We’re probably all in the same boat at the moment: trying to ride out the political seas of crisis we find ourselves on. Laughter this week came from two different sources, both unexpected, and both shareable. I hope these will bring a smile to your face as they did mine...

At a local gathering it is customary to bring wrapped gifts for money-raising at the end of the meeting. I duly paid a £1 for my ticket, and the appointed moment of excitement arrived when the raffle was to be drawn. A friend next to me had ticket number 16 and happily announced 16 was always her lucky number. Sure enough, a prize came her way. The prizes went down one by one and then, surprise-surprise, my number was drawn. I shoved what felt like a book into my handbag and thought no more about it until I arrived home, had a peek, and saw it was a book of quick crosswords.

Although I’d like to think of myself as a wordsmith – in that I just love words and their aetiology and love playing Scrabble several times weekly with our son – I’ve never enjoyed crosswords. Since my husband enjoys a crossword challenge, I handed the book over to him. “Here’s a pressie,” I pronounced with munificence.

Well, he was chuffed to bits, opened it, and then started laughing. I asked why was he laughing – but he was laughing too hard to explain, so he handed the open book back for me to see. And then I started laughing. The following day I told a friend all about it – but she said she wouldn’t have found it funny at all. Indeed, she said she would have fumed, which made me laugh all the more.

There were 200 puzzles in the book, with a hair clip securing the page where answers were given at puzzle number 80.

By now you may have guessed? Somebody had done the first 80 (easy) ones. Every single one. In ink pen. And I’m so very grateful that I wasn’t cross because it’s been so much nicer to have laughed several times over.

However, my friend-who-would-have-been-furious has just come out of hospital. “I’ve got a story too,” she said. “This one’ll crack you up.” And it did. In her two-bed side ward a young woman was in the bed next to her. Post-abdominal surgery, her neighbour was asked by a nurse could she make it down to the ward loo, but she replied no, she was in too much pain. “I’ll fetch a commode instead,” said the nurse cheerfully and strode off to bring one back.

Well, the young woman turned to my friend and asked “what’s a commode?” So my pal explained it was a sort of wee-chair she could use instead of the loo.

Later that day the young woman rang her bell, explained to the nurse she needed the loo and, forgetting the word commode, asked might she please have the wee-chair again. Some while later a nurse arrived back rolling in a wheelchair! There’s a lot that gets lost in translation.

One last quick story. My GP father loved to tell of the time he’d been to a retired farmer’s on a home visit. There were budgies in an outside cage near the disused farm buildings.

“I didn’t think you were the type of man to keep birds,” observed Father. “Oh, they’re not mine. They belong to a neighbour...now then, what does he call them?... I think they’re buggeraygars” ...