I recently decided to step away from my young adult novel, Ballycatters and Bugs, and write a fictional piece about life in the Yorkshire Dales. Here is an excerpt:

She told me this place would be good. She had escaped to this place once before and had told me that the air was fresh, that it smelled healthy... and I believed her ... she was known for her incredible olfactory system. Even now, as she stands at the top of the hill, it's her nose that takes in the beauty of what surrounds her and when I see that familiar wrinkle form on the bridge of her nose my heart skips a beat.

She catches me looking at her. My instinct is to look away in embarrassment but I can't - she is so beautiful. She looks at me cheekily. I am momentarily confused as to why but when she smirks and runs away I get it - a race! As we run through the grass I feel so much happiness that I can't help but give little jumps of joy no matter how dumb it looks.

We reach our destination. It's perfect. A rustic, cosy cottage. It's been a long journey. We curl up together in a quilt close to the fire. I try to rest but in these new surroundings I find myself alert, edgy almost. A knock on the door and I almost hit the ceiling. We look at each other and freeze. Only when the footsteps fade do we exhale.

She tells me she is hungry. No fancy dinner will be served to us here. How will we cope on our own? Perhaps we should have stayed where we were ... perhaps we shouldn't have bit the hand that fed us.

She becomes increasingly more vocal about her hunger. I must go find food. But the footsteps are back followed by a high-pitched voice at the door ...

"Chet? Is that you? Nutmeg? Are you there?"

It's the mad woman.

"Mama misses you, my itty-bitty babies. Come back to Mama. C'mon my iddle-widdle piggie-wiggies."

I look into Nutmeg's eyes. I'll let her decide. I'd follow her anywhere. The eyes say nothing but the nose goes into overdrive. The mad woman has stuck a piece of curly parsley through a crack in the door. Nutmeg's favourite.

I guess this is it. Bye bye Yorkshire Dales, hello life behind bars. And I didn't even get a chance to look dapper in my miniature Barbour Wax Jacket. Pish.

So I had a long conversation with the new guinea pigs, Chet and Nutmeg, last night. It went like this:

Here's the skinny, guineas, I'm gonna tell ya three things - listen carefully, learn well, and we'll get along just fine:

1. The Youngsters aren't going to wait forever for you to come out of your hiding spots and become the cuddly creatures that we promised them you would be. So get over yourselves. The coy thing is getting a bit old.

2. I promise to feed, clean, and cuddle you critters but in return I expect happy noises and "popcorning". I want entertainment, damn it!

3. I hope you are adventurous little piggies for in your future is a trip is to the Yorkshire Dales. Sitting in the pockets of my Barbour Wax Jacket you can enjoy the countryside, protected from the birds of prey that circle above. Perhaps you can even wear mini Barbour Wax Jackets of you own - how cute - rugged, yet dapper.

Basically, piggies, your cute faces and adorable furry bodies will only get you so far. It's time to start acting like you like us.

Chet and Nutmeg listened quietly during my entire speech, nodding with interest at the first two points, and tilting their heads quizzically at the third. When I was done I stuck a finger through the cage bars and said "Deal?". There was a slight lifting of each of their paws. I took that as "shaking on it".

Not yet used to guinea pig noises and their meanings I heard what sounded like a chuckle as I walked away. Perhaps it was the happy noise I had asked for in point two. Yes, that's it. They really listened to what I had to say. What obedient little furballs!

But as I walked up the stairs I heard it again and couldn't help but shake the feeling that perhaps I was being mocked...

I really am an old biddy. Forty years old with the aches and pains of an eighty year old, and, I tell ya, this damp spring weather is killing me.

My doctor understands. He's ancient. We're like that (my arthritic index finger is wrapped lovingly around my arthritic pointer finger, protecting it from the chill).

"Go on holiday," Doctor Oldie says. "Go to Mexico."

Mexico. Let's see. Aches and pains or Swine Flu? Swine Flu or aches and pains? Hmmmm. In Canada, with my best friend the heating pad, I shall remain.

Got me thinking though. Maybe I should consider a trip south. But where? The only place I've ever really fancied is the Yorkshire Dales ...THE YORKSHIRE DALES??? Holy Swine Poop! What was I thinking? Here was me with visions of sitting in my thatched cottage, drinking tea in front of the fire, listening happily to the sound of the wind and the rain hammer the windows ... I didn't consider how my poor old hips would feel about it ... I never gave a second thought to my wrists or to my knees! No, I was just going to drag them along with me on my adventure - unwilling participants as I frolicked through the dales and performed strenuous veterinary procedures as I joined the local vet on his rounds. How would my shoulders feel about pulling lambs from their mothers in drafty barns? How would my knees feel about standing in a field giving vaccinations to a herd of cattle in the driving rain?

I have been selfish. Perhaps I should reconsider this wild and crazy dream. Perhaps I should pick a new place to obsess about. Do they have thatched cottages in Morocco? Could I wear a Barbour jacket and khaki wellies in Egypt and go fly-fishing in the Nile? No, of course not. I need to face facts. My Yorkshire dream is all the more appealing because of the occasional rainy and damp day. My thatched cottage and open fire is all the more charming when the out of doors is soggy and drenched.

So screw the joints. Damp weather? I'll cope. And anyway, on days when my hips act up, old Mrs. Thompson from Happydale Farm will drop by with a hearty stew to warm my soul. And the local veterinary doctor won't mind if I'm not up to following him on his rounds, in fact, he might even be relieved.

There's only one place where I can frolic ... I know that now ... and that's the Yorkshire Dales.

Dear Billy Bob,

My last letter to you was one of anger and repulsion but today's letter is much, much different. Today's letter is one of heartfelt gratitude. Can you feel it, Billy Bob? Can you feel the love?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I don't know what you're talking about."

Well, let me explain. You see, had you not been a complete knob to Jian Ghomeshi I would never have had the inspiration to write a scathing song about the whole ordeal for the CBC Canada Writes online challenge and been subsequently crowned the Online Challenge Winner.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I'm not sure what that means."

What it means, Billy Bob, is that I am thanking you for being a horse's ass.

What's that you say? Would I say that to Tom Petty? Um, no. 'Cause he isn't a horse's ass, but you, my dimwitted friend, are the epitome of the hindquarters of any member of the Equidae family.

Yeah, yeah - you don't know what I mean by that. I get it. Again, I'll explain. The Equidae family is the horse family - horses, zebras, asses. What that means is that you are not only a horse's ass but a zebra's ass and yes, you even qualify as an ass's ass.

Anyway, Billy Bob, good news ... your knobiness has won me an iPod touch. And I feel so indebted to you I might even consider putting a Boxmasters song on it, preferably a track on which you were to too sulky/lazy/childish to play the drums.

Sincerely,

Old Biddy

Following one's favourite celeb on Twitter can be quite exciting. When I first entered into the world of Twitter I was thrilled to know what Jamie Oliver was having for lunch and Stephen Fry's clever and witty posts always caught my attention.

Wow. Stalking from your easy chair - what could be better than that?

That's what I thought for the first week anyway. And then some of the celebs started to share too much ... and shattered the illusion of who I thought they were.

For example, one of my favourite singer-songwriters posted this: Would you rather eat your own poo or drink someone else's vomit?

Had this been a post from some random person on my list I would have rolled my eyes at the dumbness of it and immediately hit the Remove button. But I didn't. And why didn't I? Because of this person's celebrity status?? Boy am I sad.

Question is, do we really want to get to know our celebs? I am not sure that I do.

I even had a little scare with my man, Jian Ghomeshi, when I joined his Facebook fan page. There, "Jian" posted regularly and shared lots of pics. Sounds great, doesn't it? Well it wasn't. I didn't really want to see photo upon photo of Jian and his girlfriend! Another illusion shattered. And the photo album entitled "Beer, booze and babes" really turned me off - where had my charming, respectable radio host gone???

Turns out this fan page was run by an impostor! Phew, now I can go back to my fantasy world of thinking Jian is mine and only mine.

Following the stars on Twitter or Facebook is a gamble. The info they post can either be endearing or off-putting. Do I want to follow their posts and get closer to their real lives or do I want to live in my fantasy world and maintain the image of who I think they are? When the posts are of the poo/vomit variety I think I prefer the latter.