I had a lovely time at the weekend playing with my new toys. As soon as I'd taken them out of their boxes I got them working. Whirrrr ... Buzzzz ... Oh, it was exciting!

Imagine the look of delight on a child's face as the little darling opens all those presents on Christmas morning and you'll have some idea of my expression.

"Here, let me have a go," said The Mother as she peered over my shoulder to see what I was doing.

"Shan't," I said petulantly. "These are mine and you're not to touch."

Now then children ...

"You never were good at sharing, even as a child," she said. "When your friends came round to play you always hid your toys."

Some people, of course, believe that when you grow up and leave childhood behind, you say goodbye to toys forever.

Not true. Haven't you heard of adult toys? No, I don't mean those sort of adult toys, the ones you order from catalogues and which arrive discreetly wrapped in plain brown paper (or so I'm told).

No, I mean those gadgets and gizmos, usually totally unnecessary objects, that we grown-ups buy because we think our lives will be immeasurably improved by owning them.

In my case the weekend haul included a fruit and vegetable blender promising pints of home-made fruit cocktails and smoothies, something calling itself a Lean, Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine and a dinky little coffee bean grinder.

"I know what will happen to these," said The Mother dismissively. "They'll go the same way as the toasted sandwich maker and the electric coffee frother ("Instant Cappuccino Guaranteed") - into the loft or down to one of the charity shops after a couple of weeks."

"You're only annoyed 'cos I won't let you play," I said. "Go and fiddle with the toaster. That's yours."

I was completely content for the next few hours.

I pureed a pineapple, mashed a mango and crushed celery. I grilled salmon steaks and chicken thighs and watched the liquid fat drip and drain away into a container under the pan. I felt lean and mean just watching the process.

I also ground my coffee beans till the kitchen smelled like an Italian deli - although, as The Mother felt obliged to mention, the smell was also reminiscent of something you might inadvertently tread in on the pavement if you didn't watch where you were walking.

She also complained that my freshly ground coffee tasted bitter. Ha, I thought, let her drink tea.

I wasn't going to admit that actually she had a point. The coffee could have stripped paint. I drank several large mugs of this noxious brew.

Saturday proved a most uncomfortable night. Excessive caffeine in my body made me edgy and unable to sleep. I also felt extremely queasy.

On Sunday morning I sipped a cup of hot milk and had a slice of dry toast - after negotiations with The Mother on the use of 'her' toaster.

For the remainder of the day I drank Earl Grey and mineral water.

On Monday I came downstairs to find a box on the kitchen table.

"What's that?" I asked.

"That," said The Mother, "is for you to take to the charity shop."

Inside was the dinky little coffee bean grinder.

"Fancy a cup of Nescafe?" she asked.