeds anything that I had been expecting. This is brilliant.

“There’s a big fuck-off flat screen TV!!!” I exclaim gleefully, as the LTLP and Toddler trudge in with their bags. “Hang on – there’s a flat screen in my bedroom!!! All of our bedrooms!!! OMG OMG Wifi LOL LOL,” (I paraphrase).

This is the most excellent start to a holiday that I have ever had. Even the weather is better than expected. I love Center Parcs. Honestly, there is nothing, nothing at all that can put a downer on my mood right now.

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

A small black cloud drifts across the sun.

“I have to apologise for him,” remarks the LTLP. “He is going to be in a foul mood later, as he can find nothing to complain about.”

But she is wrong I am in a state of holiday serenity as the LTLP organises wardrobe space and wrestles to get the oven on.

Later, the LTLP’s parents have to be pulled from the Subtropical Swimming Paradise by lifeguards, in front of a large throng of holidaymakers. The LTLP stomps up to me, her face like thunder, her swimming costume having been pulled off in the rescue attempt. But I am happily bobbing around on a lazy backstroke, a big smile on my face. Give me a few more tattoos and I could well become a regular here.

I am still in Camp Center Parcs, wondering what will happen to me. We arrived six – seven? – days ago, and were immediately taken to a group of huts by the gates, for processing. Our paperwork was stamped – thank God it was all in order – and we were allocated a berth accordingly.

One of the horrors of this place is that whilst families might arrive together, the camp authorities deliberately do not change this state of affairs. We eat, exercise, sleep together. Food we have to scrape together ourselves, or is provided from places featuring laminated menus. Comforts are small, such as the maid service and jacuzzi.

God willing, this post will reach the outside world. I have met a man who promises that he can arrange it that I can leave tomorrow. I do not know whether this is true, or will turn out to be yet one more small cruelty. Remember me to the people on Twitter.

Back soon.

I have not bicycled for ages and ages, having given up reluctantly due to my arse problem. But I am in the mood at present to get back onto all sorts of horses, and bicycling seems a good start.

Chuff. Chuff. Chuff. I chuff, huff and puff as I force myself up the gentle but long hill to the Village Shop. I feel the muscles in my legs working away, tightening, getting fitter with every thrust. Who is interested in owning an abusive Wii Fit when there is bicycling to be done on a sunny day?

I pick up my newspaper. The Village Shop Lady looks at me in some concern.

“Been bicycling,” I breathe, handing over my small change. This will make it easier on the way back, except I now have the weight of a newspaper to consider.

I retrieve the bicycle from the rack at the front of the shop and set off down the hill. Wheeeeeeeee!!! This is brilliant – the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, not having to pedal at all except a few thrusts to get me going and a couple of top-up pedals as I pass Eddie’s house. I realise that I have missed this feeling immensely. It occurs to me, as I sail down the hill towards the Cottage, that bicycling on a summer’s day is possibly the nicest, nicest occupation in the world.

I fall off my bicycle.

“Ow!” I say, as I mis-time a small stunt and fail to make the raised area beyond my driveway. “Aarrghhh!” as the bicycle disappears from underneath me.

I dust myself off, put the bicycle away crossly, and retrieve my newspaper from the ground.

I stomp in to the Cottage to sit down in an armchair. From across the room, the Wii gives me a sarcastic look.

The Toddler does not want to go back to bed. “Go back to bed,” I repeat. But to no avail. It is the same every morning. I do not know at what age children’s brains fully develop and they start realising that ‘go back to bed’ are the four best words in the English language alongside ‘fancy a quick pint?’ and ’shall I wear boots?’. “Go back to bed,” I insist, from under the duvet.

It is fruitless. I rise bad-temperedly, and start thinking about breakfast.

There is something particularly draining about feeding the chickens, making tea, cooking breakfast, starting the washing machine, emptying the dishwasher, doing play-doh, drawing some pictures, doing a jigsaw, watching ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’, doing some more play-doh, hanging out the washing, checking on the chickens again, giving the dollies their milk and taking them to the play supermarket, making some more tea, putting some more washing on, watching ‘Hana’s Helpline’, putting the play-doh away and doing one more jigsaw and then looking at your watch to discover that it’s still 9.20am.

Fortunately, we still have to go to the Village Shop. That will kill fifteen minutes.

Honestly, I don’t understand what it is about children that they want to cram so much into the day. It can’t be healthy. She demands to watch Postman Pat, but I put my foot down. Postman Pat is different now. I suspect he might have had a bust-up with the Post Office licensing people, as he works from the ‘Special Delivery Service’ depot instead of the Post Office, and keeps buzzing around delivering stuff in helicopters.

We go to the Village Shop. I am knackered now. It is 10am.

There is not a lot of food in the food fridge, as I have not been to the market for a while. Onions, potatoes, some condiments, a huge tub of Spanish anchovies, chorizos, cheese, tomatoes, ham.

I take some ham, guiltily, and slip it into my mouth. Its salty taste explodes around my lips, teeth and tongue; I savour the taste lustfully for many moments before swallowing in pleasure.

“Mmm!!!” I murmur, to the onions and potatoes. Then I have another bit.

I have always worked on the basis that you know you’re abroad if the ham’s shit. But visiting Spain has turned my whole world upside-down, from a ham point of view.

The taste of the second slice brings no diminishing returns, so I have a third. As far as I am concerned, Spanish Jamón is the new heroin. God knows how I am going to get off it. They should offer you a luncheon meat substitute on the NHS.

The food was one of the main things that I was looking forward to on visiting Madrid. I had very much enjoyed the Spanish cooking show on Channel 4 last year, which was presented by Thomasina Miers, the peckish man’s Kirstie Allsopp. But I had never considered Spanish ham before. It is so good, you could almost call it a waste of Branston Pickle.

A fifth bit. There is a doubt nagging away at me – that perhaps the LTLP’s idea to buy lots so that we can invite people round and hold a cultured ‘Spanish Evening’ might only half work. There is certainly – um – a lot less in the bag than there was when we landed back at Luton. She will understand.

I donated two pairs of pants to the Madridians: a black pair that had become grey, and a red pair that were still red but had some holes. In return, I took ham. If that’s not a cultural exchange then I don’t know what is.

I take a sixth bit. There is still enough left over for some hors d’oeuvres, perhaps if they were bulked out by some Pringles. I will never criticise another country’s ham again. I am ignorant.

I take a seventh bit.