I had a go at one of these once before – very early on in 2004 I think. On that occasion, I leaned over from my desk and went ‘snap’ with my G3. At the time, I was dead pleased with it despite cringing with shame at the laminate floor. I put it down in a fit of ‘out with the old’ when I kicked out my ex-husband and re-invented his disgusting glory hole into my office. At the time, I thought it was a good idea, until I walked on it. I know I’ll probably get shot down in flames for saying that laminate just isn’t like real wood but I’m afraid, whatever anyone says to the contrary, it’s true.

In fact it’s as true as it is to say that a jacket potato done in a microwave just isn’t the same as one baked for a couple of hours in a hot oven. Margarine of any type, whether or not it’s called ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter’ or ‘anchor spreadable’ or whatever other guise they use to try to make you think it’s the same as butter, it’s NOT. Polycotton sheets are not cotton and will never feel close enough like it to be worth the trade off.

I suppose with all of these things, you pay your money and you make your choice. My Mum, for example would never buy real butter for herself to eat, because she simply prefers the taste of marg. I’m sure that there are also many people who’d rather have easy iron than cotton too.

For me it's the sensory pleasure that counts - the feel of real, warm wood; the taste and mouth feel of butter; the wonderful feel on your skin of slipping into clean, newly pressed cotton sheets and the crunch of the outside of a well-cooked jacket, coupled with the soft, floury innards.....especially when you add a nice big dollop of Cornish salted butter. Convenience? Price? Nah - no contest!

Anyway, I digress, I decided that three years later, I could probably do better and so I set this up. Now I know the error of my ways and we’ve got real wood, which, apart from the elbow grease, cost less than a laminate floor would have done and looks and feels fabulous, unlike the alternative. I’ve also taken some care to light this and make it more appealing.

So, the bungee tug toy is dead. I’m not sure whether Rosie simply thought the rope was packaging for her to dispose of before she could get at the tennis ball but for whatever reason, she parted the two and separated one of the balls from bungee totally. This is the other ball that she’s been systematically turning her nose up at since she destroyed the toy on Christmas day.

My play days are ‘dead’ too because I’m back at work today.

Last year, we were 'downtown' watching the footie on the telly in the pub.