My girls are generally uncomplaining, but they do have their limits. I have been promising them a new daddy for some years now, and what have I come up with? Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Being older, and a little more outspoken, they have finally decided to come up with their own solution to the eternal dilemma that dogs all our collective lives, and last week, they announced that I should think about going gay.

Quite a startling thing to hear from your own daughters, but based on my abysmal record so far, they figure that having a surfeit of mummies is better than a complete lack of daddies. I'm not quite so convinced, but, when I mentioned their declaration to my friend Jemma, she told me it was a great idea, because I'd gain a whole new circle of friends and a good deal of street cred. We then tried to think of all the women on the lesbian 'phone tree, who would suddenly be calling me to discuss sensible shoes, pipes and 'tools'. We came up with a list, which included: Pat Butcher, Joan of Arc, Ellen De Generes, Angelina Jolie, and Amelie Moresmo, the überbutch French tennis player who walks like she's got a pressing appointment for a back, sack and crack wax.

It is true that I would inherit an instant clique of girl chums, but despite Jemma's eagerness for me to embrace the Sapphic way of life there is one problem - namely that I don't actually like the company of girls that much. I've always worked with men, and I love them. In general, I find women a bit tricky, especially in a group situation. I think living with a hormonal geezerbird would be on a par with taking a nightly bath with a snapping turtle. I'm not a girlie girl, but I'm not about to become a girl's girl anytime soon.

I thought most people knew this, so imagine my surprise, when yesterday I was 'outed' by one of my male colleagues, for wearing cowboy boots. I was under the impression that you could wear cowboy boots with jeans and remain resolutely heterosexual, but apparently it makes me the only gay in the newsroom. There was only one thing for it: in order to preserve my straight status amongst my colleagues I had to do the Channel Four 'Gayometer' test. Most of the newsroom had taken part, and I felt it would be a good way to clear my besmirched reputation. I took the test, and I emerged as 33% gay, which was lower than all of the other people who took the test with me, and according to the test, makes me a bit straight-laced and not destined for a life as a truck driver. I figure that 33% means I'm gay only from the knees down - which would account for my cowboy boots and my hopeless pretty pointy shoe collection. All the important bits are still resolutely heterosexual, which suits me fine, and I feel I can now saunter back into the newsroom in my cowboy boots with my head held high.

I don't blame people for making the assumption that I'm a bob each way, if not a total pipe-sucker, because since Charlie died my work colleagues have never seen me with a man on my arm. Who wouldn't think that I'd suddenly come over a little queer, with a rap sheet as blank as Jade Goodie's MENSA score? The friends who know me best understand how much I adore men, but sometimes I do get angry that not having a husband qualifies me either as a man-hungry husband stealer, or a vagiterian.

As far as I'm concerned people can think what they like. I know what I am and I know what I like.

I haven't turned gay, but I have just turned 41. My birthday is a total non-event for me and I don't see any point on getting excited about it. However, Rosie and Alice had plans for me. Weeks ago, Rosie asked me what was my favourite cake. She then locked herself in my study, and emerged a while later with a request that I complete an order from Tesco.com. I reasoned with her that the cost of delivery exceeded the actual cost of the grocery items, and she eventually agreed to let me pick up what she needed. On Sunday she went to a friend's house, and returned a while later with a coffee and walnut birthday cake. It was fantastic, splendid, wonderful; and quite the most delicious birthday cake I've ever eaten. I took a piece to work with me the next day, and had it with a cup of tea, and now I want Rosie to make me cake each and every week.

I bought myself a wormery for my birthday. It wasn't supposed to be a birthday present, but it arrived on the 4th, and was waiting for me when I got home from work, so it was almost like getting a surprise present. Admittedly, a plastic bin and a bag of worms is rather less glamorous than a little blue box from Tiffany & Co, but widows can't be choosers. The worms are now happily munching on my kitchen scraps, but they lost out on the birthday cake, because there wasn't a single crumb of it left.

My lane is now complete and it's a thing of beauty. I have lost count of the number of people who've walked past and commented on it. It really has transformed the front of the house and I don't know why I didn't think of doing it before now. My house is now in need a bit of sprucing up, but I can't get the paintbrushes out whilst the weather is so inclement. My front door desperately needs attention, but damp drizzle is not really the best weather in which to apply gloss paint. So I have to wait patiently for a few days of fine weather, and if present trends continue I think I may have a very long wait. There is a drought in some parts of the country, but Devon is a verdant, place; a place of mists and moistness, and if the weeds in my garden are anything to go by, this is a very wet summer indeed.

Nothing more to report, except that I'm once again sorry for the lack of entries; I took my girls to Alton Towers and I'm proud to say that we went on all the rides at least once, even Oblivion, which is like going down a mine shaft without the benefit of a lift. I had to buy Alice a revolting pair of platform trainers in order to get her over the 1.4m height restriction. They were the last pair in BHS and were a size and a half too small, but I managed to squeeze her feet into them and she went through the whole day without complaining - only decided that she couldn't physically take another step right at the end of the day. I carried her to the monorail and we left the horrid, hurtful shoes on the train. I think I've done theme parks for the foreseeable future, and even now I'm not sure which was more scary, going on the Nemesis rollercoaster three times in a row, or traveling on a train full of muddy pilgrims, fresh from Glastonbury but not quite so fresh in any other respect. At one stage I thought there must have been a very malodorous Labrador somewhere on the train, until the youth waiting to get off with us at Totnes turned to the woman standing next to him and mumbled, 'Sorry about my feet.'

Bleeeeeeeuuuuchchhhhh....


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