Angelina Jolie’s decision to have a double mastectomy – and then go public – is a brave one.

When breast cancer patients have to have such surgery, many struggle with it.

Even though they know it’s necessary to save their life, the loss can be devastating. One woman once told me she felt as if she’d lost her femininity. The one thing that clearly made her a woman had gone.

This was several years ago, before re-constructive surgery was as good as it is today, and many women decided against implants.

So the thought of a woman deliberately having her breasts removed seemed alien to some.

I interviewed a Medway woman about 16 years ago, who made exactly the same decision as Angelina after discovering she too carried the faulty BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene.

She had watched as several female relatives were diagnosed with breast cancer. Some had died.

She did not want to suffer the same fate so decided to have both her breasts removed. It’s a brave decision now, but back then it was unheard of.

As a curvaceous, beautiful woman, it was never going to be an easy decision, but it wasn’t one she had dwelled over for long. A life without breasts and fear was far better than a lifetime of worry.

If she could cut her chances of developing the disease – knowing there was an extremely high risk she would, one day, fall victim to it – she was going to do whatever she could to do that.

She was confident in her decision but recognised that some wouldn’t understand. But it was her decision, her body, and her future in her hands.

I thought at the time it was incredibly brave of her to talk publicly about why she’d done it, but if her interview encouraged one more woman to check her breasts, and save a life, it was worth it.

And Angelina knows that too.

Hands up if you’re having a good time? Well, don’t expect me to be waving my arms in the air, not because I’m in a miserable mood, but I’ll be lucky if I can lift a mug of tea today.

I’ve spent most of the weekend up a ladder, either scraping years-old paint off what seemed like miles of wood, or putting paint back on.

The lychgate to our church was built to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, so we thought it would be a good idea to repaint to to mark Queen Elizabeth’s.

It took a while to get all the necessary permissions and grants and by the time they were all in place, winter had set in.

This weekend was the first time everybody could get together in decent weather and a small army set to work.

Armed with scrapers, ladders, goggles, sanders, hot air torches and plenty of enthusiasm, we started stripping the paint.

The idea was that we’d have all the prep work done by mid-afternoon, get some undercoat on, and then paint proper on Sunday.

For a small gate, there was a lot of paint to scrape off.

I was put in charge of one of the hot-air guns, which was going well until Hubby pointed out I’d set light to a tiny bit of moss. I spent the rest of the afternoon checking the roof to make sure it wasn’t alight.

By mid-afternoon, we’d got the worst of it off, but there was clearly a long way to go. An executive decision was taken to scrape the rest of the worst bits and sand down the rest.

On Sunday morning, we started again, and at least by the end of the day, there was some paint back on the gate.

But guess what we’ll be doing next weekend?

I was behind a car on the A228 at Cuxton the other day and watched in horror as the driver swerved to the right, narrowly missing a vehicle coming the other way.

I did what any sane person would do, and backed off just in case they did it again – they did.

Then I realised what was going on. They were trying to drive around manhole covers that, as they glistened in the rain (yep, the sun had gone in again), looked like large potholes.

Once upon a time, you could drive along and not worry too much if you ran through a pothole. Chances were it wasn’t too deep and, apart from a bit of a shake, you and your car would be relatively unscathed – not any more.

Where I live, I can either drive along the A228 into work or take a country route. I never bother taking the rural option in the winter simply because I prefer not to drive along narrow lanes in the wet and the dark.

In the summer, though, I prefer the more scenic route; it might take slightly longer, but it’s far less stressful than doing battle on the A2.

That route is now covered with potholes, some so deep I fear for my suspension. I’d rather wait for an oncoming car to pass and drive on the opposite side of the road to avoid them than risk going through them.

Before you criticise Medway Council, some of these roads fall under Kent County Council’s remit, but wherever you are, it seems to me the problem is getting worse.

I know there’s not much money about and some tough decisions are having to be made by those in charge of our purse strings, but it really is getting to the point where there will be a serious accident.

And if it’s one caused by someone who thought they were avoiding a pothole, rather than actually hitting one, in some ways that’s even more tragic.

Thirty years ago this week, the humble pound coin came into circulation.

A chunky, gold-coloured coin replaced our little green note and the change in our pocket was never the same again.

I remember a friend of mine framing a one pound note. I thought she was bonkers at the time but if she’d hung onto a few of them, she could be more than quids in right now. Or maybe she needs to wait a few years before it will be worth more than £1.

In the beginning, they were a novelty and I quite liked them, but who would have thought we’d have to carry around so many of them to buy what we need?

Thirty years ago, a pound could buy you two pints of beer or 20 cigarettes. You could have also bought three loaves of bread or almost three litres of petrol.

Try buying all that now, and you’re looking at forking out about £20, not £4.

When I was a student, you could have a good night out and still get a cab home for a fiver. These days, you can’t even have a night in with a takeaway for that.

The coin was introduced because it lasts longer than the note, which needs replacing after about nine months. The coin can last about 40 years.

All it seems to have done for me is weighed down my purse. As someone who doesn’t carry around wads of £10 and £20 notes (I don’t think I’ve ever possessed a £50), most of the cash I carry is coins – £2, £1, 50p, 20p, 10p. I don’t carry five pence pieces – I try, but all I seem to do is lose them.

So if there’s ever any thought of introducing the £5 coin into general circulation (apart from the commemorative ones), please don’t.

Or at least wait until a pint of milk costs a tenner, which I’m hoping will be way beyond my lifetime.

For a woman who doesn’t do much cooking, I seem to spend an awful lot of time watching cookery programmes.

I’m lucky enough to have a hubby who adores concocting all sorts of dishes, which would be great if he remembered to write down the ingredients so we could eat the best ones again.

Sadly, he never does, but it means many meals are a wonderful new adventure.

Anyway, he’s a great cook, loves watching cookery programmes and, if I’m not eating food, I’m just as happy to watch television about it.

You can often find me on the x-trainer at the gym watching somebody serving up plates of pasta. Somehow it spurs me on.

But there are some things I just don’t get. One of the latest fads they all seem to be trying out is cooking in a water bath.

I’m sure it’s far more complex than it sounds, but I’m also pretty sure I was doing that when I was about 14. Except we called it boil in the bag curry and rice.

And what’s with all the “smears” of puree (otherwise known as liquidised), foam (liquidised and frothed) or coulis (sauce)?

I know times are tough, but if I’m paying decent money, I want a decent dollop of honey roasted and curried parsnip puree.

I don’t want to just get a whiff of it and then be forced to lick it off the plate just to see what it tastes like.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my food to look good; I want it to look like somebody lovingly prepared it and didn’t just throw it at the plate.

But if somebody’s put hours of work into producing something, I also want more than half a mouthful. I want to go back and savour it.

Whether it’s roasted sea bass on a bed of hand-picked mussels cooked in gold leaf or a great big, doorstep bacon buttie from the caff, make the portions plentiful – don’t leave me hungry. Unless the puddings are gloriously great, too.

For someone who isn’t a Roman Catholic, I spent a lot of time watching and waiting for the result of the vote on the new Pope.

Forget X Factor, this had me on the edge of my seat.

I had 24-hour rolling news on for hours, watching for signs of smoke from that chimney.

Annoyingly, I’d given up and gone for a bath when it finally came billowing out.

Determined not to be up to my eyes in suds when the name of Pope Benedict’s successor was announced, I quickly got dressed, dashed down the stairs and plonked myself on the sofa.

I then spent another 45 minutes sat watching a window, and thousands of other people watching the same window.

Finally, somebody came out and told us the new man in charge was Pope Francis – although I was five minutes ahead of Sky News, who didn’t appear to have anyone on their team who spoke Latin.

I’ve never studied the language either, but it wasn’t hard to guess that the word ‘Franciscus’ was probably the former Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio’s papal name in Latin.

When a big story is about to break, it’s understandable why news channels devote so much time to the waiting game – they want to be first.

And it gives Joe Bloggs an insight into how much waiting around journalists sometimes have to endure to get the story everyone is after.

It was the same when Raoul Moat went on the run. I seemed to watch a police officer stood at the end of a road for hours. Hardly anything happened at that police cordon but I tuned in, desperate to know what was going to happen next.

When Big Brother was first broadcast 24 hours a day, I was addicted. That was until one morning when I tuned in over breakfast, I realised I’d been sat for 20 minutes watching other people sleeping.

I clearly need help to find the Off switch on my remote.

When I pulled up at a pedestrian crossing the other morning, a child on his way to school was patiently waiting with his bike.

He was wearing dark trousers, a white shirt, dark waistcoat – and a top hat. I burst out laughing then realised that behind him there was a young girl dressed as a clown.

It was World Book Day, and the closer I got to the school, the more weird and wonderful the characters were.

Princesses, pirates, cowboys, indians, a Cat in the Hat and a Where’s Wally; the effort that goes into the costumes these days is staggering.

We never marked World Book Day when I was young – it didn’t start until long after I’d left school.

But it didn’t seem to stop us dressing up in all manner of stupid costumes.

One year, we held some sort of medieval day and we all had to dress accordingly. It wasn’t so bad for the girls who were able to don long dresses and make suitable headgear out of a large paper cone and a scarf.

I was even luckier – I’d been a bridesmaid not so long before and still had a yellow dress with matching mop cap. Someone somewhere has the photographic evidence (please mum, whatever you do, don’t go digging out those albums).

It was the boys I felt sorry for. Most of them had to dress as pages and costumes were cobbled together from pillow cases, a length of rope for a belt – and tights.

Not a good look when you’re 10.

Then there was the time when we decided to re-enact a scene from fame. Leotards and leg-warmers – what were we thinking? Then there was some theatrical dance at secondary school where I was a tree. A tree? Watch out Helen Mirren.

But nothing will top my Little Miss Moffat outfit, cobbled together for some street party or other, where the mop cap got another outing but I had a giant stuffed spider. Now that really terrified the kids.

I went to an 18th birthday party on Saturday night.

The last time I went to one of those, I had a bubble perm, was skinny enough to wear leggings and stayed up dancing all night.

This time round, my hair is poker straight, the only leggings I wear these days are thermals for netball, and although I can still manage the dancing, the days of seeing the sun rise after an all-night celebration are long gone.

Yes, another one of life’s milestones has arrived – one of my best friend’s children is officially an adult.

How did that happen? I’m sure it was only last month he left nursery.

Every time I see him, he’s grown some more. I swear he grows taller so it’s harder for me and his mum to give him an embarrassing hug, which is probably a wise move.

Even wiser was that apart from the obligatory chorus of Happy Birthday from all his family as he blew out the candles on his cake, he avoided the limelight as he and his mates spent the best part of the evening playing pool in their den.

Every now and then they would emerge to grab a few beers – and shake their heads in mock shame at some of the dance moves us oldies were showing off which, as it turned out, were pretty much the same moves we were trying to pull off when we were 18.

It was a fantastic evening, full of laughter and just enough embarrassment for the birthday boy (although this might add a bit more, Liam).

When I got home, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and took off my make up. A few more wrinkles were there on my face, and another grey hair glinted at me in the light.

I quickly pulled it out and bopped my way into the bedroom, humming along to some Simple Minds.

When my mum told me she still felt like she was still 18 all these years later, I never believed her. But she was right again – darn it!

I wonder how many of us would eat horse meat if it was easier to get hold of.

It’s not illegal to sell or to eat horse in this country, it’s supposed to taste somewhere between beef and venison, it’s lower in fat than beef – and much cheaper.

We already slaughter thousands of horses a year in this country for consumption and send them abroad.

But are we ready to stomach it on our plates? I’m not so sure – I still have trouble with rabbit. I can’t get that image of Flopsy Bunny out of my head no matter how tasty the pie might be.

It’s all about choice, and that’s the issue here – if Findus had labelled up their lasagne as 100% horse meat, they might not have sold as many, but at least we’d have known what we were getting – Dobbin rather than Daisy.

There is a positive in all this. We’re forever being told we shouldn’t rely on ready meals, and that cooking from scratch is far healthier because you know what you’re putting in.

Maybe now’s the time to go back to the days when you cooked double the amount you need, ate one portion and froze the other for later (see, a home-made ready meal).

Better still, buy your meat locally, then you’ll know exactly where it has coming from and you’ll be supporting local industry.

Butchers and freezer salesman will be rubbing their hands with glee.