This week has been interesting for a number of reasons: Firstly, I got to make a trip to Ikea. I needed a new desk and a filing cabinet, and I was eager for a bit of flat-pack therapy. I know most people recoil at the thought of assembling flat-pack furniture, but I love it, and it's worth the trip to Bristol just so I can indulge myself with the rare pleasure of walking amongst racks and racks of mysterious boxes labelled 'Frittflap' and 'Siglumb'. Last week I read an article by Germain Greer about a nightmarish trip to Ikea, but my experience of the great Scandinavian shopfest was altogether more civilised.

I had such a lovely day, unencumbered by children or pressing appointments - all I had to do was find the right desk, fill my trolley with useful and ridiculously cheap treasures, and drive on home. And that's exactly what I did. There were no queues and all the other shoppers were smiling and relaxed. The man at the desk desk was both flirtatious and efficient, I did think about asking him if he fancied a snog, but then I realised that he would have just looked at me quizzically and then said, 'What do I want with adjustable shelving?'

I left the man unmolested and eventually drove home with a car crammed with all manner of Scandinavian delights, and a tummy filled with 15 Swedish meatballs, chips and gravy.

Once home, I got the boxes inside and then got inside the boxes. My girls were having tea at Beth's house and I knew I had all the time I needed to slowly and methodically decipher the large instruction manual at my feet. I had all my tools neatly assembled, a cup of Lady grey tea in hand and suitably soothing music playing in the background. I was ready for Gustav, and Gustav was laid out on the study floor, waiting expectantly for me to begin. I took my time, handling his strong, firm legs with all the necessary care that solid oak demands, and slowly but surely made something wondrous out of some bits of wood and a collection of cligs, larpflums, and a solitary nogginthenog.

It was a joy from Stort to Finnish. I'm sitting at Gustav now, and I feel very grand and important. I don't think my writing has improved, but I now have a large, oaky expanse of workspace and draws aplenty. My life is now free of clutter and I only have to push on the front of Gustav to get a secret writing surface to pop out and provide me with even more space for form filling and bill paying. I know the desk is only a pale imitation of solid wood, but Gustav is affordable and handsome, and I know we are going to become inseparable over the coming months.

I assembled the matching Gustav filing cabinet on Thursday, in between giving a radio interview and watching the girls at their school harvest festival. I'm sure Tony Blair will outlaw harvest festivals soon, as they are traditionally British and involve local farmers and a good deal of community spirit, but for now the school harvest festival is something to be treasured.

It was a wonderful way to spend a Thursday afternoon, I sat on a hay bale singing 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' and then watched the joy on the faces of the assembled schoolchildren as they sang Autumnal songs and recited poetry before an audience of proud parents and grandparents. My little Alice has a voice so clear and strong that she can be heard above the rest of the school, and her angelic face beamed back at me throughout every song. Rosie and I walked back down the hill together when it was over, and I waited to see what her reaction would be to my new desk. Rosie has a real eye for design and is extremely forthright when it comes to giving her opinion. She is a fantastic shopping companion and knows exactly what she likes and so I was a little apprehensive about what she's say when she laid eyes on Gustav, but I needn't have worried, because she and Alice were both delighted with all my purchases.

The radio interview was almost as enjoyable as assembling the desk, although I don't know quite what the listeners of BBC Radio Shropshire made of me. I've been a guest several times now, but on Thursday I was particularly outspoken. I think it was a combination of sitting in a broom cupboard in the bowels of BBC Plymouth, and having to listen to a lengthy interview of an American woman who       spoke       in        such       long,       drawn       -       out       sentences       that       I       began       to       wish       that       the tape operator would switch to fast-forward and get her to speak at a normal rate. When she used the phrase 'significant intimate other' to describe her husband, I began to laugh, but then, when she revealed that, after losing one child to cancer, she had decided to leave her three other children and move in with a man called Roger, I became really rather annoyed. I'm afraid I didn't pull my punches when asked to give my opinion of her story, and I'm only sad that she wasn't in the studio to explain how any mother could willingly desert three grieving children, and then have the gall to write a book justifying her actions.

But we are none of us perfect. I made my children eat rabbit pie tonight, and that might be described as child abuse in some quarters. Thankfully, Devon isn't Islington, and the butcher in Totnes expressed genuine delight in seeing a mother buying rabbit and oxtail for her children. To their credit, the girls ate the pie and I told them that they had done really well to clear their plates because I personally found the meat a little gamey. Alice misheard me, and asked me to explain exactly what I meant by 'gay meat'…I did my best, but I think from now on rabbit will always be known as gay meat in our household. I don't think we'll be having it again, but I think it could really catch on in Islington….



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