It has been drawn to my attention that people (picky women) don’t think of me as a feminist and clearly I don’t look like one at first sight, or hopefully second or third sight, not fitting the classic stereotype – a crew cut, pipe smoking creature in baggy dungarees, possibly bearded, certainly unshaven. There is very little chance of my lovely La Perla underwear being flung onto a bonfire except in the event of an urgent need for ready cash from an insurance company.
Years at ITN, home of the woman-with-attitude, have left me with an ability to speak up for myself and even in these modern times there are still occasions when a chauvinist needs a swift verbal slap by way of a reminder. Not necessary if you happen to have a Kalashnikov to hand, of course.
I was once on my way to compete in the National Sudoku finals (which I will confess reluctantly that I didn’t win and which I mention merely to establish that I am not entirely brainless) when the man in the next parking space to me said sharply ‘Mind you don’t bump my car when you open your door’.
‘Yes sir’ I said, ‘I can see how easily I might be tempted to recklessly bash the door of my gleaming new convertible against the rust bucket that is your 20 year old Nissan and obviously you would have said the same thing had I been a tattooed van driver.’ I don’t think so.
Venturing into the steaming hell that is the London Underground system I then attempted to buy a ticket using a credit card. ‘Oh the sweet optimism of this woman’ is doubtless what you’re thinking but on seeing my failure to persuade the wretched machine to part with a ticket the man behind me in the queue, short in stature and patience, said ‘You bloody stupid woman’, pushed past me and started punching the buttons. Fixing him with a gaze the steeliness of which will have hopefully left him both impotent and sterile, I suggested to him that unless his remark has been a pathetic stab at humour, which it clearly was not, I was minded to bring his behaviour to the attention of a nearby policeman. ‘After all’ I reasoned, ‘You’d hardly expect to get away with saying ‘stupid black’ would you?’
So gentlemen of the world, take note. By and large we ladies don’t like being told what to do. If we want to sport a burkini on the beach we will. Or not, as the fancy takes us. And we will say so.

How many times, dear reader, have you turned to ladykingstonlives and searched in vain for cookery tips or gardening advice? To address those longings for a few wise words from the most experienced of women, and in order to give myself a week off, I shall reproduce my Agony Aunt column from the ITN newsletter but on reflection I now see that you could replace ITN with the name of virtually any organisation and the words will still ring true.

Dear Agony Alex,
Apparently I worked at ITN for many years but worryingly in the sober light of retirement, can recall almost nothing that happened. A. Hack

Dear Mr Hack,
Luckily nor can anyone else but I will rummage through my carefully preserved collection of negatives (aka my pension pot) to see if I can spot you in any of them.

Dear Agony Alex,
Having left ITN I am now at a loss as to fill the empty days. Any advice?
Loose End

Dear Loose,
Are you completely sure that you ever worked at ITN? (See previous letter). Personally I can think of nowhere else on earth, except possibly a lifetime spent in local government, which offered a better preparation for retirement: days of hanging around, only a few befuddled folk to talk to and most afternoons lost in a vague haze. You should have paid more attention.

Dear Agony Alex,
During my time at ITN my name has never been linked with anyone of either gender in a scandalous manner. Am I impossibly dull?

Dear Dull,
Apparently so. I cannot recall any other person of whom the same could be said. However, I will take this opportunity to ask for volunteers who would not object to being linked to you to step forward, if only out of pity.

I hope these brief examples of my caring and compassionate approach will encourage more of you to turn to me for guidance – except for the person who is inundating me with letters written on lined paper in green ink. I know who you are.

Finally the winter winds have abated and the Mercury has crept above the blue zone. A hosepipe ban can only be days, possibly hours away and there is the slimmest of chances that the central heating can go off, though not in the evenings, obviously.
It is harvest time on the Kingston estate and not only must fruit and vegetables be picked but also bottled, pickled or frozen. Besides anything else this involves a polar-style trek into the depths of the deep freeze to turf out all the stuff that went in last year, dozens of bags of rhubarb or red cabbage – who has time to label? – which has lingered there for months, as overlooked as a Pitbull puppy at a cats’ rescue centre.
The kitchen has become a dark, satanic mill of activity, sugary steam rising from the pulsating preserving pans thicker than smoke in a newsroom.
Added to which I am, as my hero Horace once put it “again got into the hands of builders”. Like all completely normal women I am possessed at least once a year, depending on the levels of medication, to re-vamp the house. Furniture which has stood happily in one place for weeks on end must be moved, renovated or got rid of.
I tend to feel this way about quite a lot of things, now I come to think about it. I once had a blitz that involved radiator placement but this time it is walls. I have never liked the one between the hall and the dining room and cannot now imagine how I was ever persuaded to agree to its construction. All that stood between me and happiness was the 18 weeks required by the wretched glass company to build three, simple folding panels but this at least gave me time to find a builder.
Needless to say the two English firms offered the work in a post-Brexian spirit didn’t get round to organising a quote by the time that the Latvian workers had finished. And while I was at it I had the front windows altered ever so slightly. What was going through my mind when they were installed?
Standing over my bubbling pans gave me any amount of time to view the garden from a previously undiscovered angle – through the kitchen window – and I realise that a total replant is required before my lunch party next week if it is not to be social death. And I’ve had to go to Southend. Does it sound like I’ve got a moment to write anything this week?