IT must be a record. For Mr Marr and I to have stripped the living room down, painted the walls and moved back in within a week, is unheard of.

I WAS a one-woman whirl of domestic activity last Friday afternoon. This was unusual on two counts.

THIS week the yellow form has to be handed back to school - the one showing which subjects Daughter No 1 has chosen to study at standard grade.

"SO what's the plan, then?" he asked, as he adjusted his goggles, flexed his tattoos and slid into my lane.

AFTER years of making and breaking them, then resolving never to make them again, I have come to the conclusion that there is only one New Year Resolution worth a damn - and that's "Just get on with it".

IT was an article in one of the Saturday supplements which inspired our New Year's feast.

STARING at the keyboard in the spare bedroom at my in-laws' house, in that in-betweeny time between Christmas and New Year, when it's hard to remember what day it is, I can see just how much Mr Marr's favourite Christmas gift to me was needed.

REQUESTS. They come at me daily. Requests for favourite dishes for the tea, or to buy another three-pack of tights next time I am in town.

I KNOW we've still got The Big Day to come (10 sleeps and counting, by the time you read this), then there's Hogmanay to celebrate, Valentine's Day to follow, and it will be Easter before we know it.

AS licence payers we should be up in arms, with over 600 hours of repeats being shown on terrestrial TV this Christmas fortnight..

BY the time you read this I'll have retrieved my Christmas handbag from the top of the wardrobe and transferred all the essentials into it; purse, mobile phone, to-do list, keys, lipstick and at least a dozen pens. The first of December is the date I admit to starting thinking about Christmas; in reality it has been in the planning stage for months..

IN over 20 years together, Mr Marr and I have collected a lot of stuff. Some of it is new, like the stripey rug we just bought in Ikea, some of it was given to us, and lots of it we have bought, often on whim, worrying about the credit card bill later.

ACCORDING to the Centre for Retail Research (who knew there was such an organisation?) Britain is no longer a nation of shop-keepers, but a nation of shoplifters.

A NEW poll released this week suggests there are 29 things a woman should do before she has a child.

I'VE had quite a week at the cinema, laughs and tissues, fantastical creatures and challenging issues, yet similarities that I couldn't have anticipated.

THERE has a lot been written about e-books — hand held devices which store hundreds of novels, meaning you can carry your entire library at all times.

I AM feeling a little bit lost as I type this, unsure if I am in Northumberland or Northumbria.

THE results of a survey landed in my inbox this week; a list of the 50 things we find most confusing about living in Britain. A poll of 5000 people was carried out for one of these on-line comparison sites (here's a clue — it's not the meerkats), asking which aspects of life confound us most.

I AM feeling slightly queasy and extra rotund around the waistline — and it's all my own fault.

KIRSTY and I have been friends since I was two and she was one and a half. It was a friendship forced upon us by proximity — she lived two doors down in our cul-de-sac, and that was that.

COMICS. Tuesday night was Beano night, Friday it was The Dandy; both delivered to the door with the Evening Express. On Tuesdays it was a rush to read it all before Brownies — on Fridays it was waiting behind the door when I came in from swimming.

WE mucked up last weekend. Whereas my fabulous "Mum's Family Planner" usually warns me that the auditions for the Eden Court panto are looming, this year there was an oversight; a scheduling blip which left the date alarmingly free.

THERE is a wise old Cove who lives next door. I am allowed to call him old because he has celebrated 160 birthdays, and I'm calling him "Cove" because he hails from the Western Isles.

"RAINDROPS on roses and whiskers on kittens".

THE garden's at an 'in-betweeny' stage right now, with plenty of summer colour out the front, the first plums beginning to ripen, and the grass... well, the grass could always do with another cut, but it keeps raining.

THE first thing we did when we got back from our holiday was plug the memory cards into the laptop and start working through the photos.

ON holiday last month we looked up Mr Marr's long lost cousins.

CONFESSION time — a week back to work and I am struggling to hang onto the "holiday feeling".

IT was surely for afternoons like this that laptops were invented. I'm sitting in the garden, a long, cold drink to hand (just water I hasten to add — I've got to drive later on) and I'm tap, tapping away.

I'M not usually tempted to deceive – I’ve never tried to pass off a bought pudding as my own and live too much in fear of being caught to lie about anything of any great importance.

IT is official. Yesterday we acquired a new pet. We actually acquired this new pet about a month ago, but since no-one else had seen him but me, it did not count.

AFTER two blissfully hot days spent at Loch Morlich (our four-day summer, remember?) it was lovely to read that the beach there has been officially recognised as one of the very best in the country.

IT is just a few weeks since I was boasting in these pages of getting a brand new car for just £25 — my trick was to have the Mondeo valeted.

STUDYING. Swotting. Revision. Cramming. It does not matter what you call it, it is happening in teenage bedrooms all over the country. School assemblies are being cancelled because halls have been taken over by tables and chairs. Exam time. Which means the sun is shining.

IT is difficult to find the right exit from Victoria Station in London — difficult if you want to continue your journey on foot, that is.

AS co-host of the MFR Breakfast Show I have experienced my fair share of double acts.

BRITAIN is in the grip of recession and car prices, along with interest rates, are tumbling.

I DO not know how it comes to this, but I have just spent £95 at the supermarket and there is nothing for tea.

I WONDER if I would have been a more patient mother if I had realised that they would grow up so quickly.

WE did not go to Orkney for the weather, though we got lots of it in our week there.

JULIE Myerson. It's a name you may have come across in the Sunday papers or in the tabloids these past few weeks. She's the writer, columnist, novelist, call her what you will, who wrote The Lost Child.

MR Marr is inordinately pleased with himself. He also says he feels exceptionally manly, but he says I'm not allowed to write about that.

SEVERAL times this week I've flicked on the kettle, disappeared to hang up the washing, and come back to find the water still cold.

THERE are moments in my life when I actually feel quite grown up. But such moments are rare; most of the time I'm a faltering 17-year-old trapped inside a much older body, wondering where the last 25 years have gone.

IT has long been my favourite film, the story of the Austrian convent girl who won her way into the hearts and songs of the motherless von Trapp children, before wheedling her way into the heart and fortune of their Edelweiss-singing father, Georg von Trapp.

THE notion of a job for life is long gone, but I was surprised to read the other day that the average adult is expected to have 19 jobs in a lifetime. The number struck me as unfeasibly high, until I started thinking about my own employment history. I am nearly there already.

I DRAGGED the dictionaries off the shelf to check that "numpty" was a real word before committing it to type.

I LOVE a good glass of wine. If it is red, I will go for a full-bodied Rioja. White? I like the refreshing taste of a clean Pinot Grigio and I'm occasionally tempted by a rose, especially if I can sip it outside in the summer.

I AM not that big on housework, as my mother-in-law would testify, but right now I am dying for the doorbell to ring — for friends, neighbours or even family to drop in and see how wonderfully shiny my carpets are.

SOMETIMES I don't feel that Mr Marr appreciates my artistic abilities quite as much as he ought to. I'm not artistic very often, but last Saturday was a case in point.

IN the last few years, with the popularity of programmes like 'Who Do You Think You Are', family trees have become a bit of a national pastime. My Scottish roots are well documented; over a decade ago my Mum started to trawl through old records to plot her own ancestry, and the resulting mound of documentation is staggering.

YOU know the old adage — if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. "Not so!" say the staff of Tourism Queensland... the so called "Best Job in the World" really does exist, and at the time of writing, more than 2000 applications have already been submitted for the post.

BEDTIME stories — a time to calm down after the frantic battles of teatime and bathtime; to snuggle up with a warm and drowsy toddler and to share a few precious, intimate moments before kisses and lights out.

WITH Christmas, as with everything else in life, there are lessons to be learned. The trick is to try and remember them from one year to the next, so that the same mistakes are not made in successive years. So here goes.

CHRISTMAS parties. With the presents unwrapped, the needles starting to drop from the tree and only the green triangles left in the Quality Street tin, the memory of dressing up in tinsel and reindeer antlers is beginning to fade. In many ways it's a good thing — we all say (and hear) things we shouldn't at festive parties and barely a year goes by without someone in tears in the toilet.

THAT'S it — the cards are posted, the presents all bought and (mostly) wrapped, and the mince pies are in the freezer. The Christmas trees (two, how decadent!) are up and decorated, and there is a string of fairy lights wrapped in true fire-hazard style round a really kitsch photo in the hall.

THE school Christmas play — it is another of those things without which Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas.

I SUSPECT I may be in danger of lulling myself into a false sense of security here, but the Christmas shopping is nearly done.

IT's difficult to explain just how rubbish I am at hockey. Until first year at school, all I knew about the game was from my mum, whose old stick was constantly falling out of the cupboard at the front door.

I'VE finally worked out what's missing from Inverness — a Bagpuss shop. Not a shop selling replicas of that old, saggy cloth cat, baggy, and a bit loose at the seams, so loved in 1974. What we need is a shop displaying things that have been lost, so that their owners may one day come by and collect them.

I LOVE getting a bargain, and I know I'm not alone — it's one of the personality traits which, along with enjoying a good moan and queuing politely, defines us as British.

I JUST could not face getting all dressed up at 10 o'clock last Friday morning to go guising, but promises are promises.

IT is not always easy to wangle a week's holiday from my boss at MFR. To be fair to Danny, he has never actually said "no" in response to my request for a few long lies. Instead his reaction has, without fail, been considerably less polite than a simple "no", and couched in such florid terms that I couldn't repeat it to my children, let alone reproduce it in a family newspaper.

I'M thrilled ... my shiny new laptop has arrived. I've wanted one for ages, but working mainly from home, where we have a perfectly serviceable PC anyway, it seemed an unjustifiable expense. Especially when we're all being cautioned to tighten our belts.

ANOTHER school holidays, another chance to take a breather from the hectic round of homework, hockey, Guides and drama and get on with the important business of kicking around being kids.

I HAVE never regretted becoming a parent, but there were times when the girls were little that I thought I might die of boredom. Days could go when I didn't talk to another adult. My weeks seemed endlessly repetitive — household chores, nappy changes, games and stories.

THERE'S a lovely old creeper that grows up the side of our house. I'm not sure exactly what kind of creeper it is — it pre-dates our occupancy here by some years — but in October it really comes into its own. The leaves are scarlet and on crisp, blue-skied autumn days (I'm optimistic we'll get at least one this year) it looks gorgeous.

MUCH as we love our girls it can be blissful to escape — and remember why we got together in the first place. So when Mr Marr's parents offered to baby-sit, we booked the flights, bought the guidebook and planned a few days of la dolce vita.

IT is a killer hill, that B road which rises steeply from Fort Augustus and winds its way up, up and ever upwards towards Whitebridge before dropping back down to the shores of Loch Ness at Foyers. Rumour has it that it is a 10K climb (6.2 miles in old money) which reaches a 1-in-4 gradient in places. A true knee-trembler.

WALKING past Inverness High School's REAL veg stall in the Victorian Market the other day it was all I could do not to violently swipe my handbag sharply to the right and knock over their stunning display of fresh, organic fruit and vegetables.

WITH the first few weeks of the new term under our belts, we're slowly beginning to settle into our revised family timetable. We're working out which days require PE kit and which days Rachael can't come home for lunch because of P6 Monitor duties. Caitlin doesn't do home lunch any more — there's clearly something far better to do at lunchtimes once you get to secondary. And I've heard the pizza is delicious.

EDITED highlights from my current "To do" list include A dental appointment, Rachael's prescription and collect washers from Plumb Centre. Dull, dull, dull. In the chaotic cycle of life in the Marr household they'll all get done sooner or later. If they don't my teeth will (eventually) fall out, Rachael will run out of bread and the tap will leak until Christmas.

WHEN we left Edinburgh 11 years ago, my friend Mandy came up trumps. In anticipation of my new life of leisure in the Highlands (with a 10 month old baby and pregnant again, I assume she was being ironic) she presented me with a silver cake stand. We used it on the first day in our new house — since then it has been gathering dust and tarnish at the top of a cupboard.

I REALLY didn’t want to go out for a run last Saturday evening — it was a glorious night and the thought of a gin in the garden was far more appealing. But with only five weeks to go till the First Monster and, as usual, not enough training done, a wee five miles before tea would not hurt — or so Mr Marr persuaded me.

It worries Mr Marr how much I seem to know about keeping hens. Considering I grew up in a chicken-free cul-de sac and only set foot on a farm to go tattie picking, he might have a point. In a "Good Life" sort of way I'd love to have the space (and the time) to keep chickens in the garden, but deep down I know it's never going to happen. And anyway I get great eggs from MFR's Farmer Jones — let him take the strain.

AS holiday presents go, it was one of the best. My sister, back from a weekend of camping on the West Coast (glorious weather, in case you are interested) stopped by with a bucket full of seawater. Interesting. On closer inspection, there was something moving in its murky depths. "Do you want some crabs?" she asked.

WELL, we survived — the Marr summer holiday 2008 was spent under canvas — 14 nights in the Highlands of Scotland.

DON'T you just love it when you have a great idea? Like buying a new tent and staying in Scotland for the summer. Hmm. Long lazy days spent appreciating the girls before they are too old to want to come on holiday with mum and dad.

I'M trying to work out which was my favourite moment of the Moonlight Serenade Ball. It might have been getting rid of both girls for the night, so I only had to compete for bathroom time with Mr Marr and his Amazing Shaving Regime.

I'VE done the unforgivable, and am waiting to suffer the consequences. The state of my pre-teenage daughter's bedroom had been irritating me for ages. In her absence for a week on a school trip I couldn't help myself — I have blitzed it.

IT'S easy buying presents for women, and, for that matter, girls. Girls love all sorts of silly, frippery things — clothes, make-up, jewellery, perfume, books and tiny pictures or mirrors to hang on the wall.

I'VE lost track of what my mother wants the three of us to do with her ashes once she is dead. Her ever-changing instructions usually refer back to her last adventure — she has had us flinging her from the north face of some inaccessible mountain in Nepal, or scattering her over piranha inhabited waters in Venezuela.

WE'VE done it - we've christened our new tent.

THAT is the thing when another big sporting event gets ticked off the calendar — it is all anti-climax till the adrenaline of the next fixture kicks in. I am not talking football — I am a woman who has resisted ever attending a match above primary 5 level.

WITH the middle of May now officially behind us, and with it, the risk of frost, the plants that have been taking over our dining table since March are now in the garden.

BY the time you read this I'll know whether I made it round the Bealach on Saturday. For some, the Bealach Beag is a nice wee Saturday cycle round one of the most stunningly beautiful peninsulas on the west coast of Scotland.

SITTING in the sun outside The Ceilidh Place last Sunday, nursing a latte and trying to hang onto those final, deliciously relaxed feel-good moments between the wedding the day before and the pile of ironing waiting at home, the conversation turned to lists.

IT has been a busy old week and it has not helped that I have had car trouble too. In fact it is a bit of a chicken and egg week — if I had not been so busy the car trouble would not have occurred, but car trouble having happened, I have been busier than ever trying to sort it out.

I'VE been in the mood this week to reminisce — to haul out the old photo albums and flick through the late '80s and early '90s, back to the days when Mr Marr and I first got together.

I DON'T know about you, but it hurts to go back to work after time away, and this Easter has been no exception. After a week of life at Islay pace (for which, read considerably slower than normal) it was a shock to set my alarm for 4.45am and seriously depressing to drag my body out of bed to find it was still dark. The clocks had changed in my absence.

IT is not often that I walk into a room and am embarrassed by what I am wearing, but it happened with bells on at Alison's 40th.

MR Marr is good at "Boys' Things". At the risk of being thought girly and pathetic, he is very handy to have around the place. This week, for example, he has managed to fix the lights in the living room, retune the telly to fix a major "Oh no, BBC One has gone silent" emergency and mend a puncture on Rachael's bike.

IT’S often the case with kids that you were just about to treat them to something when they start asking for that very thing, over and over again, in that incessant whiny tone that few parents can tolerate. However reluctantly, you then have to refuse; otherwise the whining will be forever viewed as a victory for pester power.

'OUT with the old and in with the new!' might be the tabloid headline to sum up this week in the Marr household – but that wouldn't quite capture the range of Emotions (with a deliberate capital 'E') we've been experiencing since Doodle 'moved to the other side'.

I HEARD a shocking statistic this morning — apparently 19 per cent of men only own one pair of shoes. I know there's the cliché about women being obsessed with shoes, but even those of us who curtail our natural enthusiasm must balk at that statistic. Just one pair of shoes? How on earth do they cope?

It's MFR Charity Auction time again. The big banner across Academy Street proudly proclaims the dates — 7th to 9th March 2008. For weeks now the charity team has been sourcing, cataloguing and allocating time slots to lots as diverse as weekend breaks, fly fishing permits and office chairs.

THE posties have been busy down our street lately, delivering the fruits (and vegetables) of my unsupervised on-line spending spree at Christmas.

BY the time you’re reading this we'll have been back from Torridon for a week, hopefully all recovered — washing and ironing done, bikes and waterproofs back in the shed and the loft, and livers returning to something approaching normal size. The kids will no longer be falling asleep in class and my deposit cheque will have been returned uncashed, given that we left the Youth Hostel immaculate.

THERE have been several occasions over the past week that I wish I'd kept my idea to myself, but last weekend I just blurted it out. I asked the girls how they'd like it if we sold the house, bought a double decker bus, and drove off around the world to see where the road would take us.

I ADORE being on holiday, but they can be a source of stress. Another thing to get just right.

I KNOW I don't do myself any favours by being impatient but it lurks under the surface most of the time. I try to bite my tongue but occasionally it gets the better of me.

JANUARY: it's a dreich, miserable month – a month of contrasts – from the excesses and celebrations at the bells of the New Year, to the beans on toast and lentil soup of the long, cold nights 'til pay day comes round again.

AS I write, the news has just come through that Kenny Richey, the 43-year-old former US Marine brought up in Scotland and sentenced to death in Ohio 21 years ago, has touched down at Edinburgh airport.

SO here we are, first week of the New Year, and I'm sure I'm not alone in sitting at my computer in an elasticated waistband.

I DO not know when I will learn — every week when I do the Tesco shop, I check my modest list and choose a small trolley.

DEAR Sarah, Morag and Karen, I am sorry — I have let you all down.

I'M in trouble. Again. At the time of writing, there is a day and a half to go until November ends. That's just 36 short hours in which to find the advent calendar, fill its pockets with miniature goodies, and hang it in the hall to mark the start of advent. If I fail, there will be all hell to pay. December without the Advent Calendar? Unheard of.

THE e-mail from Ken seemed innocuous enough — there, in the subject box, the words "Your help is requested."

I DON'T know about you, but every morning I get up and put on my uniform. I'm not talking about something provided by the NHS or the Scottish Prison Service, I'm talking about the fact that I always wear the same clothes — or a variation on a theme. And it's always been like that.

IT wasn't how we'd planned to spend Bonfire night. Last Monday should have been about "oohing" and "aahing" at pretty colours in the sky whilst trying to stay warm and dry. Instead, last Monday was the night of the Great Hamster Hunt of 2007.