Number 26

10. The potting shed. The peaceful corner where I'm sent to play the accordion. Hmm ... maybe that paintwork needs attention.

9. The shower. I am normally in here after a run, so I am high on endorphins. I also had my six ideas in here.

8. The piano. Probably has a few stories to tell. It was Ruth Gardener's before it came to us, and who knows before that. It is played a lot by me and Fred, my dwindling students, and used by Lola to make up songs. I wonder if pianos remember all the tunes ever played on them when they're drowning. 

 7. Bed.

6. The shoe basket. Always evolving. Increasingly dominated by Fred's tanker-sized trainers.

5. Kids' art going up the stairs in chronological order.

4. End of ancient washing-line in outbuilding, which was the shared washroom for the cottages behind. You can sense the hundreds-of-years-old gossip in the air.

3. Kitchen window-sill. In this area, there's everything you could need, from a giant wooden staring eye, to a Blue Peter badge, to a doll's arm. This is also where Derek lives with his girlfriend.

2. Top of the piano. An abandoned tropical corner where Aardman Animation seem to be filming an adult movie.

1. Back garden. Sit and listen to birds twitter. That's what I like to do.

Number 25

"Helen, I need to talk to you about the cover design ... and by the way, I've recently noticed the thick dark hairs on your hands. I like that."

Number 23 update

I wrote it. I posted it. I'm very proud to be his father, and I told him. It felt good to write it, and I hope it will make him feel good.

Number 24

 

I was quite excited when I opened this on Sunday morning, because I'd read about these 'laughter clubs' in India, and thought it all sounded like ... well, a laugh. I was amazed and really pleased there was one five minutes from our house. I'd read that simply by starting to laugh artificially in a large group, you automatically start to really laugh, which releases all kinds of beneficial chemicals*.

Apparently, laughter evolved in humans because our natural groups were too large for grooming** to work as the bonding thing. Tests have shown, and anyone who's been to a good comedy night knows, that laughing with a big group of strangers makes you feel good about yourself and about the people you're laughing with.

I set off excited about the buzz I was about to get from mass laughter, but realized I didn't have the five pounds to pay for the session, so had to nip to the cashpoint. I wasn't stressed – the laughter of 30 or 40 people would cover the sound of me sneaking in a bit late. I'd just go to the back of the crowd and slowly tune in to what was happening.

I parked up at five past six and pushed open the door. A lady of a similar age to me was standing there watching the doorway. There was no one else there. 'Laughter yoga?' I said, awkwardly. 'It's the Wimbledon men's final', she said, looking concerned. She peered out of the window. 'I don't think even Audrey's coming '.

This already wasn't the free-wheeling, hide-in-a-crowd-primal scream thing I was hoping for.

'I'm Caroline – I'm the teacher ...' - another lady appeared – similar age, similar look of embarrassment and horror - '... and this is Sue – it's her yoga room'. She leant so desperately out of the window that she almost fell out. 'I'm just wondering if Audrey will be coming ...'. By ten past six we were all resigned to the uncomfortable scenario. 'Shall we start?' said Caroline, meaning 'Please can we not do this?' 'Yes!' I said, enthusiastically, but thinking 'Please can we not do this?'. 'Let's stand in a circle!' said Sue. But her eyes didn't lie – they were saying, 'Please can we not do this?'. 'Just a second,' I said. I went over to the window, praying that Audrey was there. Whatever Audrey was.

'So ... let's start with some ha ha ha, ho ho hos with clapping!', said Caroline. 'OK!!!' I said, keenly, hoping she was about to offer the option of losing an eye. Caroline and Sue started off the activity, peeping to check I was throwing myself in to the same extent as they were.

I remembered from reading about laughter yoga that the teacher is a) not supposed to be funny, and b) not supposed to talk much at all. Caroline was breaking both these rules from the start – she was talking non-stop and, fortunately, very funny. In fact both the women were natural physical comics. During the improvised comedy-catch game, my forced laughter immediately turned real as we did ridiculous dummy throws and fancy catches. I also started to realize how surreal the whole thing was, which also made me laugh, so after five minutes, I was laughing twice at the same time, which is always a plus.

The two women were so good at slapstick and clowning, the it was impossible not to really laugh. Although it's not quite the laughter yoga invented by Dr Madar Kataria in India (they played a recording of him chuckling in the background), it did the trick. I really, really laughed, and felt all the benefits you get with that.

The last activity – humming meditation – was a replacement activity for the small group. We sat back-to-back in a triangle, closed our eyes, stuck our fingers in our ears, and hummed, with instructions to experiment with the volume and pitch of the hums. For the first minute, I was mainly checking that they were doing it too, and not just laughing while they videoed me. Once I was satisfied they were humming too, I got into it, and played around with everything from almost inaudible Paul Robeson humming to glass shattering high-pitched stuff. I was just making a mental note to take up deaf-blind humming as a serious hobby, when I realized that the background noise had gone. I took my fingers out of my ears, to find that the laughter ladies were in the middle of a conversation that had clearly been going on for a long time. I reckon I had been making a humming knob of myself for at least five minutes.

And that was it – I was feeling quite high at the end of an hour, and would definitely do a group session in the future. In fact the perfect Sunday evening natural high could well be an hour's laughter yoga followed by a skinny dip with humming.

   The laughter ladies do mental flossing.

*... and, depending on the state of your pelvic floor, some that rot the carpet

**ape-type, not Rolf Harris-type

Number 22 update

The best way to round off a sunny Sunday lunch with friends in the garden involving a whole bottle of wine, is to strip off and throw yourself into your local river. I cycled with my wife and microscopic daughter to the 'drop-off' - one of the few places where the Windrush is deep enough to dive in - and stripped off.

Like a young Tarzan, I made my way elegantly down the bank ...

concentrated my mind with a brief Johnny Wilkinson pose ...

then unleashed the 'sea lion'.

The cold made me foolishly excited, and I was whooping as I put my boxers on my head in the classic way.

A duck* swam in front of me. Luckily it was EXTREMELY LARGE.

I'm not certain what my microscopic daughter made of this - her face was a mixture of sympathy and amusement; I can only hope it doesn't leave her scarred.

Time to hop out and skip gracefully up the bank like a mountain goat.

As the spot is pretty remote, I only bothered loosely holding the towel in place when getting dressed, and I can only apologize to the woman who suddenly appeared with her dogs. Although I suspect she must have done something pretty awful in a previous life to deserve that sight.

The swim felt like being in the Amazon, let me see a familiar place from a new angle, and was ace. A warning to any dog-walkers - I may be doing it again.

*Twitchers will recognize it as Muscoverupis danglis - a popular summer visitor to our shores.

Number 23

I like to think this letter will be the start of a lifelong correspondence to rival that between Lord Chesterfield and his son, in which Freddie thanks me warmly for my advice, and describes how it has taught him the fine art of becoming a gentleman. Perhaps a slightly more likely scenario is that he will greedily rip it open, and when he sees there is no cash inside, drop it unread onto the floor.

Number 22

There are two ways to do this. The cowardly way would be to find a lonely bend in the Thames, get in the water with shorts on and remove them under water, carefully watching to make sure there's no one around, and trying not to attract attention.

I, however, will buy a ticket for a family swimming session at the Windrush Leisure Centre, and strip off in the changing room. I will march proudly to the pool, shout a cheery 'Good morning, families' before entering the pool with my famous 'sea lion' dive. People like confident people, so I expect quite a lot of the families and staff will come up and congratulate me on my boldness.

Number 18 update

An anatomically accurate map of my heart, with all the people, things and places that have a place in it. I couldn't get a good run of time to do this one, so did it in five-minute bursts. It deserved better! And yes, it's deliberately blurred. Oh yes, too damn right it is.

Number 21 update

I wake up extremely tired and hungover at 8 o'clock to the great news it's my big lie-in. It couldn't have come on a better day. I go straight back to sleep and dream about a ridiculously flamboyant chef on an Inca boat, who is in trouble with the modern day police for some reason. As he is eventually led away, I am woken by some polite and high-pitched throat clearing. It's an extremely smiley, miniature waitress, waiting to take my breakfast order. I order a cooked breakfast with coffee and close my eyes again. More throat clearing. 'Any ketchup or brown sauce?' 'Brown sauce, please'. Five minutes later, I'm woken again. 'We haven't got any brown sauce.' 'OK' I doze again. Some time later ... 'Ahem ... would you like any sauce?' I'm awake now anyway, so I leaf through 'The Visual History of the World' for the first time since I bought it at a car boot sale eight years ago. I'm examining the photo of Mussolini strung up by the feet when the waitress comes in with my tray. It's a large breakfast with coffee and juice following on the next delivery – not a bad feat for someone who's microscopic.

I almost never have a cooked breakfast these days, but today the idea of eating three pounds of fried meat before leaving my bed seems an excellent one. It turns out to be a lot better than a poke in the eye, too – can't be faulted on any technical points such as touching beans and egg. When the waitress pops in to ask if everything's OK, I tell her it's 'flippin' delicious'. She goes away, but returns a few minutes later and hands me a note. 

She takes away the breakfast stuff as I turn to a photo of the Battle of Badajoz for my last ten minutes of relaxation. On the dot of eleven, I  get the bill.

Blimey. She's back again. She seems to think it's funny.

Number 21

This might not look like much of a challenge to the untrained eye. But the point is, I haven't had a lie in for about 20 years, and am not sure if I remember how to. As luck would have it, I will be very tired tomorrow following England's dramatic 3-1 win over Italy (Cahill, Sturridge, Rooney; Balotelli). You read it here first.

Number 20 update

Derek stops off at a café in Wolverhampton on the way up to Lancashire, and selects a beef and onion pie. 'Shall I tip the gravy all over your food or not?' 'Yes please' says Derek, who likes to live a little.

After a gruelling journey, he poses proudly in his first youth hostel porch ...

'What a splendid organisation!' says Derek, who is of limited means himself. 

'My goodness, this sea air has made me hungry!' announces Derek. A chicken jalfrezi outside Ye Old Fighting Cocks is just the job.

But then Derek trips and 'falls' into a glass of snakebite. Oh dear - we had been warned about this.

'Don't go out on the sand, Derek!' we shout, 'It's very dangerous!' 'Don't give a ****,' says Derek. 'Try stopping me.'

Unfortunately, Derek seems a little belligerent after his accident. 'Which of you ***** wants to fight me?'

We calm him down and persuade him to climb the Knott. 'Jesus, my ******* chest is ******* heaving. Has NO ****** got a fag?' 

And there's still time before bed to borrow a fellow hosteller's car. 'Cheers, Kelvin, that was ******* ace - did a ton round ******* Windermere'.

The next morning Derek is a little bleary-eyed.  We take him down to The Posh Sardine in Arnside for a strong cup of coffee. 'It's a little bit drizzly today, isn't it,' he points out.   

 

But he's a game little fellow, and tackles the rugged walk to Silverdale. 'Oh, aren't the plants high!' he exclaims.

'Oh dear - I'm rather scared of heights!'

'What perfectly lovely views!' gasps Derek in awe.

Made it at last. 'Let's have a nice cup of tea,' suggests Derek sensibly.

In a jaunty mood on the train, Derek wears his cap 'Robin Hood style'.

Next day it's off to Morecambe. 'Oh my, what a beautiful sandy beach!' enthuses Derek.

He enjoys strolling along the front, and browsing the second-hand bookshop. 'Some jolly exciting books in here,' he comments.

 Then Derek disappears for an hour. Where can he be? 

Oh there he is, in a shop. He's playing the giddy goat. 'I wondered when you'd raise your ugly ******* head,' he says.

'Can't get any ******* sense out of these ******** - they appear to be ******* idiots,' appraises Derek.

Next morning, he has to say goodbye to his little holiday friend. 

'What a perfectly wonderful mini-break I've had!' ejaculates Derek.