My life is nothing if not eventful. What was supposed to be a simple digging job turned into a major drama and will, no doubt give fuel the village gossip machine for weeks to come.

Colin arrived yesterday, wearing a ruddy faced smile and holding in his head a vague notion of what had to be done to turn my tatty, overgrown lane into a showcase entrance portal. I was excited, he was still vague, but eager to get up into his tonka toy and begin. looked like it was going to be a fruitful day. I told him about the gas main which lay beneath the area he was going to be working on, and he nodded a sage-like smile and set to work.

There were two big tree stumps that had to be removed and the boys began to excavate. One stump came out without a fight, but the other one was bigger and more stubborn. Earth was removed and heads were scratched, tea was made and drunk, and then the fun began. I didn't ask for a water feature, but I was about to get one, when the digger bucket cut through my mains water pipe. Shortly afterwards, the gas main was ruptured, and at that point Colin lost his trademark smile, and his ruddy cheeks quickly turned from red to white. It was like watching the sun go behind a cloud, leaving the garden in shadow. A chill descended on my lane, it all went very quiet, and everything was still, save for the soft hissing noise of escaping gas and the steam coming from my ears.

Going through a water pipe is not too much of a problem, but severing a gas main is rather more inconvenient, especially when your closest neighbour is the village primary school. I called Transco and then informed the school. I didn't get cross, because it all seemed a bit pointless, and anyway, it's hard to get cross with a man like Colin. I like him; he's a proper Devon bay and he's got a good heart, and life's just too short for needless histrionics. That's something that death teaches you, something that cannot be learned from books or taught at an evening class, only the experience of a traumatic loss can give you that stoical attitude to life's little ups and downs. Life's too short, for some more than others, and for those who are left behind life should be fulfilling, and not tainted by ill-feeling and needless angst. Colin is a good man, pipes can be mended, but harsh words sink deeper than a digger bucket and cannot be so easily forgotten - even by a man as absent-minded as Colin. I want him to do a good job for me and flying off the handle would achieve nothing.

I was calm, but got a bit more agitated when I discovered that the school had decided to evacuate the area and move en-mass to the sanctuary of the village church. I might have seen the funny side of it, had I not been quite so aware of how this unfolding mini drama was going to add to my already lengthy village rap-sheet. I could now add 'lane-wrecking potential mass-murderer' to my 'misfit widow' title, but I it could have been worse, I could have walked out of my house into the gas-filled air with a gently smouldering pipe clenched between my teeth..

Rosie and Alice were very upset as they assumed I was going to be blown to smithereens, and I had to comfort them before they would rejoin their classmates. The first team from Transco arrived, and decided they needed back-up, so another team arrived and I made them tea, and watched as they searched for the ruptured pipes under the mounds of soil. The job was made harder by the fact that Colin had decided to flee the scene, taking the digger keys with him..

Still, I had time for a nice chat with the gas men, and I learned that for a really good explosion, the optimum ratio of gas to air ought to be 1:9. I may need this information if I ever decide to become a contract killer, and it is now safely stored away with all the other useful but random facts that I occasionally need to call upon in times of crisis. That day's particular crisis was now in the hands of professionals, and so the school children could return to their classrooms, and I could re-light my Aga. Colin returned with some bits and bobs, set about re-connecting my water supply, and slowly regained his happy-go-lucky demeanour. And everything in the garden was lovely.until Colin's digger broke down and then he really did lose his sense of humour. . .

But today is another day, and he's back up in his cab, happily working away outside my study window. The lane is looking better already and I'm excited to think that I'll soon be able to call myself a respectable householder, who takes pride in her frontal area, rather than a scruffy individual with way too much bush and bramble on display.

I bought myself a mincer last week, which may seem like a bit of an odd purchase, but when you consider that my granddad was a master butcher, you'll understand that having the proper equipment for meat preparation is very important to me. My knives are always razor sharp, and I must say that I do find jobs like cubing meat very therapeutic. You can't get that kind of satisfaction from cutting up mushrooms or boiling lentils and I'm sure that I the reason I love it so much because butchering is in my blood.

I have very fond memories of watching my granddad and my uncle at work in their butcher's shop in Oldham. I used to go and help out as a child, and there was a peculiar pleasure in mixing up the mince and the strange pink powder for the beefburgers, or shaving the whiskers off a pig's head. The shop sold all kinds of unusual northern delicacies like tripe and cow's heels, and we always came home with a car stuffed to the brim with all kinds of goodies for the freezer.

I've never owned a mincing machine before, and so I was very excited at the prospect of making fresh pork mince for my meatballs. I bought a big piece of pork, cut it up and fed it into the rotating Archimedes screw, which would propel it inextricably into the face of the mincing head. I cranked the handle and out came fine, pink mince, yielding to the touch, soft and pliable enough to be mixed with sun-dried tomato, shallots, garlic and parsley, and then moulded into little balls of meaty goodness for our supper. I don't know why people buy convenience food, when there is so much pleasure to be gained from making the food from scratch. Making the meatballs took no longer than a trip to the Spar to buy chicken nuggets, and Rosie and Alice both cleared their plates and declared the meatballs a triumph.

There are lots of things I'd like to feed into my mincer next; the crazy frog would be first, followed quickly thereafter by the person who decided it would be a good idea to make cheesy compilation Cds for Father's Day, and then advertise them incessantly on the television, so as to cause the greatest distress to children who don't have the luxury of a father. And, at the risk of making myself sound like a close relation of Idi Amin, there are also a few more people I'd happily make into sausage meat, but I'll leave that list for another day, because today I'm feeling calm and happy, and not at all crazed or deranged. My relaxed demeanour may have something to do with the fact that I'm looking forward to a trip to the pub tonight. It'll be the first time in months that I've made the short walk down the road to the Anchor. Walker and Deb have invited me for a Friday night drink and I'm eager to see just how much gossip my lane alterations have created. It's been quite and eventful few days and after everything that's happened I think I deserve a very stiff drink .


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