Saturday: After a night out in Ealing, a colleague and I rescued a fox which had got its head stuck in a crisp packet. Like the heroes we are, we cornered the animal with an expert pincer movement, displaying much stealth. While I inexplicably thrust my hand into some nettles, my colleague grabbed the offending packet, putting us in line for commendation of the highest order. Showers.

Sunday: Was asked this week to write a comment to go on the back of a book about British sitcoms. Having never read the book, I decided to decline. I was also put out to see Nicholas Parsons had been chosen to write the foreword over me. So Chris Cowlin, "author 33 books", give me a call for your 34th book and I would be happy to write a glowing reference before it has even been written. Rain.

Next week: I have decided to start growing tomatoes. A strange decision when you consider that I don't really eat many of them, but it is more about the challenge and overcoming my chequered gardening past. Having almost killed a rubber plant through neglect, poisoned a cactus by accidentally watering it with salt water and once killed a brand new tree by sitting on it, I am not optimistic. Brighter.