Monday

But don’t you feel bad, says my husband, as we sit having an organic breakfast at our organic breakfast table, about all those sweet little jerkys?

I sigh and do my troubled face, like the one I did when Austin Powers had a hot-tub with Alotta Fagina.

This week I launched my own line of authentic organic snacks and beef jerky from my own organic farm here in Gloucestershire. It’s jolly exciting and will certainly show all those people who thought I was merely an excellent actress a thing or two. But Arun does have a point. It’s not like we personally do the slaughtering, but it’s still a shame all those poor jerkys had to die.

We must harden our hearts, I tell him, gravely. For that is what authentic farming is all about. No matter their soft brown coats and darling wet noses.

I thought they had beaks, says Arun, and feathers.

Oh darling, I tell him. Do keep up. That’s not a jerky. That’s a scone.

Tuesday

That’s the glorious thing about organic farms. They’re not just like any old farm. Most farms are all dirt and chemicals and chickens living in boxes. But ours is different. Ours is organic. Somewhere out there, where only the staff go, our scones and jerkys run free.

For all that, there’s one field next to the house which doesn’t seem too organic at all. In fact, it’s covered in dirt. We have Elton John coming to stay at the end of the week. He won’t be happy.

Get rid of the dirt, I say to one of the farmhands, who is called Ted, or Jed. Just scoop it up in your adorable little tractor, and take it away.

Jed, or feasibly Ned, tugs a forelock. But under the dirt, he mumbles, will be more dirt.

I roll my eyes. So take that away, too, I explain.

That’s the problem with the countryside. It’s all very pretty, but a lot of the locals are basically half-wits.

Wednesday

Into Harrods today, for the launch of my new snack line. A lovely journalist lady stops me for a chat, and wants to know if I have any regrets about giving up my successful (if largely catsuit-based) film career for the simple life on a multimillion-pound Gloucestershire estate.

Heavens no! I tell her. Some days I’ll just go outside! Even if there isn’t a photographer around! Out in the fields, throw a sick jerky into the back of the Land Rover, never happier.

A sick what? says the journalist.

Fuggin’ jerky, says Mohamed Al Fayed, who is passing by. Nasty buggers. Fuggin’ horns.

Mohamed has had a home in Scotland for years. In many ways, he’s even more rural than me.

Thursday

I don’t know what on earth Zed has been doing. Instead of taking away the dirt it just looks like he’s dug a big hole and put all the dirt at the bottom.

But Mizz Hurley, he says, miserably. The dirt doesn’t end. I keep telling you. It just goes on and on. It’s a field.

Fascinating, breathes Arun. The things these chaps know, eh?

Elton will be livid. I think we’re going to have to fill it up with concrete and pretend it’s a pool. This is supposed to be an organic farm, after all. We can’t have it just looking a mess.

Friday

I’ve spent the morning heating up a huge and extremely organic luncheon pie, which I bought the other day in Harrods. My husband has taken Elton down to the glade, to shoot some pheasant. Some people think that’s cruel, but we country folk understand that life is a circle.

Although I must say it doesn’t seem very sporting, says Arun, when he and Elton come back in.

Really? I say.

Yeah, says Arun. The poor thing doesn’t seem to have a chance. Maybe we’ve got the wrong kind of pheasant.

Darling, I say, a little haughtily. That pheasant is from Waitrose. It doesn’t get better than that.

Elton wonders if we ought to take it out of the packet.

Explore UK News

• Crime News

• Education News

• Health News

• Scotland News

Times Recommends

• How I lost the gift of joy for a while
• Why Ann Widdecombe has got it wrong
• Alas, it’s the end of the road for petrolheads