Reasons why Fran tries to engage sheep in conversation

I think I have a lot to offer sheep.

I leaned on the fence of a nearby field recently and gazed at the flock owned by a local farmer. I told them how cute they were, with their woolly coats and soft black noses, and how glad I was to be there, watching them nibble grass. I was sure the farmer didn't have time to pay them such close attention and I knew they'd be grateful.

I explained how sheep were my favourite animals and how much I'd like to hug them, telling them about when I cuddled a fat woolly-woolly sheep once at a wildlife centre and would have married it had this been socially acceptable.

I told them how sure I was that my visit to them and my obvious admiration would boost their self-esteem and make them feel proud to be part of the ovine community.

One sheep wandered nearer the fence and I felt privileged that it had come closer, clearly uplifted by my presence and wanting to hear more. I fished my phone out to take its picture.

Here it is, hanging on my every w…

Reasons why there is less of Fran than there used to be

'I have this lump on my face,' I said to the GP on Monday.

She peered at me.

Do you ever wonder whether doctors have to bite back quips like, 'Yes, that's your nose' or 'Don't say it too loud or everyone will want one' or 'If we're playing Top Trumps, I have a bigger lump either side of my chest'.

After all, it was 5pm, the last appointment of her day, and by then she must have been gagging for some light relief.

If I were a GP, I'd struggle with this all the time. Which is probably why it's a good thing I'm not. I may not have had a long career.

She found a magnifying glass and put it near my cheek where the lump was. I was pleased it was dark outside because if the sun had been shining into the surgery and caught my cheek at the same time as the magnifying glass, it might have set the lump on fire. I've read my Enid Blyton and my Brownie Handbook, thank you.

'How long's it been there?' the doctor said.

I told he…

Reasons why Fran is having withdrawal symptoms

'You said you wanted some mackerel paté,' Spouse said yesterday, while I was typing in our online order from Tesco.

'Ooh, thanks for the reminder.'

I've been hooked on mackerel paté since our August fortnight in Whitby, a seaside town on the North Yorkshire coast. I ate so much mackerel paté in that fortnight that I began to smell the same as Whitby harbour in high summer. Even splashing on Coco Chanel perfume didn't mask it, and seagulls began to circle above my head when we went out for walks. I swear my eyes began to move to the sides of my head.

I typed in 'mackerel paté'.

Two options came up.

1. Mackerel paté for humans, called 'Smoked mackerel paté'.

But it was 'currently unavailable'. At least there was another option, but this was .....

2. Mackerel paté for cats, called 'Gourmet Gold Paté with Ocean Fish'.

There was plenty of this available. In fact, it was on offer. 

I have the following questions.

1. Since when did cats…

Evidence that people have started demanding evidence

I mean, do I look particularly suspicious? Judging by recent events which I'll tell you about, I must do.

Here's a picture of me, to remind you.

Oh, sorry. Wrong picture.

Here I am.

See? Butter wouldn't melt!

A friend says she always judges people on the basis of 'Would I let them look after my cat?' It's surprisingly reliable. Try it.

You'd let me look after yours, wouldn't you?

I know for sure that the headteacher of my grandson's primary school wouldn't. Even though I've waited in the school playground once a week for two years now, he didn't recognise me last Thursday when I arrived to pick up Elijah from his after-school club.

I was under suspicion.

I'll say here that this headteacher is a lovely man and I can't blame him for making sure I was the real deal if he didn't recognise me. I'd much rather know that he checked people out than let any Tom, Dick or Hattie in to collect children.

But I couldn't help being …

Evidence that not everyone thinks of holiday souvenirs in the same way

The main legacy from our two summer weeks in Whitby, Yorkshire, appears to be that we have swapped to a different make of toilet roll.

It doesn't have the romanticism of the usual souvenir, I know: the photos of surfers, the sand sculpture, or the arrangement of shells in a picture frame, or a fisherman ornament.

We've been faithful to Andrex toilet rolls ever since we married. In fact, 37 years on, I think Andrex should have sent us a thank you letter or at least a card. Alas, we have received nothing, not even a free two-pack. This is despite the fact that, having brought up a family of three, we've provided employment for at least a hundred puppies.

We've stuck with Andrex through 2 ply and 3 ply, literally through thin and thick, and through different patterns and perforations over the years. You'd think it would count for something, like war service, or a lifetime career in the NHS. But, no.

Then, in August, in the bathroom of our holiday apartment in Whitby, …

Reasons why sparrowhawks should be called Edward

A sparrowhawk visited our garden yesterday, perching on a garden chair for a minute to show itself off and play a game of who'll blink first with a sparrow. The sparrow made a hasty exit and the sparrowhawk flew off, meal-less.

It's not surprising. If a sparrowhawk wants more success, it should rename itself Edward or Marmaduke, something that gives the sparrows no clue. With a name like Sparrowhawk, it might as well announce its approach with a megaphone and a big sign saying, 'Say your prayers, little sparrows. Here come my claws.'

Imagine if humans did the same so that, instead of being called Colin or Jake, people who broke into others' houses were called Burglar or Thief, or those who attacked others on the streets and stole their phones were named Mugger or Pickpocket.

It would make life so much easier and the police would be able to put their feet up and brew a cuppa.

'Oh hi. Welcome to the team here at Financial Solutions. First day here?'


Evidence that although Fran and froth begin with the same letters, they are not friends.

I won't say which coffee shop chain it was, although I doubt my critique would chip much off their bajillion-dollar profits, but yesterday I ordered an iced cappuccino, thus entering into one of the most bewildering half-hours of my life.

This picture tells you what I'd expected.

The following picture describes what happened more effectively.

This wasn't a drink. This was a froth nightmare, a challenge, the kind you get on game shows.

There was an inch or so of coffee in the bottom of the tall glass, then the rest, about three feet of it, was thick, white, stiff froth.

I stirred with the straw I'd been given. Surely the coffee would mix with the froth.

The drink laughed. The straw bent.

I stirred again, faster.

The drink guffawed.

I fetched a spoon and began eating the froth, which stayed solid, like raw meringue mix. What do they add to it? Prittstick? The glue they put wounds back together with?

I stirred again, maniacally. This time, hope. Some of the brown coffee b…