One hundred and two years old

It was our birthdays. Mr & Mrs Smith are now 51. Mr Smith finds this most surprising as he rates himself as about mid thirties. Mid thirties? That's ancient! I never got much past 13.

For Mr Smith's birthday he bought me a lovely bottle of Dior something or other at the airport. For my birthday, the next day, he bought me everything I wanted including a pancake for lunch. That's how it should be. Well, I did pay for a chinese dinner but it wasn't very expensive - unlike my birthday dinner at Amsterdam's finest which required a mortgage.

I bought loads of exotic tulip bulbs in the flower market and now have to plant them which I would if it would stop snowing. I also bought loads of wooden tulips which are rather kitsch and fun.

Amsterdam

Internet Dating Jane lent me a red umbrella to take to Amsterdam as rain was forecast. She and Jack brought it round, him with a little note attached to his collar thanking me for all his walkies during the week. What a polite dog! I've always liked him. We drank some wine and I got sloshed; this did not aid my packing which, apart from the umbrella, was a bit rubbish.

When we got to Amsterdam it was raining - hooray for the umbrella. It was also quite cold and I had failed to pack a scarf or gloves - I bought a scarf or rather Mr Smith bought me a scarf as my Euros ran out on day 1. I also bought the whole of Amsterdam which I had difficulty squeezing into my suitcase despite it being rather empty on arrival due to my awful packing.

I loved the flower market, the Van Gogh museum, the shops, the cheese, the trams and the wonderful architecture of Amsterdam. I did not like the stink of drugs everywhere, the lunatic number of tacky tourist shops or the freezing fog that descended on day 3. Rather too many things were closed for refurbs including the Museum of modern art, the Scheepvaart museum (shipbuilding not sheep farming), and most of the Rijksmuseum, though the best bits were on view. Perhaps that's the hazard of going out of season.

The ladies of the night in their red windows were very interesting - though I didn't let Mr Smith loiter. I was glad I saw them as well as finding a windmill and eating a pancake - the three essential things to do in Amsterdam, though not all at the same time.

Dutch bunny

Tomorrow morning we fly to Amsterdam. I am trying to pack but not very successfully. Do I need a travel plug? mmm probably. However, when I looked in the drawer where I normally keep things like travel plugs there wasn't anything that evenly resembled a plug in there. Do I need bunny ears for Amsterdam? Oh I give up. I'll take an empty suitcase and buy everything at the airport; well, at least a travel plug.

It is Mr Smith's birthday tomorrow and he says he'd really like to hire bicycles and have a little cycle ride round Amsterdam. Oh fuck, I can't ride a bicycle. He thinks a tandem might be a good idea. Why doesn't he just divorce me now? Maybe I could learn ... in my bunny ears.

Sweat bras and tears

Since I am being so super keeny in the keep fit department, I thought I should kit myself out with some proper togs. I went to Sweaty Betty's in Kingston. Actually I was a bit sweaty as I walked all the way there - no mean feat, let me tell you.

The nice assistant told me the first thing I needed was a sports bra. I don't know if she gave me one three sizes too small on purpose or maybe she misheard or misjudged my size. I got stuck in it. A sports bra for those of you who have never met one isn't just like a bra, oh no sir. It's bra-ish but more like a vest married to a bra. It has all sorts of extra straps and bits at the back that don't actually undo. You slip it over your head then struggle a bit, then roll it down then do it up at the back then realise you can't breath and call out from behind the curtain in a rather constricted small voice "Do you have a slightly bigger size?" I then got it stuck over my tits below my neck but round my arms and I couldn't move. I thought I would have to be cut out of it. I wriggled and squidged and turned upside down until eventually I wrenched the damned thing off. No, it's OK I don't want a sports bra any more.

Next it was sweat pants. Not much improvement as the assistant kept giving me stupidly small sizes. Do I look like a size 12 to you? I am a bloody 16 who dreams of being a 12 all day long non-stop - hence the new fitness regime. I nearly hit the girl though I did have to admire her optimism. "Why can't I just have the L then, if by some miracle it's too big, I'll opt for the M?" She came round to my way of thinking in the end and £250 later I feel ready to take on the most strenuous physical jerks in a desperate bid to fit into my new clothes (over my normal bra).

Paperless table

I was going to clean our coffee table but it is so covered in publications you can't see the dust so there's not much point. I keep the very big Times Atlas of the World close to hand (somewhat out of date what with Russia and the Balkans changing things around a bit) in case Mr Smith should decide to take me on holiday somewhere more adventurous than East Wittering. It's also useful for cheating at the crossword puzzle. I also like to have a few arty magazines strewn about to cover up Hello and OK and anything golfy. Then there a few gardening mags to make me think about venturing outside. There are also a load of stupid catalogues for things we don't want, one of which I have just noticed from Boden entitled "Life's full of little surprises" the main one of which being I am too fat to fit into any of their clothes. My friend, Mad Carina, buys endless magazines on decluttering which then clutter up her flat and my parents have Country Life so they can see whose houses are worth burgling.

Today I went to Aqua Zumba which is much the same sort of thing as aqua aerobics with more exotic moves and fatter ladies; think belly dancing whales. I liked it more than Monday's class and will definitely go again even though it was at the gruesome hour of 9am. OOh I am such a little keep fittist these days.

Wednesday is the new Tuesday; football night is tonight not last night. I am going to start my new painting. Well you don't expect me to watch Mr Smith and the Apprentice watching football do you?

Brava woman

I bathed and pruned the dog. He looks sad without all his straggly fluffy bits but he might bring less attachments into the house. He smells nice - a temporary arrangement I fear.

It's football night on Tuesdays when Mr Smith and the Apprentice do their Alpha male thing and hurl abuse at the television. I do other things. I might rectify my trousers and watch a soppy dvd on my own elsewhere.

My friends keep calling to ask if Granny is dead yet - some actually still do so in a caring tone. For all of you who want to know: No she is not dead so I haven't inherited her millions, her furniture and paintings, her mink coat, her diamonds or her great big house ..... yet. Mr Smith is so bursting with anticipation it's rude.

Aquaflabics

I went to aqua aerobics - I was a bit late but soon got the hang of it. To be honest, I think I'd rather do a few good lengths of the pool but maybe it reaches the parts that other swims don't. There were heaps of ladies, most quite fat, some enormous and I felt quite at home. It had the feel of a Beryl Cook painting and I feel rather inspired to paint "The Aqua Aerobics Class" with lots of silly coloured woggles sticking up in the water.

I didn't lose any weight this past week; I hold that chocolate roulade responsible. So this week the dog and I are both going to be very exercisey and we are only going to eat perfectly formed designer meals. This is actually about portion sizes as I have to admit I am being a bit greedy these days although I don't eat as many bonios as the dog.