In case you missed it, I love to read. I read a great variety of styles and genres, both fiction and non-fiction, and for the most part, reading is pure joy to me, but there is one thing which I hate.

Every now and then I stumble across a book of such delightfulness that I immediately go and look up the author to find out what else they’ve written. And, well, every now and then, I find that there IS nothing else. I have three or four books which I consider such gems that it seriously grieved me to find that they are ‘one book wonders’.

The first is Audrey Niffenegger’s ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’. What an amazing book this is! Isn’t it? I mean, wow! How do you describe it? It’s unique, it’s breathtaking, the prose is beautiful, and - without wishing to give anything away to those who haven’t read it yet, the end is just right.

The second is ‘Blood’ by Patricia Traxler. This book is dark. It’s edgy and twisted and weird and I adore it. It’s one of those books that made me sigh over it when it was done and agonise for the characters, and wonder why so-and-so did this, and what made what’s-her-name do that, and shake my head over the fact that they did and look where it got them.

Both of these books are one book wonders. And you know why? Because neither of these two authors normally write this way! Each of these two books represents their author’s sole venture into the world of the novel - and I want to write to them and beg them on my knees to get right back to the keyboard and damn well do it again, because they are that good. But Audrey Niffeneger writes graphic novels for preference, and Patricia Traxler is a poet.

Next on my list would be ‘Samantha Smythe’s Modern Family Journal’ by Lucy Cavendish. I so thoroughly enjoyed this book that I’m still melting over baby Jamie’s ‘Erg blerp ga!’ - the single non-verbal sentence at this small person’s disposal, but one that can be uttered with various inflections to suit all occasions - and I know that sounds sickeningly cutesie but it just isn’t.

This is a story about family and stress and the little things that alternately annoy and enchant in ordinary daily family life, and how good intentions can have unexpected results. Did I say I loved this book? Well, I did. And so I went to look for more, and, yep, you guessed it, there aren’t any more! Lucy Cavendish seems to have specialised in books about white magic and paganism, and this was her debut novel. The good news is that there is a sequel in the pipeline. The bad news is that it looks as if I’ll have to wait until next year to read it.

Lastly, I’m going to include ‘Good Omens’ in this list, because although Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman have each written many more books, they have never again collaborated, and for me, the mix of those two minds is absolutely perfect. We have the wit, intelligence and effortless comedy of Pratchett teamed with the twisted imagination and more satirical style of Gaiman, and it just works. I love Pratchett, all on his own, whether in the Discworld novels or the kids books, or the spin-offs and in-betweens, but Gaiman gives him bite.

As far as I know there is no plan for Pratchett and Gaiman to write together ever again, which is a great source of sadness to me. However there have been vague rumours about Terry Gilliam making a movie of Good Omens, and they’ve been circulating since 1999. First they tell us it’s on, then it’s maybe not, then it’s definitely off, then they say maybe it isn’t entirely off, they’re still working on it. That’s the story of Gilliam’s life, it seems, but I for one hope that he does one day get the funding because the last I heard, he was planning to ask Johnny Depp to take one of the leading roles.

So, this being the archetypal story of the struggle between good and evil, would Johnny be the angel or the demon? You know what? I don’t care, he’d be perfect for either of them.

And if you think that’s contradictory, you don’t know Depp.

I know it isn’t meant to work that way. It’s supposed to begin at home and spread out into the world, yes? Well, today it stayed home.

A few days ago, we had not one, but two of the little plastic packets containing charity collection sacks posted through our letterbox, on two separate occasions. Here’s the way it works. You sort out some old clothes, books, bric-a-brac, shoes, anything saleable (though some will only take clothes), and you fill the sack, tie it up at the top, and put it outside your gate on the designated day. It so happens that the designated day on both of these packets was today - Monday - as you can see in the picture below.

So OH and I spent some time sorting through our clothes and we found enough stuff to fill both of these sacks, and despite having an early appointment today, I made sure that they were out at the pavement in good time (before nine am, as requested).

Apart from that appointment, and the morning dog walk, I haven’t needed to go out again today, so it wasn’t until our evening dog walk that we went outside, just after nine pm, and noticed that neither of the sacks had been collected.

This annoys me. It annoys me because I actually have a very sore shoulder at the moment and can do without heaving sacks of clothing about, and it annoys me because it shows a very cavalier attitude to people you’re asking a favour from, and it also annoys me because next time a charity sack comes through the door, people are likely to decide not to bother because ‘they won’t get collected anyway’. Before you tell me I’m over-reacting on the basis of one bad experience, I have to tell you that this has happened on at least two previous occasions. On the first one, I rang the number on the bag, as invited by the text, to arrange collection, and the person on the other end said they’d get right on it, and guess what? They never rang back.

The two charities involved this time were two I like to support. One is Sense, which caters for deaf-blind people, and in fact it is to a Sense educational centre that I take the Princess as a PAT (therapy) dog. The other is for the Make A Wish Foundation - a charity for seriously ill children. The problem is that the collections are often left to a commercial company which sells the items and donates between 75% and 90% of the profits to the designated charities, and I’m guessing that if for some reason it doesn’t seem worthwhile one day, they just cut their losses and don’t come out. Or maybe they’re just disorganised, I don’t know.

Unfortunately, most people won’t even realise that it isn’t directly in the hands of the charity itself, but it’s the charity which will get the bad name.

I came downstairs this morning, bleary-eyed, as usual. Sat down in the lounge with my laptop, happily tapping away at emails and PMs and suchlike … and I happened to glance up and see that mirror in the picture up there. Now, I’m not a great housewife, I admit that, and since our cleaner left to take a full-time job things have got a little dustier around here. But that upwardly-mobile graph line on the mirror? That wasn’t there yesterday, honestly!

I gazed at it for a while, trying to work out what it was. At first I thought maybe I wasn’t awake enough to recognise it for what it was, and waited for my brain to process the information and come up with something run-of-the-mill which my sleep-sodden self hadn’t quite got yet, but the longer I sat here, the more I realised that I had no idea what the heck it was!

A snail-trail, that was my first thought, although what any self-respecting snail would be doing on my mantlepiece I had no idea, and there didn’t appear to be any slime. That snail would have had to cross the conservatory, and the lounge, and make a death-defying leap up to the corner of the mirror, there to wander aimlessly up to the top of the Galileo thermometer and then disappear into thin air. Nah. Unlikely.

So I got to my feet and wandered over and peered at the little dotted line and my jaw dropped somewhat. It was a line of eggs!

So. Definitely not a snail then, because the eggs are not big enough, or shiny enough and anyway, snails bury them in the earth. Not a spider, because their eggs come in neat little cocoons glued with Araldite-like efficiency to crevices and mouldings.

I thought. And the solution I came up with was the only one that seemed remotely likely. See what you think.

One of the many moths that flutter in of an evening when the windows are open and the lights are on had got caught short. I could imagine it fluttering around the lounge searching for a suitable plant to lay its eggs on, and Not Finding Anything because I don’t think they do orchids or prayer plants. The poor little thing must’ve got weaker and weaker and more and more tired and finally thought ‘Fuck it, I’ll just drop them here and they can take their chance!’

To support my theory, I cite two pieces of evidence.

1) Moths have various ways of distributing their eggs - in clusters, rings, lines or even (bizarrely) dropped from the air while on the wing.

2) There was a large moth hanging disconsolately from one of my curtains - a Common Rustic, I think. Or it might be a Cabbage Moth. Either way, she looked pissed, but did agree to pose for a photo.

So here’s the question, what should I do now? Should I leave the eggs there and see what hatches? Should I carefully remove them and put them in some rough grass - that being what Common Rustic caterpillars like to eat? Or a mix of brassicas and grasses in case it’s a Cabbage Moth? Or should I just vacuum them up and get rid of them? Common Rustics and Cabbage Moths both being, well, common.

Other, more creative, suggestions are welcome, but will not necessarily be acted upon.

Once upon a time, the image I had in my head of Canada was of a wide open, very flat place. It was vast, it was mostly white and it was always cold. It naturally had very few people in it (I mean, who’d want to live in a place like that?), and those that did live there had virtually no sense of humour at all. Later, around about the time I was ten, I added a few mountains and very, very long railroads, and it dawned upon me that Canada also contained maple syrup and Mounties - although I had no idea how those poor horses managed in all that snow.

Now, of course, I know better. For one thing, I’ve done an awful lot of reading and TV watching since I was ten, and for another, my brother-in-law lives there. And although I never thought in a million years that I’d ever be able to do so, I’ve now been to Canada and seen for myself what a beautiful and diverse country it is. I’ve become friends with several Canadians, too, not through family connections, but through the internet. People I’ve met online through my interests in greyhounds, Johnny Depp, and blogging.

One of those online friends is Drowsey Monkey. I hope she won’t mind me presuming to call her a friend, but that’s how I think of her - she’s such a great person. She’s witty, intelligent and very, very funny, and yes, her blog is one of those that I read every day. If you haven’t yet been over there to take a peek, you really should do so. I don’t think you’ll be sorry! Don’t forget to read some of the archives too, because there are some perfect gems in there.

Today is Drowsey Monkey’s first anniversary - her blog birthday - and I can’t believe she’s only been going for one year! Some people blog for many years without reaching her level of professionalism and consistently high standards, not to mention entertainment value. I’m not the only person to think so, obviously. In fact, Olga the Traveling Bra is holding a party over at her place in honour of the occasion.

So, congratulations, DM, my dear! Happy Bloggiversay - have a truly great day. You deserve it!

Oh, by the way, I now know that most Canadians have a great sense of humour. It might escape some, because in my experience it tends to lean to the dry and witty rather than the ‘laugh out loud’ funny, but it’s very much there in all the Canadians I’ve met. Except my brother in law, but he doesn’t count because he’s actually English by birth. He seems to think adding ‘eh?’ to the end of a sentence makes it funny.

Unless of course, he’s got dry and witty down to such a fine art that I haven’t yet realised that the thing about the traffic lights and magnets is really a joke. I just thought he was nuts.