It's jolly hard to hit the letters on a keyboard accurately when most of your fingers are wrapped in Elastoplast. My Spellcheck has been working overtime (or obwrtunr, if you prefer the original Elastoplast spelling). It's my own fault for having such damn delicious fingers.

Let's face it; if you were a puppy and had to choose between a bowl of dried-up chunks of something vaguely meaty or a tempting set of manicured chipolatas that were constantly waving in front of your face - which would you choose?

But that's all I'm going to say about our new puppy. I don't want to fall into the lazy trap of constantly writing about the naughty exploits of the lovable scamp - although you might accuse me of doing precisely that with Mr Young. So I won't mention Archie again. At least not this week.

Friday

Humiliated myself in Long Causeway when I bumped into William, a friend and neighbour whom I have know for many years. He mentioned that he was now the proud owner of a bus pass.

"But William!" I said, shocked. "That means you're sixty!"

He nodded.

"Well, I'm amazed. Have you always been twelve years older than me?" I asked. Never mind a Spellcheck. What I really need is a Sensecheck, to keep an eye on me and poke me with dotted red lines to make sure I'm not talking rubbish.

Saturday

Good news! I get to spend the day in bed! Bad news...it's because I have a migraine. What is the point of a day in bed when you can't enjoy your new paperback, or listen to the radio, or have delicious little meals brought to you? Mr Young tiptoes in every half an hour to replace the cold flannel on my forehead and to gently massage my feet - although in all honesty I would rather he gnawed off one of my toes: that pain would at least be a distraction from the one in my head.

Still, I'm not one to complain. Actually, that's not true. I moan constantly. It is not my finest hour. Eventually, the pain subsides and I work my way cautiously out of bed. Only to get back into it a couple of hours later because then it really is bedtime. A completely wasted day.

Sunday

(Oh all right. I give in. But I'll only mention him briefly.) Archie's obsession with curtains and chair legs has prompted us to invest in a water spray: the idea being that we quickly spray him just behind the ear whenever he indulges in unacceptable behaviour. This seems to work well - he stops immediately, looks around in a shocked way and wanders off to find something else to do.

However, my Sensecheck was off again this morning. I caught him sniffing around the curtain hem, so I quickly grabbed the water spray, aimed it at his ear and sprayed my own face with water. He stopped and looked startled but only in a "what on earth is this large hairless dog doing now?" sort of way. I wandered off sheepishly and found something else to do.

Monday

Mr Young and I watched Deceived with Goldie Hawn. In it, her film husband, John Heard, turns out to have another wife and family.

"You'd never do that to me, would you?" I said.

"No," he said firmly.

"Is it because you just love me too much?" I said.

"Nooo," he said, "it's because I'm too lazy." I'd have got the water spray except I didn't want another soaking.