For the past week things have been going spookily right for me. I'm sure an astrologer would have a field day. Every seemingly hopeless bureaucratic chore has ended in success. My absentmindedness on Saturday night, which might have left me with eight hungry guests and a ruined frying pan, produced instead a really delicious variation on the theme of spinach and cheese stuffed chicked breasts. A crisp variation. And my ineffectual flapping around for an actress young enough to play the ingenue in next year's pantomime - yes folks, you read it here, NEXT YEAR'S PANTOMIME - brought me a phone call from the very girl I needed. She doesn't know me, she's not even sure what a pantomime is, but she had the enterprise to call me and she's ready, willing and able. How often does that happen?

Even yesterday's hit-and-run gardening session at our mountain house worked out perfectly. We left at 6am, started work on the jungle at 8am and had everything shipshape by early afternoon. Okay, we left behind a lot of disgruntled, displaced insects, rudely awakened by the swishing of Mr F's scythe, but what's a person to do? The place was starting to look like a set from Hansel & Gretel.

The only occasion I've failed to profit from during this winning streak was last Friday, when the horse in which my son owns a tiny share finally got the hang of racing and came a well-run second. She'd been warned about the glue factory so maybe that woke her up. Whatever, she suddenly smelled victory and went for it. Her odds at the start were 25-1 and I didn't have a cent on her. Dang, dang, dang.

I'm not expecting this lucky streak to last. Pessimism is my natural plumage. Hope for the best but brace yourself for the worst is my motto. And still no rain.