THE VIETNAM VET  (This memory makes me cringe so much I have to crowbar my buttocks apart afterwards.) At a party in Nashville I met a very affable, rather rotund man over the canapes. As I grappled with a prawn the size of a labrador (American food is so big) he told me he was a Vietnam vet. 'How lovely!' I said, eyes shining.
'I don't like to talk about it,' he said, looking away.
'Why not?' I was puzzled.
'I saw some …' The man's eyes misted over. '...terrible things out there.'
'Oh…' I thought for a moment. 'Like when you had to put hamsters down and stuff?'

And that was the moment I realised and he realised that I thought he meant he was a veterinary surgeon who worked in Vietnam.
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THE WORLD ACCORDING TO MAVIS  Whisper 'walkies' to a dog and they'll go berserk, jumping up and down, squealing like an X Factor auditionee, but Mavis is not as other dogs. Upon hearing 'walkies' she sighs. She averts her frog-esque eyes. She flattens her furry bottom ever deeper in to the £2 Primark fleecy blanket lining her basket. And she hopes you'll go away.

But I don't go away. I clip her lead to her collar and cajole her out of the front door and drag her around the park as if we're rehearsing for a state funeral. Occasionally she breaks in to a lumpen trot, if she sees a stray crisp packet. If other dogs romp around her, keen to sniff, she endures their overtures without responding (think Queen Victoria having a smear). As we walk she flashes me pleading looks, silently begging to be taken home where it's safe and warm and there might be a Jammie Dodger left unattended on a low table.
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A CANDLE IN THE WIND  Ooh, he knows how to wound. On the doorstep of a friend's house with my husband, anticipating a sunday roast, an epic gossip, too much wine and zero washing up, I waggled the gift bag in my hand as I rang the doorbell, eager for marital Brownie points: I had remembered to bring a pressie for our hostess.

And no ordinary pressie. I was waggling a pastel candle in a frostedholder, the finest that John Lewis' gift department could muster.

'Ah, a scented candle,' said Matthew as we heard footsteps approach the other side of the door. 'The successor to supermarket flowers as the classic impersonal gift.'

(He doesn't get it. Men don't get candles, like they don't get bunting. Or wanting to murder everybody you know with a pick axe once a month.)
I MUST DO A TO-DO LIST  Many years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and Take That were famous the first time around, I peeked at my friend's To-Do list, written neatly on a page of her Filofax in purple felt tip. I laughed. Because it went like this:

1. Get married
2. Have baby
3. Buy house

I laughed because my friend didn't have a boyfriend at the time.

You know the punchline here, don't you? Yup. By the end of that year, she'd married a nice man (that I introduced her to), got pregnant and was choosing the tiles for the en-suite in her new house.
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MY OTHER HAT  How do you feel about musicals? Does it charm you that people burst in to song at inappropriate moments? Can you cope with choreography? Me, I'm in two minds about musicals, which is surprising because I write them. Well, co-write, along with Matthew my husband.

Yes, my other hat is covered in glitter, despite my misgivings about a world where characters wear tap shoes and croon about the moon in June. I've co-written two musicals, and the third is being staged in London in November. You could come and see it! If you want!

They're a bit different, our musicals. They're funnier and more dramatic than your average specimen, with deeper, richer characters. I write the dialogue, and Matthew supplies the music and the lyrics. Mavis supplies the bored expression and the faint smell of PuppiChunx.

Ifyou're interested in knowing more, visit the website. And say hello if you come along – I'll be the one hyperventilating at the back.

www.aboutbillthemusical.com
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