I came across this little gem while looking for local Welsh news on the icwales website. Apparently, ‘signed off by the Home Secretary’ (what the hell does that mean exactly?) about 800 organisations are going to have the right to see anyone’s mobile phone records without first getting permission.

Think about it. EIGHT HUNDRED ORGANISATIONS! Could you think of even twenty organisations who might reasonably need such information? The police. The... um... Yes, the list runs out pretty quickly, doesn't it?

Even if you’re the Napoleon of Crime, there aren’t that many organisations who need to know whether you are going to pick up Aunty Blod from the dentist or be late home.

And it’s all being done to ‘fight terror.’ No, it isn’t. It’s being done to feed the endless cancer of bureaucracy and power hungry little tyrants that seem to be running this country.

I mean, where did you see in any party’s manifesto the line ‘Oh, and by the way we are going to make everyone feel much safer by checking your phone records?’

No, I thought not.

And I’m sick of hearing ‘If you’ve got nothing to hide then you’ve got nothing to fear.’ Yes we have. We ought to be terrified of the criminal, the deranged, the downright bloody malevolent who are going to get their hands on such information.

It can happen. It does happen. Doctors and nurses have deliberately killed or harmed patients. Policemen have turned out to be more corrupt than many of the criminals they arrest. Priests have been paedophiles.

And nosey parkers on the other end of a phone tap will go insane with a power they never should have been given in the first place.

Okay, rant over. You can come out now.

One thing you never seem to see in films featuring St Bernards is the sheer amount of mess they can make! Today it’s raining heavily, I am trying to keep the dogs indoors (with the run of the back yard, which isn’t a bad size) but away from mud, leaves etc., for the sake of my sanity.

Of course, most St Bernards love the water: rivers, the sea, canals, you name it, they want to be in it. And they just love being out in the rain.

Their footprints are like tea plates. They can stand over 6feet tall when they want to. That means that nothing – nothing – is out of bounds to them. They are also gloriously inquisitive and childlike.

So when they saw a nice hanging basket out in the yard, they decided it would be fun to play football with it. And then tug of war.

The result is that while I am in another room working, they are having the time of their lives in the kitchen. And it’s all done silently. All I can hear is the odd yawn, maybe a wistful sigh. And beyond the door of the back hallway they are Beckham, or Pele or George Best, dribbling (literally!) up and down, round and round…

The mess was indescribable. I nearly cried. I mean, they tried to be good, they thought I’d be pleased that they played indoors and not out in the rain.

I stood there, ankle deep in mud, basket liner, grotty bits of plant now mangled beyond recognition and was met by three pairs of eyes – big, brown, eyes that make you feel you’ve just kicked Bambi if you raise your voice to them. (I should add here that Homer’s eyes are green. They are neither soft nor doe-like, they are shrewd and appraising. He probably masterminded the whole caper.

Anyway, I’m off to clean out the kitchen. I’ll catch up with you all later!