Am I dead COMMON?

In which Wendy delivers a lesson in good manners

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If you were kind enough to drop by last week, you'll remember that I mentioned a dream about the late Queen. Oh, how I wish we were chatting together at this very moment.

It is about half past three in the morning, and Mr Dear is making a noise like a hippopotamus clearing its throat.

I've led a sheltered life, and so don't have wide experience of the sleeping habits of the British male. But is there anybody else who has such a wide repertoire of grunts and snores as he does?

There's the one which sounds like Thomas the Tank Engine making his way up a particularly steep hill, and another like somebody with very large feet making their way over frozen leaves and crushing every one of them.

Then there's what sounds like the dripping of a giant tap and Doctor Who's Tardis just before its 10,000 year service, and the one he is giving me at the moment - the truffling pig who has just hit pay dirt.

Sometimes it's like being in bed with The Wonderful World of David Attenborough.

The upside of being awake in the wee small hours is that it gives me time to think (yes, yes, I know the rest of my time must look like one long round of tea and biscuits and putting my feet up).