Advice freely given

Ginny's fellow dog owners are never backwards in coming forwards with their opinions on how Ginny is getting on with my training.

Dog training is new to Ginny. It is also new to me. I mean I was aware that technically I couldn't expect the household to put up with my mess everywhere and so I have acquired the skill of scratching at the door when I need to go outside to 'make toilet' as Ginny's American friend Bonnie calls it. Now I just have to stand by the back door and Ginny comes and opens it straight away - she's learnt that one quite quickly.

Scratching the door, any door, is a good way of getting some attention in the Philpott household. It's not always the type of attention I want - having cushions thrown at me is all very well but if I'm scratching at a door it's because I want to go through it, not be bombarded with soft furnishings. Unfortunately there are a lot of doors in the house that I am not allowed to go through. Four bedroom doors are shut to me, so are the two bathroom doors, the dining room door, the children's playroom door and, during the day, the living room door. I find this sad because on the other side of those doors are lots of interesting and smelly things. A massive Beanie Baby collection, shiny CDs and toilet rolls to chew, comfy beds to lie on, chair and table legs to nibble, Lego, K'nex and Warhammer to swallow. These are all barred to me now. But I digress from the dog training . . .

Our walks in the morning are peppered with stops to chat. The dog owning fraternity is very friendly, in my opinion. That opinion is not shared by Ginny. Sometimes she comes home from our walks with some less than charitable opinions of the people we have met while out.

Take Mrs Holier-than-Thou as Ginny calls her, not to her face. Much to Ginny's chagrin she was just retrieving me from a rather smelly ditch when the holier-than-thou tones trilled across the field. I was covered in mud and was just having a bit of fun shaking it onto Ginny - it's nice to share these things.

'Ginny! What on earth are you doing in that hedge?'

Ginny's face looked like a Cadbury's mini-egg, spattered with tiny flecks of brown. She wiped a tissue over it and succeeded in smearing the mud across her eye. She gave up and blinked peevishly at the green figure fast approaching.

Mrs HTT dresses for the country - Hunter wellies, blue of course, Barbour jacket, green, and one of those scarves that you only see on English women, the ones with pictures of horsey things like stirrups and bridles.

She walks an English pointer called Bernard, who is impeccably well-behaved. Two sharp peeps on Mrs HTT's whistle and Bernard is there at her feet and gazing into her eyes waiting for a treat.

'Haven't you trained Arrow to the whistle yet Ginny?' she asked this morning.

'Err no. We're still on the coming when I call stage,' said Ginny.

'Oh train him to the whistle. It'll save your voice. I've had gun dogs all my life they need to respect your whistle,' Mrs HTT said in much the tone of voice that Joyce Grenfell would have used when talking to a recalcitrant schoolgirl.

Respect your whistle! Come on Mrs HTT. What self-respecting dog is going to come to a whistle when there are rabbits and pigeons to chase?

Ginny hates Mrs HTT. I heard her telling Clive that it was all very well Mrs Htt being a born-again Christian but that hadn't stopped her shacking up with her children's piano teacher once she'd booted her husband out of the extensive marital home. 'She got all her sinning done then turned to God. Now tells us all how useless we are at training our dogs and inviting us to prayer meetings. Cow,' sniffs Ginny.

Oh come on Ginny. You're not doing too bad, now come and let me out of the door before it's . . . too late.

Oh dear.