I attended a high level meeting at work earlier today. They’re not something I often get invited to but when you’re invited, you have to go.

The future of the organisation was discussed. Words like ‘imperative’, ‘success’ and ‘disaster’ were all used, frequently.

I could tell it was important meeting because no notes were being taken. All eyes were on me.

‘Give me 4 weeks’ I said.

Then my phone went. It was a text message.

‘That’ll be New York’ I said.

Except it wasn’t. It was a colleague. She had left her very expensive shoes in the office and was worried that they might go missing.

‘Don’t worry you can depend on me’ I found myself saying.

You’ll be pleased to hear I rescued the shoes and they were returned safely to her this morning.

I wrote the other day about how good it feels when you deliberately make someone laugh. It’s probably like receiving a seal of approval.

I wasn’t quite sure though how good you’d feel if you unintentionally made someone laugh.

Last weekend I found out. There I was pottering around the garden doing my Monty Don impression. My youngest daughter, P, was sitting on the swing. On the garden path was a wheelbarrow full of guinea pig shit and saw dust – it was piled up.

I still can’t explain it but somehow I tripped and started falling. As I fell I put my arms out to grab something – anything – to stop me. I grabbed hold of the wheelbarrow handles but they were not enough to stop me falling flat on my face.

Embarrassing enough but it didn’t end there. As I grabbed the handles I up-ended the wheelbarrow thus depositing its entire contents over my head and shoulders.

P, bless her, was watching this and couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen. A slight grin appeared on her face and it was only when I looked straight at her did we both burst out laughing.

And, yes, it felt good.

We all love to laugh. Even better though is making someone laugh. I love nothing better than being silly or telling a joke and hearing someone laughing. It’s infectious.

The other day I realised where I might have got it from. My parents look after H, R and P on Tuesdays. My father (a frustrated, if sometimes ineffective, comedian) was telling H a joke.

‘What’s the difference between a dustbin and a letter box?’ he asked her.

‘Dunno, Grandad’ she replied, trying to sound interested.

‘Well I’m not going to send you to post a letter!’ was my father’s triumphant reply. He laughed uproariously and H just gave him a quizzical look.

He tried the same joke on R. Yes, same result – he laughed uproariously and she rolled her eyes.

Then it was P’s turn (she’s six by the way).

‘What’s the difference between a dustbin and a letter box?’ he asked.

‘One’s grey and the other one is red’

The silence was deafening.

(Dad, it works better if you manage to make the other person laugh)

Please don’t misunderstand me – I live in an all female household. No matter hard I try I still can’t understand some of the conversations that go on between my daughters and my wife. There’s no logic to some of them. I just nod in response.

I thought it was just them though. Until my wife’s friend rang that is.

‘Is J there?’ she asked.

‘Yes, shall I get her?’ I replied.

‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting her to be in’

‘So why did you ring then?’

‘In case I forgot to ring later’.

Anyone?

Jesus existed. He was a real person. Or at least someone with his outlook on life did. Trouble is, in those days, there was no printing, television or internet. So it was mainly word of mouth.

‘That Jesus bloke talks a lot of sense, doesn’t he?’

Somehow though his story got hijacked by those in power to keep us under control. If Jesus was such a good person then we should all be like him and if you’re not then you’ll go to hell – or something like that.

But there are other human beings who stand out – Gandhi, Mandela, King, Mother Theresa. All people with great standards and morals.

In thousands of years they’ll be revered like the bloke with the long hair and a beard.

Those of you who read IVV will know that I like to indulge in wine. It’s probably the French Connection. Sometimes it makes me feel guilty but most of the time it makes me feel good.

Wine generates thoughts in wondrous ways. A lot of the time things make sense. A lot of the time things seem funnier. And a lot of the time things seem sexier. Sometimes it’s all three.

Take last night for example. I was watching the weather on TV being presented by a rather nice Weather Girl. I forget her name but she was very attractive, nice smile, held herself well, nicely dressed – you know, ticked all the boxes. I understood perfectly what she was telling me but then my mind started to wander.

It was the words and phrases she was using that were making me smile and, to be frank, a bit horny.

“There’s a warm front coming”. Really?

“I can guarantee it’ll be dirty and mucky later”. Gulp.

“And it’ll be soaking wet tonight”. Oo er.

I must admit I shifted in my seat a little.

Until she started talking about wind.

It’s the question we’re always afraid to ask; why are we here?

More to the point, how did we get here?

Stephen Hawking, the wheelchair bound professor, is close to finding out. It could be months, it could be years but he will do it. He’s a determined fellow, that’s for sure.

He has very nearly combined the theories of the Very Big (Relativity) with the Very Small (Qauntum Physics). The problem is gravity. How can a metal object fall to the ground when you drop it yet when you use a magnet it can be picked up again?

Work that one out and you have discovered The Theory of Everything.

Not quite everything though. How does it explain that the most intelligent brain in the world is in a body riddled with motor neurone disease?

God must know.

In this 21st century world of ours, there isn’t a ‘normal’ family set up anymore. In fact, me, my wife and three daughters are probably in the minority (although 2 of our daughters were born out of wedlock – oh, the shame!).

Most of our daughters’ friends, although seemingly unaffected, are members of families that have half-sisters and half-brothers, step-fathers and step-mothers. And that’s just the straightforward ones. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with this – life just deals a hand and you have to get on with it.

Society adapts to these various situations (sometimes at the expense of too much political correctness). Schools have to address letters to ‘Parents/Carers’ instead of ‘Parents’; same sex couples are just as entitled to adopt children as heterosexual couples.

A female friend told me the other day that she had left her husband to set up home with another man. It wasn’t long before she fell pregnant by him. She fretted how she was going to tell her husband – so she sent him a card.

I didn’t know they did them in Clintons but maybe they do these days.

I love you. I will always forever be in your debt.

I can’ t tell you how much this means to me. You’ve saved my life. Without you, I’d be nothing.

I know now that if I ever go overdrawn it’ll be ok because you’re there to bail me out.

You’re my southern, eastern, western and Northern Rock.

I love cooking. I cook almost every night even if it is only something simple. I like to sort everyone else out first then the kitchen is mine. There I am, pottering around, chopping a chilli, slicing an onion, crushing a garlic glove, grating a lemon. I’m not taking the pith by the way.

I find the whole thing therapeutic. Ok, ok, the odd glass of wine or two (three!) helps. I often wonder though whether I could do it as a profession. I cook for friends and family but could I deal with the pressure of a commercial kitchen?

I’ve been watching the current Masterchef series and can see how hot, sweaty and pressurised it all gets.

I have thought about entering. If I ever did get through to the first rounds you wouldn’t see me in a panic. Oh no. A few chops here, a few slices there, as sprinkle or two then straight in the oven.

The rest of the 45 minutes I’d spend drinking my wine and watching Masterchef on the portable. Imagine John and Greg. They’d be mortified.

By the way, if you want one of my recipes let me know.