CAVAN CALLING: My friend Edith is worried I'm starting to lose the plot. She decided this after I phoned her in tears to say I couldn't find the right taps for the Belfast sink in the utility room.
The pair we bought in Sligo was unsuitable, the next plumber's merchant we tried had nothing that would do and the third said it would take three days for the taps to be delivered.
I must make clear I am not the sort of woman who weeps over taps. I usually prefer to sort things out rather than cry about them, but retail fatigue can do strange things to even the most robust constitution. At first it was exciting, having an excuse to buy lots of glossy magazines about houses and spend hours poring over them, dreaming and planning, before dismissing most of it as wildly expensive and inappropriate.
The reality requires hours trudging around shops with an increasingly grumpy husband who just wants to go home to watch the cricket, racing, football - anything but endure this.
Tony wants to know why, as he always likes what I choose anyway, he needs to accompany me. Some of my friends think this is great, as they usually end up arguing with their husbands about what to choose and would love to be given free rein. I know Tony, like most men, just hates making decisions, even the smallest ones - such as whether he should feed the cats.
This tension spills into other areas of our marriage. Tony assumes birthdays and related issues, such as remembering them, buying cards and presents and posting everything off in time, is a wifely responsibility. Not unnaturally, this tends to make me somewhat fed up.
For this reason September often proves interesting, as there are five family birthdays in that month: those of Tony's daughters Cherie and Lyndsey, his grandson James and my first and last born, Tom and Will.
Cherie will be 50 this time - a milestone birthday - and she is celebrating with a party at Chequers. Our invitation arrived in the post the other day. Tom, our postman, was curious, as he hadn't delivered an envelope with "10 Downing Street" printed on the back before.
I was in the garden when he arrived. To satisfy our curiosity I opened it immediately. Seeing it was a party invitation, Tom asked how many people we could take with us. Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. I think security at Chequers would go into meltdown if Tony and I arrived with a crowd of extra people in tow.
Cherie's impending celebrations are a wonderful excuse for Tony to work himself into a glorious lather of dithering indecision. He is due to be filming in England for much of September, and he can't decide if he should take her birthday present to England when he goes. If he does he should have it there to give her, but what if it gets damaged or even lost?
For sanity's sake the most likely scenario is that I will wrap it and take it over to England in time for her birthday.
The critical factor is that Tony is now entirely comfortable in the belief that he has contributed positively to the decision-making process.
The Booths do like to celebrate their decades. For Tony's 70th I, for once, happily assumed birthday duties and organised a surprise party. With the help of friends I drew up a guest list, arranged a venue and booked caterers and all the other things, such as music and flowers, that help to make a really special occasion.
More by good luck than management the party was a surprise. Tony was thrilled and moved to see that so many people had travelled from all over Britain to Glossop, near where we lived at the time, to be at his party. Friends came from Ireland, and two of his daughters, Jenia and Bronwen, flew in from New York. Cherie and Tony and their children also came up for the weekend.
It really was a good party - so good, in fact, that there is a photograph of my Tony swinging from a beam, egged on by a couple of women
and his youngest daughter, Joanna. Some things never change.
Next Monday: a GP who will be missed
