Too, too many to number.

But, [eases aching back], I remember them all well.

You know. You've probably been there. Office-stuff supermarket hell; cheap furniture in a flat-pack-box world. Ah. You go in there full-of-funky-happy-office-dreams: I dreamt of ergonomic, beautifully-crafted, fully-supported, executive in an Eddy Izzard kind of way, furniture....

And what did I get?

A swivel chair at what? No! £50? You gotta be joking? Seriously?

[eases her back some more]

They were.

And I wonder what is going to do for me?

Monitor or chair? Monitor or chair? Monitor or chair?

You see. At work standards apply. Even if they are not applied.

At home, it's let's gather together all our worst furniture (hey, yellow cast-off kiddie furniture too) sagging bookcases, and seriously bizarre collection of cables and defunkt computer bits and shoe-horn it into the room that would be happier being a bedroom, and, ta da! Office!

So.

We skipped £50 chair at the weekend. And am now sitting writing this with replacement office chair: er, that'll be a press-ganged dining room chair which has a certain austere, straight-backed, wooden charm; and none of that soft, ergonomic, buffed leather thing going on at all...

Dream on, gal...

[Oh, my back]

That'll be me.

I'm learning to play the piano.

It's great.

I can play a simplified Ode to Joy (well the first bit), and row, row, row your boat.

So. That's both me and my daughter happy.

It's fantastic. And why, oh why, didn't I do this years ago?

Well, I did. But was one of those kids who just couldn't sit still for any length of time. An out-of-doors-swinging-upside-down-with-grazed-knees kind of kid. Not a sit-still-on-the-piano-stool-learn-your-scales-and-don't-move kind of kid.

Sorry, Mum.

Although, I did, aged eight, sit still for long enough for a neighbour to teach me the national anthem and 'we shall overcome' – which, you have to admit, makes for an interesting combination.

So, here I am, having to learn to read music – and am finding myself reading patterns, rather than the notes themselves, if that makes sense. And I wonder if that is a good thing, or whether it will be my undoing.

As it was with maths. I have this very vivid memory of learning maths at primary school: being taught how to subtract. I remember asking the teacher at some point, why. And she looked at me in that exasperated way adults do with kids who ask why one too many times, and told me because that's just the way it is. We weren't there to engage in some debate about the philosophy of maths, or of how maths had come to be, just to learn the processes.

It's interesting how we learn. Is learning easier for kids? Is it more difficult as we age? Or are we making excuses? I wonder sometimes. I think children question more, adults less.

Now then, what's next [turns page]...ahhh, chords...now we're talking!

Woof, woof!

I just wanted you to know that I only ever use pink in an ironic post-girlie kinda way, in case you were wondering.

like seriously....

er

love heart anyone?

But seriously.

It's a bird-fancying desert out there.

And, speaking as someone who only relatively recently went through the joy that is online dating, not one of the fine men I happened upon included fancy birds as a consuming passion within their profiles.

Or admitted to it at any rate.

And yet, and maybe I am showing signs of my age and provenance here, I remember a time when looking out from the window I would have seen wooden shed (sorry, loft) after wooden loft filled with prize racing pigeons (yes, those fancy birds); and, if the shed, sorry - loft - was owned by a particularly showy bloke, it might contain one or two outrageous preening parakeets, their bright feathers in stark contrast to the drear, relentlessly grey northern weather that characterised my childhood.

My guess is is that tastes have changed. Fancy birds and pigeon racing have given way to plasma screens, Sky TV, and, er, multifarious online experiences. And wooden lofts to loft living.

The closest many of us get to a fancy bird now is to bright yellow, corn-fed poultry in the cold meat section of the local supermarket.

Or watching Chicken Run.

Which is a shame.

And I wonder what, fifty years or so hence, people then will think of our interests now...will they wonder at us, or be quite simply baffled?

Long live fancy birds, is all I can say!