The ladies – I feel that a red-faced gent of a certain age should now appear and shout out, “God bless ‘em” – wore anything tartan, so plaid head-bands, skirts and bodices were worn by some of the women. All I managed was one of the moth-damaged Hay ties knotted low so that I looked like an ageing St Trinian’s girl.

It’s almost the end of 2019 and the beginning of 2020 and as someone once said (probably on an inspirational calendar) “The end of one thing is the beginning of something else”.

I like to be in bed by ten and I take a hot water bottle with me; visiting gardens is one of my favourite pastimes; I know no celebrities on TV programmes and my preferred viewing is Escape to the Country and Gardeners’ World. 

I resist age, but one thing defeats me:

Yesterday I tidied my sock drawer. This happens so infrequently that it could be a quinquennial or even decennial event.

My iron broke. Inspired by The Repair Shop on the telly I decided to have it repaired. I would take it to a kindly man working in a picturesque barn. He would coax a sad story out of me; I’d go back to collect it, be amazed at the transformation, and cry at the memories it evoked.  I searched for someone who could do this.

People who know me may laugh; they will certainly find this difficult to believe, but I did want to be the person who baked cakes, filled larders with pots of jam, cooked delicious meals with wholesome ingredients and had dinner parties every week. Reader: this did not happen. 

I ordered a new one online. It arrived in a pristine white box and I was very pleased with it. It glowed a burnished rose-gold, wasn’t too big to fit in my pocket and not so heavy that I needed the support of a weight-lifter’s belt; it did exactly what it should do and I was very pleased.

There was just one problem: every time I turned it on it creaked.

What about the authentic author, the real writer, the perfect plotter, the weaver of words? I went on and got  sillier  – what about The Social Climber? I think it’s a great name for a climbing rose but who would buy it? I mean, you’d not buy it for yourself with its connotations of Hyacinth Bucket, and if you bought it as a present who would you give it to? 

The language was as dated as the dresses but I enjoyed reading about the midnight feasts, trouble in the dorm and the new girl who didn’t fit in but would in the end.

I have become Goldilocks-like in my search for the perfect duvet. I have cupboards full of polythene wrapped quilts of different sizes and different tog ratings that are guaranteed to offer comfort for every season of the year …

I remembered the story about the orphan who only saw her benefactor as the shadow of a crane fly, and addressed him in thank you letters as Dear Daddy-Long-Legs. When I got home I searched for the novel in our bookcases and there it was, in its red cover, rather elderly but in good condition – a bit like me.

I was going to write a blog this week about all things literary and esoteric and then I thought, “No, let’s go the other way,” and I decided to lower the tone, as my mother used to say.

I was fascinated by the crude rowing boat Beatrix Potter had had made from old planks. It had  a flat bottom so that it could be taken on shallow tarns, and reflected the practical person she was, a redoubtable woman, not a cosy lady who wrote charming stories about cuddly bunnies. I’m sure she enjoyed a rabbit pie.

I came across the Arthur Ransome books when I was about 10, so I may already have been too old to appreciate them – but on the other hand they may just not have been my cup of Typhoo. I didn’t like the way those children pretended to be pirates and adventurers. I did not want make-believe children to play at make-believe; I wanted my stories to be authentically unreal!