Mr W was very tired this morning, and it was obvious he didn’t feel like emerging from the bedroom or having anything to eat, but in the end he did have a boiled egg and some coffee and then this morning we all put on 3D glasses and watched Journey to the Center of the Earth with Brendan Frasier. It was a really fun film, huge thumbs up from the children, Miss W said it was awesome. Then a very long afternoon began. Mr W watched reruns of gameshows, I cleaned the porch and went outside – it was such a beautiful day, no jackets needed. Managed to persuade Mr W outside for a short walk which he was a very good sport about but exhausted by the time we returned and needed a long drink of water.

I will be so ready for school to start up again tomorrow.

Dear Stephen Harper,

Please stop killing seals. We do not need their pelts for jackets, purses or any other unnecessary items. A lot of them aren’t endangered yet, but they could be if the genocide continues. You are cheating seals out of a chance at life. Did you know that some are only weeks, only days old? They need to live life to the fullest and not be clubbed and shot. Some are even skinned alive.
Find it in your heart to save these innocent, majestic, beautiful creatures from being killed only for their fur and meat. Some seal meat can contain mercury, so you might want to think about this.
I am 12 yrs. old and I have never been so sickened. I never knew that my favorite animal could suffer such a horrible, revolting fate. Stop sealing NOW.

When I opened my email this morning I found that one of my stories had been rejected.  Usually I’m quite thick-skinned about this sort of thing, but it was a story I had been fairly confident would be accepted, and I’m getting worried about money. So when Peggy arrived at 9 and wished me a happy St Valentine’s Day I know I came over as slightly dejected. It was cold and snowing lightly as Number Two happily clambered into the back of Peggy’s van and began fastening himself in.

I went inside and helped Mr W have a wash, put on a clean shirt, and then shampoo his hair, then worked on a bit of writing before the nurse, Bob, arrived to see Mr W.  He talked about getting lots of exercise and protein, so I made chicken and pasta for lunch but then after a walk up the hallway Mr W was visibly wiped out and went to bed. I went to fetch the mail and cheered up hugely.

There’s still a rather militant mood around here – Number One and Miss W have both fored off letters to the Canadian Prime Minister today about seal hunting. Number One  has always had a soft spot for seals and owns a small collection of stuffed seals, each year I ask if he still wants them on his bed and he says no. Then when I pack them into a box I see that he looks rather sad and ask if he wants them back on his bed. “Yes, please,” he always replies quietly.

Miss W decided that her next step in taking action against  Sarah Palin and the Canadian prime minister should be a spot of consciousness-raising so she went for a walk covered in anti-hunting slogans. I was a bit worried about her going out alone and bringing attention to herself and asked her to check back after 20 minutes which she did, she said that there had hardly been anyone out (it was a very cold day) but one car had slowed down to see her slogans, so maybe she had raised awareness a teeny bit.

When Peggy returned with Number Two she brought with her a red rose and a  rotisserie chicken, so I must have appeared very pathetic this morning.  My dear Reading Buddy sent Altoids (yum) and a gift so i don’t feel as dejected tonight as I did this morning – in fact, do not feel dejected at all.

I know that some of the men who read my blog are desperate for fashion advice, and don’t know where to turn. I think I may be able to help. You already know that Number two has autism – what you may not realize is that he’s a fashion maverick who loves creating New Looks.

Earlier today, slightly bored and wanting to celebrate his finally eczema-free legs, Number Two rifled through his closet and moments later – voila!- a New Look was born. He very cleverly teamed a loose-fitting beige sweater with a quilted red jacket, then added clumpy boots (no socks) and completely omitted pants, thus creating a bold, fresh New Look that I predict is going to take the fashion world by storm this fall.

Guys, do not despair if you don’t have a loose-fitting beige sweater or red quilted jacket exactly as modelled by Number Two. Perhaps you have a long baggy sweatshirt and an old anorak lurking in the back of your closet? Experiment! Dare to be bold!

What I love about this look is that it could be equally at home in hip London or rural Iowa. It’s timeless, classic and sassy.

It was absolutely terrible, what happened to my poor husband Tony. He still wakes up at night, all sweaty and shaking. I hold him and tell him it’s okay, that poor Peggy is at peace now.

I‘m getting ahead of myself though. It all began one quiet afternoon when I was puttering around my gift shop, dusting the stock and having a tidy up, wishing summer would hurry up and come. The bell over the door rang and I glanced up with a smile. A man came in and said hello before starting to look around, picking up figurines, putting them down again, then pausing to admire a shelf of teddy bears. I kept my eye on him, not because I thought he’d nick something, but because he was rather an attractive man. In his fifties, with distinguished wings of grey in his hair, and lovely blue eyes surrounded by sexy crinkles.

“Can I help you?” I finally asked, coming to stand in front of him.

He gaped at me in my black leggings, ankle boots and clingy orange top that showed a generous amount of cleavage. I’m fifty-two, but if you’ve got it, flaunt it, is what I always say.

“I’m looking for a present for my wife,” he spluttered.

I hid my disappointment with a smile. “Maybe I can make a few suggestions?”

We decided on a china dolphin and a box of chocolates. He paid with a cheque, and I handed him the wrapped gifts in a pink carrier bag. “Goodbye, Tony and thanks for stopping by.”

“Thanks for the help,” he replied, and left, as I stared after him, then looked down at the cheque in my hand. Tony Henderson. I couldn’t help thinking how well my name, Viv, sounded with his last name; Viv Henderson, Vivian Henderson, Mrs. Viv Henderson. Silly, I know, but I was lonely since Reg died. I longed for some love in my life, someone to care for, who would love me in return. I saw that Tony lived in Cornwall Gardens, a street of large Victorian villas on the edge of town, and I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. I lived alone in a one bed roomed flat.

I thought I’d never see him again but a few weeks later I was having a sandwich in the leisure centre next door to the shop and there he was. I went over, wondering if fate was finally on my side.

“Well, what are you doing here?” I beamed.

“I’m work here.” He looked at me blankly.

“I’m Viv. From the gift shop,” I reminded him. “Did your wife like the presents?”

He nodded as he recognized me. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

For the first time I noticed the plump, matronly woman sitting at his side. She was swathed in a pink cardigan and a flowery tent of a dress. Her short hair was coarse and grey and a pair of glasses perched on her pink snout of a nose.

“This is Peggy, my wife,” Tony said.

Peggy smiled and invited me to have lunch with them.

I think it’s such a shame when a woman lets herself go. How on earth can you expect a man to stay interested when you resemble a lump of lard in a sack? I could see Tony stare at the two of us as we chatted, unable to resist a comparison. Peggy looked like something the cat dragged in and I was in a red pencil skirt, black stilettos and a low cut black silk top.

I wasn’t a bit surprised when Peggy told me she was a housewife, and loved cooking. The most exciting thing she ever did was crochet toilet roll covers for the annual church bazaar. Poor Tony.

“Are you married, Viv?” She asked.

“I’m a widow,” I replied, with a brave smile. “Reg died two years ago this Christmas.”

Peggy’s myopic eyes widened in sympathy. “Oh, you poor thing. It must be hard, coping without him.”

I nodded, tears welling up.

“And your poor husband, he couldn’t have been any age at all…”

“He was forty-nine,” I sniffed, fishing in my bag for a tissue, thinking of the awful pain Reg had endured. It had been so hard, watching him die, even if the love I’d felt for him had faded to nothing. Reg hadn’t a shred of ambition, and he hadn’t made me happy.

“You’re spending Christmas with us,” Peggy said firmly.

“Oh, I couldn’t…” I murmured, seeing Tony’s expression of surprise.

Peggy looked at him. “Right, Tony?”

“Er…right,” and he grinned, leaning over to kiss his wife. “Consider yourself rescued, Viv. My Peggy can’t bear to think of anyone alone, especially at Christmas.”

He was right about that. When I turned up on Christmas morning there were two ancient old ladies sitting in front of the television and a rather smelly man Peggy had brought back from the homeless shelter was tucking into a plate of mince pies. It was a wonderful day though, and afterwards, Tony, Peggy and I became firm friends. I’d pop in to see Peggy regularly and sometimes Tony and I would have lunch together at the leisure centre. Just a sandwich and a cup of tea, but those times were magical. We were in love, although as a married man, Tony was far too decent to bring it out into the open. He didn’t have to. It was plain from the way he smiled at me, and the way his eyes kept straying to my breasts.

One spring afternoon, I decided to go and see Peggy on my day off, knowing I’d end up with yet another stodgy recipe tucked into my bag when I left. I felt sorry for her really, but I kept up the visits so I could learn more about Tony. I discovered that he loved golf, and that they visited the Isle of Wight each year.

Peggy put the kettle on, much less chatty than usual, dressed in one of her floral polyester ensembles.

“Is everything okay?’ I asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Silently she pulled two mugs from the cupboard and opened the teabag tin. “I know what you’re up to, Viv!” She suddenly choked.

“I stared in amazement. This was so unlike Peggy. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re after my husband!”

I think I went red, because my face suddenly felt hot.

“Well, you’re not going to get him,” she continued, all agitated and looking uglier than ever. She took milk from the fridge and slammed the fridge door. “We’ve been married for thirty years! Tony loves me!”

I smiled at her gently, feeling pity. “Of course he does.”

“If you think my Tony could ever fancy an old tart like you, mutton dressed as lamb, going around with your boobs hanging out, you’re sadly mistaken,” she screeched.

I stared at her, speechless. Her spiteful words really hurt.

“I know how you’re always popping into my husband’s office,” she snarled. “It’s got to stop, do you hear me? Get out, Viv! Get out of my house!” She turned, leaving the two cups of tea on the table and ran upstairs.

I buried my face in my hands, shaking, wounded. Never in a million years would I have thought Peggy could be so vicious. I had done nothing wrong. All I was guilty of was befriending her, a boring and unattractive woman. Tony and I had fallen deeply in love, true, but that wasn’t exactly our fault.

I poured the tea down the sink and washed the cups – which were floral – then carefully dried and put them away. I opened Peggy’s cutlery drawer. All her spoons, forks and knives were laid in obedient, gleaming little piles, with larger utensils – potato mashers, egg slicers, carving knives, off to one side. I found what I needed and followed her up the stairs, noticing the expensive, subtle grey carpets springing beneath my feet. I’d never been upstairs in the house before, but Peggy had left the main bedroom door open and she was lying on the bed having a cry after her little outburst. She didn’t hear me go in.

It was a huge peach-coloured room with an ensuite bathroom – something I’d always fancied. Peggy opened her eyes as I approached and began to sit up, groping on the pillow for her glasses. I did get a bit carried away, and I admit I shouldn’t have cut her head off, but then she shouldn’t have said such horrible things, should she?

There was an awful mess and I knew the carpet was ruined forever. The wallpaper would probably have to be replaced too, but it was rather old-fashioned anyway, with all those overblown peach roses. I stripped out of my sparkly pink cotton top and leggings and rummaged through Peggy’s wardrobe, tutting in disgust at how huge and flowery everything was. By some miracle I found a plain royal blue thing and slipped into it, stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag I found in the kitchen and left the house. It was the middle of the week, early afternoon, and there was no sign of activity in the street, thank goodness. I started up my car and drove away.

Of course it was in all the papers; the town had never seen anything like it. Police thought it might have been one of the vagrants Peggy was always so kind to, and they arrested the scruffy man she’d invited for Christmas, but in the end had to let him go.

Tony has said he couldn’t have managed without me during those awful days after he discovered Peggy sprawled on their bed, stabbed over fifty times and decapitated. I was there for him, as he cried and poured out his grief. I helped him arranged the funeral and persuaded him not to put the house up for sale. I had the bedroom professionally cleaned and decorated – this time in tasteful subtle shades of cream. I did a lot for Tony, and our love blossomed. We were married six months after poor Peggy’s funeral.

That was two years ago. I understand that Tony suffered a terrible shock, but you’d think he’d be over it by now. He’s still on anti-depressants though, still disturbing my sleep by waking up in the night and shouting his head off. He sobs uncontrollably while I hold him as if he were a small child. Quite frankly, I’m exhausted by it.

I still have the gift hop and recently a used car salesman from the new place on the High Street has started coming in. We talk, and Bob is so sweet and understanding, not to mention attractive. I seem to be falling in love with him. I’m not sure what will happen next, but poor Tony is so depressed. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he took an overdose one of these days.

When I was sorting out my shelf a few weeks ago Number One found a small magazine called Thirteen and started leafing through it very interestedly, and was quite impressed to realize his boring  old mum had written a horror story. I wrote this about 5 years ago – I never write horror now.