Saturday: I am in a foul mood this week. Not only am I old and pitted with wrinkles, but I have sneaking suspicion that the old man is harbouring a harlot. The promiscuous rascal not only failed to attend by birthday soirée, but he turned up the next day with yet another bouquet of flowers, a strand of pearls - plastic might I add - and a rather lovely dress. Most women would be pleased, but most women do not know this old man. His idea of fashion is a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a damp, smelly t-shirt, so how did he come across this wondrous little outfit? Weather? Bothered. Cold.

Sunday: My fears of a youthful mistress were further confirmed when early one morning - as I slurped down my breakfast cereal - he started humming a slow and sultry ballad. Not only does he not sing, but this chap refuses to even listen to the radio on the grounds his mind is being polluted with pop. Who he is humming about one can only guess, but I doubt I am the object of his melodies. The dress was a knock-off designer number anyway. Cold.

Next week: My regular weather chums may feel a tad disappointed with my lack of wit this week, but in my defence, I am a paranoid android and have been sleeping in my car since my mojito fuelled birthday celebrations. I have resorted to spying on the husband-to-be to ensure his bit on the side remains an appetiser to my main meal. I caught him with a smudge of hideous pink lippy on his shirt collar the other day, his excuse was that I did it. Horrified at the mere suggestion of the heinous fashion crime, I put salt in his mother's sugarpot. Unstable, moi? Cloudy.