I like visiting the barber’s. Not the hairdresser’s. The Barber’s. It’s an all male zone with car magazines, sports magazines, FHM and Carp Angler.

I can even get to read The Sun or The Mirror (well, flick through).

Sat there in the comfy leather benches waiting to be called forward. It’s funny how, without saying a word or acknowledging one another, we know who’s next. It’s all so civilised and orderly.

I enjoy the physical sensation of having my hair cut. Not in any sexual sense but in a relaxing way. I am prone to twiddle my hair; it helps me to relax so to have someone do it for me is a bonus.

I even enjoy the conversation. No matter what you end up talking about all conversations in the barber’s start with the question,

‘Busy then?’

One day I’m going to answer, ‘Not really, I’m having my haircut’ just to confuse them.

One thing I can’t work out though is why all barbers look at themselves in the mirror while they’re talking to you. I can be sat there making all sorts of funny faces whilst I’m being told about the latest betting or where he and his wife are planning going on holiday and they still won’t notice. It’s a bit disconcerting to be honest – like watching twins have a conversation.

I wonder if that's what they do at home when they’re shaving or combing their hair in front of a mirror.

‘Looking good Eric! Have a good day!’

Actually, didn’t Robert De Niro do something similar in a film?

You know, the one where he played a nutter.

TV has ‘talent’ shows up to its eyeballs now. It all started with ‘Pop Idol’ (I’d audition for a programme called ‘Bone Idle’).

It was a good idea. And like all good ideas, it gets flogged to death. So we had Maria and Joseph and Britain’s Got Talent.

And X Factor, of course. Once you’ve seen one X Factor, you’ve seen them all.

Although, when I was cooking my lamb chops for tea earlier, I noticed Cheryl Cole was one of the judges.

I’ll be watching next week.

I went for a drink with my brother during the week.

We don’t see each other that often but when we meet the discussion is always about love lives (usually his) or sport.

I won’t go into the former but during a pregnant, if slightly embarrassed pause, I asked him if he’d seen the Men’s 100m Final at the Olympics.

‘I caught the end of it.’

He must be a busy man.

I had to pop to the local Co-op earlier. I took my own bags with me as is usual these days.

When I got to the till I put my basket on top of a pile of plastic carrier bags.

‘Those carrier bags shouldn’t be there really,’ said the cashier as she was scanning my items.

‘Why not?’ I replied.

‘Well. We’re trying to encourage people to recycle and bring their own bags,’ she said.

‘ You might as well let people use those ones until they run out,’ I said.

‘Oh no. Can’t do that. My boss will kill me,’ she explained.

‘What are you going to do with them then?’ I asked.

‘Throw them away,’ came the reply.

In between the jobs and chores I had to keep H and P entertained.

I resorted to the old favourite, ‘I spy’. But P couldn’t win or guess any before H or me and she was getting a little upset.

It was my turn, again, so I lent over and whispered in her ear.

‘It will be Toaster,’ I said, conspiratorially.

I don’t know why but mischief got the better of me.

‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with R,’ I recited.

‘TOASTER!’ shouted P victoriously.

I hope I haven’t put her off playing.

I’ve got a couple of weeks off work. It’s time to do all those chores and jobs that I don’t quite find the time for otherwise. H, R and P have got things lined up for me too – unfortunately, they’re not all the same things. H wants to go and ride her horse, R wants to go to dance classes and P wants to build a camp.

One of the jobs I’ve been meaning to do was clear out the cupboard under the stairs. It’s like a black hole. But a black hole that’s packed to the rafters with all sorts of stuff.

Opening the door requires a particular skill if you want to put anything in – it must be a very quick motion of ‘open – shut’, not more than 2 seconds, so that all the other stuff inside doesn’t fall out. Of course, if you want to retrieve anything from inside you’re best off just opening the door as wide as possible to let everything fall out in the hope that the object you’re looking for lands at your feet.

It was quite a cathartic experience actually. I came across my collection of vinyl LPs. I sat there flicking through them remembering all the bands and the songs. God knows, where the Kajagoogoo album came from though – that’s definitely not mine.

There was a skipping rope, enough bags to open a bag shop, an old favourite coat of mine, board games (two boxes of the game Scattergories, oddly), 7 odd shoes (someone must be hopping mad), a pole, a fishing net, an old copy of the Yellow Pages, cookery books, several torches and two litre bottles of Evian. And that’s only the half of it.

I put everything into separate piles; girls’ rooms, my office, charity shop, eBay, junk. Sorted.

But I still can’t get into the cupboard.

P has built a camp in there.

I’m used to furry animals in my house. At last count, including my children, I have 37 mouths to feed. The mouths belong to children, dogs, guinea pigs and rabbits. In no particular order, all competing for food.

Actually make that 38.

Maisy has arrived. Maisy is a black cat. Well, a kitten to be more precise.

She was shy at first but, boy, has she settled in. The dogs, Gizmo and Murphy, treated her with disdain at first.

‘There’s no way she will muscle in on the food stakes’ you could almost see them discussing.

How wrong they were.

Last night, I cooked myself a nice lamb chop. I ate it down to the bone. As usual, Gizmo and Murphy sat patiently, their own chops salivating.

After I finished, I left it on the plate and sat back to let my meal go down. Usually I break the bone up and throw it out the back door for them to take it to bury or chew or do whatever they do with bones.

Except it was different last night.

Maisy had somehow negotiated a way onto the table and was contentedly helping herself to it.

Gizmo and Murphy treated her with more respect today.

I think she might be recruited by one of them.

Having three daughters means I rarely get the chance to kick a ball about or engage in more ‘rough and tumble’ stuff. It’s all Barbie and Littlest Pet Shop.

When I take them over the park I mustn’t push them too high on the swings or too fast on the roundabout.

But today was different. C and L, my two nephews came to visit.

‘Can we go over the park, Uncle Mark’ they asked more or less as soon as they arrived.

I was already stood by the front door with my trainers on and a football tucked under my arm.

‘Come on! Let’s go!’ I said excitedly. They broke into a run as we neared the park gate and I joined them. And what a joy it was to kick the ball high into the air as we entered – I felt like the captain of Arsenal coming out of the tunnel onto the pitch at the start of a game.

There we were, the three of us, in our own little football world kicking a ball about.

After a while they wanted to have a go on the swings and roundabout.

‘Higher, Uncle Mark!’ they shouted. ‘Faster!’

I was in heaven. L even come off the roundabout and did one of those little wobbly walks because he was so dizzy. I’d never been responsible for making anyone do that before.

Then they wanted to go back onto the swings.

‘Uncle Mark! Uncle Mark! See if you can hit us on the head with the ball!’ shouted L.

‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ I thought.

So I took aim and kicked the ball. I missed but it hit the metal frame and bounced straight back in my face. Giving me a bloody nose.

‘Are you alright Uncle Mark?’ said C.

‘Hmmpphh, I’m fide,’ I managed.

‘I think we’d better get you home,’ replied C, taking my hand.

I wonder if they want to play Littlest Pet Shop when they next come round?

I had to go to one of those boring, happy-clappy Work Conferences earlier this week. They’re supposed to boost morale and remind you what a great job you have.

It’s no expense spared – lovely menu in a lovely venue. But all I was looking forward to was the piss up in the evening. It was free alcohol after all.

All day we had ‘equality’ and ‘diversity’ shoved down our throats but I still don’t understand it. Apparently, we’re all the same but we’re all different. Or something like that.

After the Q and A session at the end (no questions unsurprisingly) we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, gathered our things and headed for the pub.

Among us was K, a registered blind person and his Guide Dog. The pub we were going to was a few streets away from the Conference Centre but we found it ok. The first drink was knocked back with gusto followed by the loosening of ties and loosening of lips. I was standing at the bar with a couple of mates.

‘What a load of bollocks today.’

‘It’s PC gone mad.’

‘I know. But it’s a sign of the times we’re living in. Why should anyone have more rights than anyone else?’

‘Shh, K’s over there. He might hear.’

For a while the group fell silent but it didn’t take long for the conversation to return to political correctness, equality and diversity.

I didn’t notice the time slipping by. I was quite happily supping. All of a sudden, it was a quarter to eleven and most people had gone. I wasn’t sure where I was or how to get back. I couldn’t see anyone I knew.

Except K

I wandered over.

‘Alright K,’ I said as I bent down to stroke his dog. ‘I don’t suppose you know the way back to the Conference Centre?’ I asked, half of my tongue in my cheek.

‘Yeah. Sure.’ he replied. ‘ Go out of the door behind and walk up the 26 steps. When you exit the door turn 90 degrees to your left. Walk forward 120 paces and you should come to a road. Cross over and after another 50 paces turn left again. Keep walking for three minutes at the same speed and then stop,’ he continued.

He couldn’t see me, of course, but I was stood there, open mouthed.

‘Turn to the right and cross over the road and the Conference Centre should be 70 or so paces further down,’ he finished.

‘Cheers K, ‘ I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

See, if you’re lost or don’t know where you are, sometimes you should ask a blind man for directions.

I have missed it come to think about it.

It reminds me of long hot summers when I was young and over the field or in the park. Maybe, as an adult, I haven’t looked for it so I haven’t noticed it as much.

Maybe it’s one of those things that’s been phased out gradually by successive governments – you know, like curly cucumbers.

There used to be loads of it. It was everywhere you looked. It’s as rare as truffles these days.

But, today, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I saw some. And in my own back garden!

You want to know what it is?

White dog poo.