list

One of the things I do last thing every night is The List. It's the list of all the things I have to do the following day, including some that probably won't get done, but if they make their way to the list they stand a chance of being sorted out within a week. There are three things to remember about the list -

1 put down some things that you want to do as well as the ones you have to,

2 put in some really obvious ones, things you do every day anyway and don't take long. You get a sense of achievement crossing them off, and

3 where you put it.

I may as well put 'find list' at the top of mine. I can sometimes find it first thing in the morning, but at some point it always escapes. I must have wasted years of my life looking for the list. At the moment the lists are invariably written on squares of yellow paper, so I can usually find yesterday's list or one from the middle of last week. At present I haven't a clue where today's is. It may have taken refuge behind a cupboard with a lot of other lists on yellow squares. 'Phone Mum and Dad' was on it, and a trip to IKEA, and the next stage of the new book, I've done those, and I meant to phone a lady from a bookshop, oops, forgot that. And I know 'blog' was on there. What shall I blog about?

Free

Imagine all those times when you've been sitting in a hot, stuffy classroom on a beautiful summer day. The sun is beating mercilessly through a plate glass window, and your school uniform is uncomfortable. Just on the other side of that window you can see the school field, waiting for you to sprawl about on it and make daisy chains. The third years are supposed to be doing athletics, but the teacher can't be everywhere at once. The kids who are supposed to be practising long jump are mucking about in the sand pit. A few leggy girls saunter round the track and break into a trot when Miss is looking.

And there you are, hot, sticky, and bored, bored, so bored you want to scream. You don't care what the German word for potato salad is, if you ever do get to Germany you're not going there to eat potato salad. As for the grammar, you lost track of that two terms ago and you now do your homework by taking a calculated guess. There is sweat on the palms of your hands and all you can think of is a cold drink.

'Margaret McAllister, is there anything very fascinating out of that window?'

'No, Miss,' I say, because I daren't tell her the truth.

Tony, as most of you know, has just retired as a Methodist minister. All Methodist ministers are required to go twice a year to a huge general meeting called Synod. I've never been to a Synod, but I'm told that they have their inspiring moments. That's when somebody says or does something exciting, but it happens so rarely that the Chairman faints and has to be carried out on a stretcher and they talk about it for years afterwards. Like a scene in a nightmare, there's no way out of Synod. They say you can only get an exemption if you've died the previous week.

Retired ministers can still go to Synod, lucky old things. Tony, who would rather stand in the main road and juggle hand grenades, won't.

Retired ministers are SUPPOSED to go to Synod. And if they don't? At this point, I want to put my hands on my hips and my head on one side and say 'well. whatcha gonna do 'bout it?'

This morning, I was in enjoying the sun in the conservatory, reading the newspaper, when Tony came in. He looked out at the garden, remarked happily on what a lovely day it is, and went to make himself a coffee.

"You know what?" he said. "Today's Synod."

Thing

The Thing is a clothes airer. When I was a kid, in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we had a 'clothes horse'. It was wooden, and a bit like a gate that unfolded and stood in front of the fire or the stove with damp washing draped over it. It was also a tent, a castle, a house, or just a place to hide with a book and stay out of trouble.

I recently bought a modern heated version of the same thing, a metal and plastic thing that unfolds into a tower of platforms, considerably taller than I am. Yesterday, with the rain hammering down on the garden and a heap of damp washing sulking in the basket, I set it up. Given that we still have book mountains all over the floor, this may not have been wise.

'It'll go in the dining room for the time being', I said, and walked the Thing into place. Well, the Thing could get in there but then I couldn't, and I as I had the laptop set up in there it was the Thing or me.

'I'll put it in the hall.' But with the thing in the hall nobody could get anywhere, and I didn't feel like folding it up again and hauling it up to the attic, so I settled for the kitchen. Draped with everything that had just flopped out of the washing basket it fitted just too snugly between the cooker, the cupboard where the plates live, and the fridge. We calculated. To have lunch, we needed the fridge and the cupboard more than we needed the cooker. Move the Thing about eight inches south. When it was time to cook, I had to get everything out of the cupboard first and then jam the Thing against the door. That would have been all right until I needed access to the garage. Steered thing ninety degrees south-south-east. Thing now obstructing fridge again, and by the time I'd sorted out the garage I was ready for a cold drink. Steered the thing into dry dock. Opened fridge.

All is now done, the washing is aired and the thing is folded up in the utility room. I can't remember Mum having this trouble with the clothes horse.

Tree

I always wanted a house with an apple tree. We planted two at the last house. When we bought this one we knew there was a big old tree in the garden, but we didn't know what it was. But it is my tree of dreams, an apple tree, and just now it's laden with shiny green fruit. Apple crumble, anyone? Apple pie, apple... well, apple anything really. By the way, in Yorkshire they serve Wensleydale cheese with apple pie, and with fruit cake, too. It's surprisingly nice.

Our friend Silke came to see us today, and we sat in the sun drinking tea in one of the habitable rooms before taking her for a tour, then I went outside to pick some apples for her to take home. It wasn't worth taking a stepladder out there, not when the tree is so climbable. How many years is it since I climbed a tree? Anyway, I did i, without breaking any limbs (mine or the tree's). I came down with quite a harvest.

My first ever published book was A FRIEND FOR RACHEL, then they renamed it THE SECRET MICE. It ended with two girls running off to climb the apple tree, and I thought of that today, when I climbed my very own apple tree.

On Bananas

The nice young lad in the shop handed over the fruit I'd just paid for, saying 'Your bananas'. 'No I'm not!' I said, then reflected that he was probably right. And a little while ago I saw an elderly-ish couple side by side, thoughtfully eating bananas.

This got me thinking about a story for small children, a story about a family who all eat bananas, they love them, they almost live on bananas, from the great-grandparents to the baby, even the hamster eats bananas. Then there are no more bananas in the shops, and they have to try to find them. They know nothing about where bananas come from.

So, what would they do? Plant bananas to see if they grow? Dig for a banana mine? Get in a boat and go banana fishing? Set traps and lie in wait for the bananas to fall in? And what do they eat in the meantime, and do they like it?

We could have a story coming on. You saw it here first.

Dodger

Hello, I'm Dodger, I live in the garden, I'm Oliver's friend I'm Margi's friend, I'm everybody's friend, I chase things, I like playing, I like running after apples, I like... I like everything - BIRD! I'm Dodger, did I tell you - BUTTERFLY! that my name is Dodger, I...

I'm so sorry about that. He's very excitable, especially for a stone dog. Really his boy, Oliver, should control him, but Oliver just stands there with his hands in his pockets trying to look innocent. Oliver and Dodger are a work in progress and it might be slow progress, I'm afraid.

They live under the apple tree. One day Dodger will learn the difference between an apple and a tennis ball, but don't hold your breath.

Much

Bit quiet round 'ere, innit? 'Er's off. They're all off. Still, I've got me snail, me river, the rest of the garden, and the spuggies to chat to, so it's not so bad. And I 'ad a visitor this week. Stephen's back. The church what owns this house still 'as 'im looking after the garden. Decent chap, Stephen, only 'e's as mad as a bloomin' 'atter. 'E goes mountain biking, climbing up waterfalls, you name it, no wonder 'e lost two of 'is fingers. (Mind, 'e did that when 'e were gardening. Accident with a chain saw. makes me glad I'm made of stone.)

Anyway, I 'as it on very good authority that the New House of Stories comes with a little stone lad and 'is dog. Don't know the dog's name, but the lad's Oliver, and 'e looks like he's had a lot of patching up done over the years so I reckon he's a scamp. Looks like the picture of innocence, and I reckon that's the kind you have to look out for. The sort of lad that always has an apple, a football sticker, a toffee and a dead beetle or two in 'is pocket and doesn't do 'is 'omework until 'is mum glues 'im to the seat. Don't suppose 'e'll be bothered about writing a blog, then.

'Ere come the ducks. Evening, ducks. Missus misses you something rotten. If you want any duck food, ask Stephen's kids.