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Oh. I mean the ones under my eyes.

The ones that are so large, they could probably carry half-tonne man’s weekly shop.

Yes. I’m tired. More than tired actually, exhausted.

If I lived alone I would be sprightly and full of life, however I do not and consequently my Domestic To Do List has reached epic proportions, so much so that today I will renew my membership to the NDGC (Non Domestic Goddess Club), if I can fit it on my mile-long list.

If all I had to worry about was the domestics, I would be laughing, but I am not. I am dealing with a tumbledown house, a tangly, wild garden, an all consuming job and I have a two week publishing deadline for a little book I am penning, alright a big book that will result in my face being featured on double decker buses in London.

I am also in the midst of very long negotiations with the council and a lawyer - two separate issues oh, and my electricity and gas disasters have been forwarded to the Ombudsmen.

Oh and I have forgotten to mention the blasted cats, who are really getting on my nerves and Jake the Peg (Jarvis, my dog), has grown an extra pad on his paw that needs to be removed as a matter of urgency.

Now the vet wants me to appeal against my darling dog’s pet insurance, which has excluded him, for no reason at all, from having tumour, cysts, ganglion’s and growths removed.

The thing is my Things To Do ordeal is not a simple matter of prioritising. Everything on my list is important.

Everything will be tackled of course, once I Have run away with the circus. Or I need a holiday or a very long and deep sleep.

Take last night for instance, I went to bed early, knowing I needed at least eight hours to cope with the following day.

Just as I was floating dreamily on the Dead Sea with a very handsome devil under blue skies and hot sun, the Dog woke me by barking his head off.

I ignored him for a while, thinking he would grow tired of the night time howling, but he didn’t, in fact being ignored seemed to strengthen his resolve.

I slowly tumbled out of bed and went to see what was going on.

He was scrabbling at the back door, so I opened it to find a couple of hedgehogs who were surrounded by half-eaten snails.

“For God’s Sake Jarvis. It is two hedgehogs. Go back to back immediately.”

I have friends who went to great lengths to secure four hedgehogs from a rescue centre.

Despite their garden being a wondrous tangle of wild flowers and wood, it would seem the hedgehogs didn’t much care for it and wandered off, never to be seen again.

These hedgehogs probably love the fact that my wild garden patch, which has transformed into a wild jungle, is laced with cat food, as I always tip the leftovers onto it under the biodegradable banner.

My mother of course hates my slovenly ways.

“Oh Mum, I do this on purpose to attract the hedgehogs,” I trill.

It has absolutely nothing to do with me being lazy or time poor.

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