Before she went to the supermarket this evening, Mum said that she and I would be having spaghetti bolognese. I said that it would be nice to have mushrooms in the bolognese, but unfortunately we didn’t have any. Since all our veg comes from the farm shop nowadays, rather than the supermarket, this fungal shortage wouldn’t be addressed until the weekend.

Mum and Dad drove off to the supermarket and I carried on my work in the garden. I had been trimming the rosemary hedge in the front garden, using the new clippery-things. Clippers, one might say. They’re a bit heavy and make a loud rattly noise in use, but on the plus side, I could easily maim someone with them.

I slaved away and also scraped up all the crud that accumulates under the hedge - the earth that the blackbirds kick about in gay abandon and the bits of dead rosemary that are shed over time. Rather than put this organic crud in our brown bin for the council to enjoy, I took an executive decision to dump it in our own big compost bin. See, leave me on my own for five minutes and I start making executive decisions.

On lifting the lid of the compost bin, I was greeted by roughly six billion woodlice, a few evil-fanged spiders the size of my head and a maze of ivy shoots creeping about in the dark looking anaemic.

Then something else caught my eye. There, among all the rotting loveliness of our compost, was growing an enormous and perfectly-formed mushroom.

So I picked it and we had it with our spaghetti bolognese.

A little mathematics for you:

To Sevenoaks on the train + freezing my bum off on a metal bench on the platform + onwards to Bromley + being disowned for picking something shiny out the mud + a lazy Sunday afternoon + good company + a fat squirrel bounding about + endless talking in the kitchen + moreish spicy tortilla chips + insanely hot fruit tea + burned tongue + Lauren’s tasty homemade jambalaya + a bottle of delicious wine between three people + raucous laughter + yummy quadruple chocolate loaf cake + Kentish strawberries + cream + being a shameful lightweight + rain beating against the windows + a warm house + lying down to take a photo of the ceiling + not getting up again = passed out on the floor

On noticing that my teeth were without their brace, my optician asked me what cosmetic surgery I would be having next, now that my eyes were free to look lascivious and beguiling in their contact lenses and my teeth were now back on the straight and narrow after their time spent roaming around at odd angles. “Aha!” I exclaimed, “I’ll tell what I did have done the other week: an inchwrap!”

Ladies and jellyspoons, I am here today to tell you that the inchwrap is a miracle. I read the guff in the salon’s pricelist about how I’d get slathered in stuff, wrapped up and consequently lose up to an inch around the place, but I didn’t really buy it. However, it sounded fun and I’m all for being slathered in stuff and rubbed.

I’ll let you all enjoy that sentence for a while.

Ready?

Ok, so I booked an inchwrap - spurred on by the fact that it was on offer at £36 rather than the usual £48 - and discovered that the appointment is a two hour one, which includes time for before and after measuring. Hmm, thought I, I suppose they must expect a result of some sort if they actually go to the trouble of measuring you.

The day of the treatment finally dawned and I hotfooted it down to the salon. Mrs Inchwrap warned me that I’d be underwear-less, but for a pair of special pants. She left me alone and I stripped off, donning the delightful pair of disposable knickers she’s left on the table. These knickers were of an almost transparent material, fashioned in one-size-fits-nobody.

Once I was safely on the table under the soft towel, Mrs Inchwrap returned and rubbed stuff onto me, which she then rubbed off again. I then hopped off the table and was measured all over - even my ankles, which are so small and bony that I’d probably be in even more orthopaedic trouble than usual if I lost an inch off them. Then it was back onto the table to get covered in lotions and potions.

Once all shiny with the magic potions, it was back off the table (hey, maybe this is how you lose the inch?) to get wrapped up in magic cling film. It was wrapped around my legs and arms and around my backside and torso. Mrs Inchwrap had each bit in her mind as part of an outfit: there were leggings, sleeves, a skirt and a halter neck top. I looked like an x-rated version of Bibendum.

Back onto the table with not too much difficulty despite the wrapping and I was tucked up snugly with towels to keep me warm. Then came a delightful 20 minute head massage and I was then left to stew for another 20 minutes in the dark. Man, I was so utterly zen when Mrs Inchwrap returned.

I was cut out of my cling film and I showered off whatever remnants of the magic potions I hadn’t absorbed. I then put my ordinary non-transparent pants back on and popped back under my towel. Mrs Inchwrap returned and administered another magic potion.

Then, guess what, off the table again. It was time to be measured. I don’t remember each individual measurement, but I’d lost an inch from my abdomen and half an inch from my thighs. In total, I’d lost 5.6 inches from around the place. I don’t know where it went or how, but the result was startling. A stupid bothersome lump of cellulitey crap on my leg is now almost imperceptible and even now, 9 days later, I still look toned and my skin feels much better.

I’ve booked another session for the end of June and as Lauren books herself another massage too, we are beginning to wonder where our new found addiction to beauty treatments might end. Are we going to end up as botoxed old women, signing our pension books with beautifully manicured hands?

I’ve been signed off from my orthodontist. My teeth are now officially splendid. Almost American. Only not quite so white. And they don’t drive a Hummer.

I can now gradually cut down to wearing my brace every other night, then two nights per week, then finally just one night a week until the end of time. I just need to find a dentist to visit twice a year, because I haven’t been to one in very many years and things need polishing and scraping. A bit of capping on my front teeth also needs repairing as it has been chipped in the process of all the wire and cement that were flung around in the last couple of years.

The capping was added many moons ago after I had a disagreement with a seesaw. My friend and I were amusing ourselves in a playground while our mothers played netball. We went to the seesaw and as Debbie went down on her end, I went up … and over the handlebar, smashing my teeth on the metal bar.

I had broken two big semi-circular bits off my top front teeth (which were enormous, so the seesaw kind of did me a favour). On returning home after the netball match, I chose to break the news to my father by grinning wildly and less-toothily than normal at him. Kids are great. My dentist duly filed down the fang-like edges and carefully added a little capping.

Anyway, you guys should come and hang out with my medically-minded peeps. They’re somehow good for the soul. My neurosurgeon allows me to take cocaine, my GP threatens to kick me for not liking my legs and my orthodontist says I’m pretty and that my lips are so delightful it looks like I’ve had collagen implants.

It was definitely a barefoot kind of day on Sunday. The occasional few minutes of cloud, but mostly lots of warm sunshine. I pottered about in the garden, writing in my book, pulling up weeds and staring at the soil where my sweetcorn should feel itself free to poke through any day now.

I went to my GP today to see about a few very vague wafty things that have been intermittently bothering me in a vague wafty way, except when they were suddenly all happening together and made me feel as though I was falling apart.

We talked about the fact that my legs keep giving me jip when I walk and as I rolled my trouser legs back down after inspection, I mentioned that my legs were my least favourite body part, but that it didn’t matter because I kept them hidden under my trousers. “You’re always so down on yourself,” he said, “I should give you a kick.”