I’ve been seduced by our porcine friends again. Me and Dirk (Tim’s alter ego) went down to Dorset at the weekend for a spot of rambling/paddling/weeing al fresco (there’s nothing to rival the feeling of long, silky grass caressing one’s buttocks). We were staying in Dirk’s parents’ caravan, a sort of giant nicky, nacky noo on wheels. It’s a bijou affair: everything’s in miniature and very flimsy. For example, in the shower, my head fits neatly into the skylight and when I slipped on the soap, I nearly went through the wall into the bedroom. Also, when Dirk coughs or sneezes in the ‘living room’, I spill my tea in the bedroom – all over the polyester pink bedspread complete with valance. I tell you, I feel like a princess in that bedroom with its faux French dressing table and matching wardrobe. No wonder the manufacturers call this model Charisma (it’s since been re-christened the Dacha for some obscure reason. Maybe the Romanovs passed by on their way to Osborne House and decided to bunk up for the night). Onto the pigs. Dirk and I went on a truly magical ramble. Beautifully scenic, we tramped through the surrounding valleys and hills, pausing to visit a field of pigs and piglets. Oh how they oinked and wriggled their pert derriers at us. Babe, the tiniest piglet was a vision of loveliness. Dirk had to drag me away, so enchanted was I by its delicate eyelashes, wet nose and mellifluous snufflings. Then its feed came and it pissed off. Farmyard animals are so fickle.