Boll and I are taking a few days off, but we'll be back at the start of September with lots of new stuff and updates on our latest activities. Bye for now xx

Thank you to The Guardian for giving We Were Here a very nice review

Having been called 'mate', 'fella' and 'geezer' by complete strangers in recent times, I thought I was unshockable. That was until someone called me 'pal' this week. I may be many things, but 'pal' isn't one of them. I can sense a 'bruv' looming. It really is a disgrace. I didn't move south for people to be so familiar.

It's 3.37 am and I'm wide awake, sitting here with a glass of milk, watching Bolly asleep in her fluffy bed which resembles an upside-down winter hat.

Thankfully, I don't get insomnia very often. But when I do, it lasts for hours. I just have to get up and wait till I feel tired enough to go back to bed.

That normally happens at about 5 am, which is when Boll normally wakes up and decides it's a fun idea to howl outside my bedroom door. Meanwhile Jess enjoys wailing through the window around dawn. And the assorted waterfowls living near the house start quacking, honking and shrieking.

I'm presenting a programme about time capsules this week. It's called

We were here - how to create your own time capsule

And it's on BBC Radio 4 at 11.30 BST on Thursday (5 August).

It's a Radio Times Choice

According to their nice reviewer -

As presenter Ian Peacock discovers, what gets put in can never truly represent the whole human race, so it's better to keep the contents ridiculously personal instead! A good-fun listen.

Following my witterings about people who've been to Scunthorpe but never been to Southampton, Lea tells me that she has, indeed, been to the former but not the latter.

Here in Hertfordshire, it occurs to me that -

I've been to Tring but I've never been to Baldock

I've been to Harpenden but I've never been to Buntingford

I've been to Chapmore End but I've never been to Furneux Pelham

I've been to Cucumber Lane but I've never been to Darnicle Hill and

I've been to Bayford but I've never been to Cuffley

I'm not sure what this says about me.

As Charlene memorably sang in 1976 -

I've been to Paradise, but I've never been to me

But has she been to Ware?

Bolly consults her GPS to locate more food

My Radio 4 programme Cache in Pocket is now (finally) available on BBC iPlayer for a few days. And I've written a feature about geocaching enthusiasts for BBC Online.

Continuing with my attack on ludicrous TV inanities, today's absurdity popped up on a weatherforecast -

It's going to be warm and sunny. So 'warm and sunny' sums it up quite nicely.

Indeed, it does.

Congratulations to the Senior Peacocks on their Diamond Wedding Anniversary and on attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace.

Mum made and iced this cake

OK - I admit it ... I did photoshop one bit, but the rest of this pic is genuine

People keep moaning I never tell them when I'm on. So here goes ...

BBC Radio 4, Friday 23 August 2010, 11 am Cache in Pocket Producer - Sarah Langan

As you can see, it's a Radio Times Choice, described as 'fascinating' by their reviewer. How kind.

Basically, it's about my quest to become a Geocacher. Geocaching is a trendy-geeky hi-tech sport, which involves marauding round with a GPS receiver in search of hidden stashes.

Along the way, I meet a multi-millionaire who's found 15,000 caches, a hyperactive womble, and the legendary Dave Ulmer who invented it all in Oregon ten years ago.

I also get attacked by nettles, freak myself out in a tunnel and have a nasty brush with Muggles.

If you can't catch it live, you have no excuse. It'll be on BBC iPlayer.

looking for an extreme cache, inadvertantly impersonating Holman Hunt's Light of the World

This is possibly the greatest line ever. It comes from Tinie Tempah's Pass Out

I can really relate to it. Because - like Mr Tempah - I've been to Southampton but have never, to the best of my knowledge, visited Scunthorpe.

Has anyone, I wonder, ever been to Scunthorpe but never been to Southampton?

Thanks for all the responses to my quibblings about the price of this DVD. Yes - they did argue it was £8. And I actually gave in, but only after exposing the bemused assistant to a withering interrogation.

The consensus is that the price should obviously be just £4 (ie. half the marked price, which is £8). But there was also a feeling that it's all a bit random and shops just charge whatever they want.

The odd thing is, I only decided to buy it because £4 seemed like a bargain. And I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows Ben Whishaw who plays Sebastian Flyte. I only gave in because I felt sorry for the confused assistant whose hobbies clearly didn't include logic.

I just lost my temper in WH Smiths in Hertford. Well, I was mildly grumpy.

It was over the DVD which you can see here

Just so you know, there was only one 'marked price', and that was £8.

The question is - how much should they have charged me?

Answers in an email please - ian@peacockshock.com

A new pre-election activity has taken Twitter by storm. It's working out your MP name.

Your Labour MP name is the first name of your nearest caff or chip shop owner, followed by the name of your nearest former mining location.

Your Lib Dem MP name is your middle name, followed by the name of your favourite biscuit.

Your Conservative MP name is the first name of one of your grandparents, followed by your first ever street name and the name of your first headteacher.

That means I'm -

Alfie Barnet MP (Labour)

Geoffrey Penguin MP (Lib Dem)

Ernest Matlock-Chicken MP (Conservative)

RATS is my new campaign. It stands for Remove Absurdity from Television Scripts.

My latest pet hate is 'ahead', as in -

Ahead ... how a duck in Norfolk transformed a pensioner's life.

Ahead? Does anyone actually say 'ahead' in real life?

Here's your porridge. Ahead ... toast and marmalade.

As if 'ahead' doesn't chafe my sensibilities enough, it's now evolved into 'also ahead'.

'Also ahead' makes sense, I suppose, if it's preceded by something. But they just use it, willy-nilly, at any old random point - including the top of the programme -

Hello and welcome. Also ahead, are peewits making a comeback? And have you ever wondered why Belgian Buns have a glacé cherry in the middle?

Why the 'also'?

Why?

Was I alone in noticing that the new coloured Daleks had the same party colours as Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem, with the red one on the left, the yellow in the middle and the blue on the right?

Happy Easter from Boll and me.

Check out more adorable pet photos by Jane Burton I love this site.

I bought a new bedside lamp today, and the label said

If the external flexible cable of this luminaire is damaged, it shall be exclusively replaced by a similar qualified person

How very illuminating.

I don't normally do decorating tips. But here goes.

Basically, my kitchen walls were starting to look like Jackson Pollock had been eating in there.

I can't help it. I always end up with more food on the wall than in my mouth.

So I came up with a fiendishly clever solution. I decided to buy some paint which was exactly the same colour as my stains. In the end, I opted for olive green. It's stain-resistant and quick-drying and I spent this morning applying two coats.

The kitchen's now worryingly dark and resembles a distressed avocado, but at least it's stain-free and I'm a happy bunny.

If you're one of those people who, like me, have a daily to-do list, then try teuxdeux

It's a really neat site, where you can keep your daily to-do lists. You put a red line through things you've done. Things you haven't done are automatically shunted on to the next day at midnight.

And there's even a some day section for items that are less urgent.

Put it on your to-do list now.

Boll and I are loving Fireflies by Owl City.

More spider dilemmas today.

A few weeks ago, as you know, I was fretting about the spider living in the corner of the sitting room. I discovered it was literally a 'house spider', that they prefer living indoors, and that it's wrong to put them outside. So I just left him there, despite worrying about the lack of flies in the house. And he's done very well.

But then I brought the spruce tree in from the garden for Christmas. Now, the spider's moved onto the tree and made a small web on the top star.

So what happens after Christmas? Do I evict him from his beloved tree? Or leave him in his tree and put it outside?

And what should I get him for Christmas? Four pairs of fluffy slippers? A nice free-range fly with all the trimmings? Connection to the worldwide web?

As predicted by Peacockshock months ago, Joe McElderry from Newcastle won the X-Factor 2009. Well done Joe.

Boll and I had a few friends round for a pre-birthday lunch today - Wilhelm, Guga, Melita, Henrietta and Franklin. Not forgetting Bolly's best pal - Henry the Basset Hound.

EP I read in the paper we're supposed to be eating grey squirrels to keep the population down and protect the nice red ones.

ME Really? I could never eat a squirrel. They're too sweet.

EP How do you know they taste sweet if you've never eaten one?

Hasn't Christmas come round quickly this year?

Why does time speed up the older you get?

Why does it fly when you're having fun, but drag when you're bored?

I know. Sort of.

My next programme Tempus Fugit is on BBC Radio 4, on Tuesday 1 December, at 11am. After that, it'll be on BBC iPlayer and available as a podcast.

Eavesdrop on an experimental dinner party (just who is that loud cat in the background???) Meet a professor who throws people off buildings. Listen to me getting almost hypnotised. Go on a long car journey with my small friends Natty and Misha. And meet my friend Henrietta and her horse Ding ... disappearing into a time warp.

As Groucho Marx said -

Time flies like an arrow.
Fruit flies like a banana.

As you may know, when I train people who have to appear as guests on TV, I always tell them to be assertive and make sure they're feeling comfortable.

From now on, I'll be calling this the Mariah Technique, after Mariah Carey's recent appearance on GMTV.

Apparently she insisted on two men lowering her onto the studio sofa, in case her outfit got crumpled. She also had minders placed behind each camera to make sure she was filmed from the right angle.

And one of her entourage had to walk in front of her, backwards, in case she fell over. Love it.

Meanwhile, her X-Factor dressing room allegedly had to be specially painted white, with specific types of flower. She insisted on a bespoke tunnel to the set, in case her hair got wet during the ten foot walk.

For her book-signing at Selfridges, she demanded a £1000 throne and £5000 table (direct from Greenwich Village in New York) and special Fiji water from the rainforests to sip on.

And, when she switched on the Westfields Christmas lights, she requested a Rolls Royce to drive her along the pink carpet to the pink podium, where she illuminated the shopping centre with a wand. The model of car reportedly had to be changed six times before she was happy.

She also insisted on 20 white kittens and 100 white doves, but this didn't happen 'for health and safety reasons.'

But my favourite Mariah story is that her pet Jack Russell dog (aka Jack, or Jackson P Mutley) used to have his own first class seat on flights. He's now too big though, so he travels in his own private jet.

What's wrong with that? It all seems perfectly reasonable to me.

Boll and I were relieved to see Jedward evicted from the X-Factor, and we enjoyed Susan Boyle's performance.

We're still rooting for Joe or Stacey to win.

Here are some exclusive pics from Saturday's show.

Jedward

Susan Boyle

Joe McElderry

Stacey Solomon

Madonna's former husband

Ian: Have you been to Dorset?

EP: Yes. And we went to the pub where Madonna and Lionel Richie used to go to.

A huge thank you to Penny at Bluebeancartoons for this brilliant Superhero pic of Boll and me. It's made my day.

Bluebeancartoons do everything from personalised cartoon portraits to book illustrations, key rings to fridge magnets. They do business cartoons too. Very 21st century.

You'll be pleased to know there are lots of cats on the site (Tubby Tabby is Boll's favourite) and dogs too.

They're all funny and well-observed and I'd highly recommend Bluebean for birthday and Christmas presents.

Thanks again, from Superpeacock and Superboll.

Boll and I are supporting Joe the Geordie in this year's X-Factor. He studied at Newcastle College, where I used to play my trombone. And he'll appeal to both the teens and the grannies.

We're also supporting the fantastically deranged Stacey from Dagenham, because we like her mad laugh and insane campness. She's from Essex too, which is nextdoor to Hertfordshire.

Stephen Gately 1976 - 2009

A few views, including mine, on Jan Moir's 'opinion piece' about the death of Boyzone's Stephen Gately in The Daily Mail -

Stephen Fry

I gather a repulsive nobody writing in a paper no one of any decency would be seen dead with has written something loathsome and inhumane.

Roy Greenslade

The burden of her piece is that Gately's death is connected in some unspecified way to the fact that he was gay.

Her evidence for that claim is non-existent. Instead, she resorts to innuendo and goes on to make a leap of stunning illogicality by suggesting that the death 'strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships.'

Charlie Brooker

The man hasn't been buried yet. Nevertheless, Jan Moir of the Daily Mail has already managed to dance on his grave. For money.

It has been 20 minutes since I've read her now-notorious column, and I'm still struggling to absorb the sheer scope of its hateful idiocy. It's like gazing through a horrid little window into an awesome universe of pure blockheaded spite.

On the Mail website, it was headlined: 'Why there was nothing 'natural' about Stephen Gately's death.' Since the official postmortem clearly ascribed the singer's death to natural causes, that headline contains a fairly bold claim. Still, who am I to judge? I'm no expert when it comes to interpreting autopsy findings, unlike Moir. Presumably she's a leading expert in forensic science. Or maybe she just wants to gay-bash a dead man?

Moir genuinely believes the coroner got it wrong: 'Healthy and fit 33-year-old men do not just climb into their pyjamas and go to sleep on the sofa, never to wake up again. Whatever the cause of death is, it is not, by any yardstick, a natural one.'

At this point, I dare to challenge the renowned international forensic pathologist Jan Moir, because I personally know of two other men (one in his 20s, one in his early 30s), who died in precisely this way.

Moir's Apology

In what is clearly a heavily orchestrated internet campaign I think it is mischievous in the extreme to suggest that my article has homophobic and bigoted undertones.

My Response

Orchestrated? Not so. When I complained to the PCC, along with 21,000 others, I did it all by myself. No-one orchestrated me.

Oh. I forgot Jan. You're omniscient, as Charlie Brooker said. You were there when Stephen Gately died. You know a lot more than the coroner. So you must be right.

It's a conspiracy to bully you by lefties, liberals and gays. They're a nasty bunch when they get together and 'orchestrate'.

Poor you. I'm sure you'll write a well-researched piece of journalism about it. If you believe it's a conspiracy, Jan, then it must be.

PCC Complaints

I've just been reading about Lady Evelyn Guinness (1883 – 1939) who was obsessed with wild flowers.

She used to scatter cornflower and poppy seeds from train windows, all the way from Victoria to Arundel. And she pottered round her garden every morning, watering it .... with milk.

'Mummy's encouraging moss,' explained her son to bemused guests.

She only allowed wild flowers and weeds in the garden and expressed her disapproval, in a horrified whisper, of 'hideous roses in beds.'

Whenever she held a dinner party, her servants would be dispatched to the country to gather cow parsley, grasses and buttercups, which were placed in pewter pots on the table. At one dinner party, the guests objected to the weeds and faked hayfever.

An extreme traditionalist, she felt her house should appear as 'early' as possible, so insisted the fires should smoke and smoulder, giving the illusion that chimneys hadn't been invented.

Meanwhile, her beloved collie dog was equally eccentric. It was famously ferocious, but only bit men.

In The Pursuit of Laughter, her daughter-in-law Diana (the controversial Mitford) tells an amusing story of a picnic she hosted for a house-party on the Downs.

When they reached the chosen spot, the drivers of the cars unpacked a huge tea, a frying pan, butter, and eggs.

'Diana's so clever, Mummy, she can cook,' said Lady Evelyn's son, bursting with pride.

'I've never heard of such a thing. It's too clever,' she replied, in a whispery little voice.

It was good to read that the excellent Andy Kershaw has recovered and will soon be coming back to a radio near you.

If only Gordon had been media-trained by me...

I always tell my students -

(1) Never look or sound angry on TV.

(2) Never walk out of an interview.

(3) Always stay in your seat at the end of an interview, looking pleased to be there, until someone tells you to move - because you might still be in vision.

The PM, abruptly leaving a live TV interview by the BBC's Sian Williams, walking between her and the camera during a live link...

... and then switching awkwardly into reverse ...

... as Sian tries to make light of it

'It's time to emerge from your duvet, like Stravinsky's Firebird,' said a Classic FM presenter this morning, before playing the famous bit from the ballet.

Surely firebirds don't have duvets.

Have you ever met a firebird that slept under a duvet? I haven't. I'm telling you now. It was a misleading and ornithologically incorrect comment. It would never have happened on Radio 3.

Boll averts her eyes, as a scary jaguar appears on screen

Bolly and I enjoyed the first edition of Joanna Lumley's cat series on ITV.

Patsy - sorry, Joanna - visited the bonkers Ypres cat festival. She also hit
cat-mad Tokyo, where they routinely dress their cats up as frogs, rabbits, mice and so on. But there were some fascinating facts amid all the cat looniness.

We were astounded to learn that there are 12 million pet cats in the UK - 200 million worldwide - but shocked at how cats were treated by the church until as late as the 19th century. They were allegedly possessed by evil spirits and therefore burnt with their witch owners, or thrown from church towers.

But cats are revered in Buddhism and Islam. The distinctive M shape above cats' eyes apparenty appeared when Mohammed blessed his pet cat by touching his forehead.

It was interesting to learn that they've always been associated with women. Cat shows are mostly inhabited by females. And cats were normally depicted under the wife's chair in Egyptian tomb paintings.

Joanna visited Cairo, filming the cute cats around the city and then visiting the museum to learn about the gods Sekhmet (bad cat) and Bastet (good cat). And she looked at some cat mummies with the wondrous Salima Ikram who I knew when she was at Cambridge.

'What's the Egyptian word for cat?' asked Joanna.

'It's Miaowwww,' replied Salima, at which point they collapsed into giggles. Bolly and I found this very amusing.

Joanna with a cute cat

Dr Salima Ikram

As you may know, I'm dangerously addicted to A Place in the Sun, Escape to the Country, and Location, Location, Location. I may need to go on medication for it.

I'm attracted to such programmes because they're based on the illusion that everyone's rich and happy, and the only problem in life is having to make a decision about buying an expensive house in a lovely place.

One thing I've noticed about such shows is that all the featured couples blur into one after a while. I suspect it's because they all say exactly the same things -

(1) Wow. They all say 'wow' whenever they walk into a room, even if they don't like it. Sometimes, the husbands don't say 'wow', choosing to refer to the 'wow factor' instead, which sounds more macho.

(2) They always frown on UPVC.

(3) They either want 'modern' or 'cottagy'.

(4) They either love beams or hate them and talk about beams a lot. But they sometimes say they hate beams but then turn out to like them, which adds a nice twist.

(5) If they don't like a room, they say it's 'different' or 'unusual'.

(6) If they like a room, they describe it as 'nice' or 'light and airy'. The wife is much more likely to say 'light and airy' than the husband, who may occasionally say 'I can see us living here'.

(7) They become unhealthily excited when they see an inglenook, wood-burning stove or en suite.

(8) The husband always objects violently to being 'overlooked'.

(9) The wife has a thing about traffic noise.

(10) Any view - even if it's a scruffy old sheep on a tussock of grass - is declared 'stunning'.

After the break, Geoff and Janet visit a converted three-bedroom medieval brothel in Torremolinos, with a Juliet balcony and space for Janet's chickens...

I dreamt I was being tickled last night and woke up during the tickling to discover I'd been joined in bed by ... a small spider.

It was hogging the duvet, so I told it to sleep on the sofa.

This is the headline on the front of this week's OK magazine - referring to an outrageous wedding attended by the increasingly peculiar Jordan. I'd like to point out that I was watching TV with Bolly at the time.

I am a PC.

I am a smile when you least expect it.

I am the next Toyota Prius.

I am yet another deeply irritating 'I am' advert.

I couldn't help noticing the astonishing similarity between the YouTube Dramatic Pug and Gill Harbord - the headmistress on ITV1's Ladette to Lady, who looks like she's permanently sucking a lemon. But, oddly, my research led me to a photo of her looking quite jolly and holding an actual pug. Could it be her pet?

Tango the cat (he's the one on the left - they do look a bit similar)

I love this story. Last week, cat lover Jackie Ellery was watching BBC1's Question Time from her hometown of Newquay in Cornwall. She was also wondering where her ginger tom Tango had got to.

And then - a ginger cat suddenly popped up on the Question Time stage on TV, idly strolling around behind David Dimbleby and various politicians debating world issues.

It was Tango, who'd gatecrashed the show.

He arrived home shortly afterwards, totally unaware he'd just made an appearance on national television.

It's 2.05 am and too hot to sleep, so I'm downstairs with the Boll.

Here are some top tips on sleeping in hot weather from an Australian source -

Put your sheets and pillowcases in freezer bags in the freezer

Have a cool bath or shower before you go to bed

Run your wrists under cold water before bedtime (an important vein runs through your wrists so your blood will cool down)

Put a fan at the foot of your bed, on the floor where the coolest air lurks

Sleep on feather or down pillows with cotton pillowcases (synthetic pillows retain heat)

Sleep under a damp towel

Wear wet socks in bed

Use migraine ice patches

Hire or buy an aircon unit

Move to Iceland

I made the last one up.

It's 6th June and Boll and I have had to put the heating on.

Why do shop assistants say, 'Would you LIKE a bag?' Why put the emphasis on the verb? How are you supposed to reply? 'No. I'd LOVE a bag'? or perhaps, 'No. I'd DISLIKE a bag?'

Today, an assistant, who'd clearly been tipped off on ways to annoy me, asked, 'DID you WANT a bag?' DID? Why past tense? This upset me greatly and so I said, 'No. I didn't. But I do now please.' She gave me a funny look, and a bag too, presumably to prevent a conversation.

And then she asked, 'DID you WANT help with packing?'

Remembrance of Smells Past is on BBC Radio 4 this Thursday (16th April) at 9pm after the news.

It's Choice of the Day in the Radio Times.

An Easter miracle. My olive tree Nana has suddenly sprouted olives. Last year's plantpot fire clearly gave her a boost.

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived.
Helen Keller

My next Radio 4 programme is about how smells evoke memories and emotions. Why's the effect so extreme? What's going on in your brain when a smell makes you feel nostalgic? Can we use smells consciously to manipulate memories and feelings?

During my quest, I meet a Swedish professor who conjures up the past using smells in bottles, a tourist who deliberately uses a new aftershave every holiday to anchor his memories, and an elderly man who sniffs mud to take him back in time to his home village in India. There's Proust too, of course.

And I have weird time-travel experience as a smell psychologist helps me regress to my childhood.

Remembrance of Smells Past - BBC Radio 4, Thursday 16th April 2009, 9pm

As you probably know by now, the Great Bathroom Flood of 2009 subsided a few days ago and Boll and I had electricity again.

Then, in an odd twist, the condensation from Flood 1 caused Flood 2, which seeped into the electrics, so we had no lights again. It dried out though, and all was well.

But then, two days ago, there was an explosion in the fuse cupboard and all the lights blew again upstairs. This was caused by Flood 3 - totally unconnected to Floods 1 and 2.

My electrician (who may be moving in at this rate) said, 'You've got snow up your pipes mate.' A big blob of snow had apparently settled on my 'hat' - the chimney-like vent on the roof which the bathroom extractor fan blows out of. It had then melted and gone down into the electrical fan itself, blowing the upstairs lighting fuse. I'm now waiting for this to dry out and then we'll have lights again.

Just as well I've been off this week. And the good news is that my electrician has fitted a brand spanking new fuse box with lots of plastic switches.

They're fitting the new bathroom at the end of the month. Should be interesting.

The bathroom's now dried out, thanks to an electric heater I've had in there all week. Yes. I know that's dangerous. People keep telling me.

The electrician's due soon and I'm hoping he'll restore lighting to the house.

I've also bought a new shower, basin and ... um ... temple of convenience - due to be delivered on Valentine's Day. Most people get cards and flowers. I get a toilet. Great.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Here is a loo.
Love, B&Q

And lo it came to pass on the 25th day of the first month in the year of our Lord 2009 that a great flood did smite the room that is called the bathroom and behold the waters prevailed and did rage. And there came about great weeping and gnashing of teeth. Thus in his iniquity did Ian turn off the stopcock and cry out to an plumber that abideth round the corner, that was registered (thanks be to Corgi).

But the plumber did tarry awhile in his Ford Transit, for his Satnav was sore distressed. And in the room that they call the bathroom, noisome sparks and grievous buzzings did rend the air and there were three loud bangs, and Ian was sore afraid. And the beast that is called Bollinger did hide under the bed. And Ian did switch off the electricity at the mains.

And it came to pass that the plumber cameth eventually unto the bathroom and smote the waters, and they were divided hither and thither. And the waters did abate and did cease their raging.

And an electrician that was named Danny did isolate the lighting circuit that had occasioned the explosions and did switch it off. And darkness was upon the face of the dwelling place.

And Danny shall return unto Hertford upon the seventh day, once the bathroom's dried out, and will cry unto the circuit: let there be light!

And Ian and the beast that is called Bollinger will wax exceeding joyful and repair forthwith unto the place they call B&Q and get a new bathroom. Amen.

I'm still working at 10pm and Bollinger has hiccups and is in a huff. Isn't life jolly? We're hoping to cheer ourselves up in a minute by watching Breakfast at Tiffanys on DVD.

'Guess which famous person was born in the same year as me?' I asked on my birthday (having discovered I was born in the same year as various youngish-looking actors).

I should have known better. The person I was asking was James (Cambridge James).

'God?' he replied.

It's my birthday today. I share it with Nostradamus (1503 - a little before me) and Newcastle United's Michael Owen (1979 - a little after me).

I was born long ago and far away in the same year as Jodie Foster, Demi Moore, Tom Cruise, Ralph Fiennes and Jim Carrey - who are all very young, don't you think?

I intend to celebrate the day by chilling with Bolly and getting a Christmas tree which doesn't fall over.

At the moment, I'm dealing with my ancientness issues by idling around and listening to loud music with lots of feedback, while eating two Waitrose croissants.

I tried to buy a Christmas tree today and was convinced by a local florist to purchase a Norwegian Blue Spruce, with roots, in a pot. The idea was that I could sustainably plant it in the garden after Christmas.

But when I got it home, it collapsed. Spectacularly. It had no roots whatsoever. I took it back and, suddenly having a flashback to the John Cleese parrot sketch, complained that it was essentially ..... dead.

Unimpressed by my references to expired parrots, the nice florist agreed and gave me my money back.

'It's disabled', she said. 'It has a club root.'

I put my birthday into my BlackBerry diary today and it asked me to tell it the 'number of recurrences'. After pondering this somewhat morbidly, I decided not to tempt fate by predicting the 'number of recurrences' and to enter my birthday anew every year, just to be on the safe side.

The Subways - who are superb AND from Welwyn Garden City

I've just thrown iTunes into confusion. The 'Genius' application, which predicts the music you might like, based on your downloads, has had a psychotic breakdown and thinks it's an ostrich.

This is because my last five downloads were -

Happy Talk from South Pacific (um ... for Bolly)

The Prelude from Das Rheingold by Wagner (even the Wagner haters must like this)

Raindrops and Encore Une Fois by Sash and Stunt (two classic dance tracks merged into a quintessence of clubby fabulousness)

There's a Boat That's Leavin' Soon for New York by Louis Armstrong (makes me sooo happy)

and

All or Nothing by The Subways (Indie perfection from Welwyn, via LA)

This has totally discombobulated iTunes, which is now recommending totally random music and I fear may go into meltdown. What should I download next to confuse it even more? Steps? The Wombles? Stockhausen's Greatest Hits, sung by Leona Lewis?

Mum was 82 on Monday. We celebrated with a trip to the coast and splendid lunch. Happy Birthday Mum!

I was amused to read that a restaurant in Tokyo - the Kayabukiya Tavern - is using two pet macaque monkeys as waiters. It's all been approved by animal rights organisations and they only work for two hours a day. Yatchan and Fukuchan specialise in serving drinks and hot towels, and customers tip them with beans.

Congratulations to Michael Phelps on his record-breaking eight golds at the Limpics. As a big swimming fan, with a bit of (amateur) competing behind me, I'm very happy for him.

Phelps facts

He was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder when he was nine

He used to be scared of putting his face in the water

His Mum's a teacher

He's 6'4, with a wingspan of 6'7

He has size 14 feet

He spends 2-5 hours in the water every day

His middle name is Fred

His nickname is Gomer

He likes rap music

He has a pet bulldog called Herman

I've just got Sky+

This is because I hardly ever watch the TV, so I have a theory that I can at least catch some good bits when I do. I also go to bed around 10pm most nights and the best stuff's often on after that. You can record radio too - which is a great boon.

I spent today painting the house.

Congratulations to Jaime, Matt and Alfie on the arrival of Evie!

I have a dilemma.

I'm from the north but I've lived more than half my life in the south, and I pretty much speak RP English (aka BBC/Oxford/Queen's English) - with one exception. I use short As. In other words, I say 'grass' as in 'ass'.

It's not a problem and, until now, I've rather liked having a small souvenir phoneme which reminds me of Newcastle.

A few years ago, a frightfully posh BBC producer picked up on it and tried to make me read a script with long As. I refused (quite rightly). But people don't normally comment on it, although my barber noticed it the other day and started quizzing me on where I'm from. And, as we talked, I realised that I'm now deliberately keeping hold of my short As. My natural instinct now is to do long ones.

In fact, I use long As when I'm alone with Bolly and talking to her (as you do). And, when I drop something, I tend to pronounce the exclamation 'blast!' as 'blarst!' because it's an expression I've picked up since living down south.

And - yes, heretical I know - I now feel just as much allegiance, if not more, to the south as I do to the north.

So - I'm thinking of having a trial 'Long A Day' - possibly today. Should I announce it? Will anyone notice? Will I feel odd? Will I sound like The Queen? I don't know. It's actually rather exciting.

Hello again from Hertford. I'm back from deepest Essex. Boll seems pleased to see me and slept on the bed last night.

I've just realised it's exactly ten years today since the last edition of Radio 4's Afternoon Shift programme which dominated my life for three years when I was a daily features reporter.

It was great fun (even if I frequently stayed in Broadcasting House till 1 or 2 in the morning, editing on tape with a razor blade). I made some fantastic friends, met some extraordinary characters and I still miss it.

The odd thing is that it just feels like five minutes since the final programme and the somewhat riotous after-show party with a 'Titanic' theme.

But I'm well aware that I've done a lifetime's worth of stuff since then - reported on Home Truths and Front Row, presented 15 documentaries, moved to Oxford then Hertford, set up a media company, got through a mini-stroke and heart surgery, brought up three rabbits and a cat, worked everywhere from LA to Bangkok etc etc etc

Still - April 30 1998 feels like yesterday. I vividly remember the final on-air goodbyes, followed by champagne in the corridor outside B16. Then there was the party in a Kensington ballroom. I was dressed as a sailor and got appropriately tipsy with Laurie, Daire and various programme-friendly celebs like Beryl Bainbridge. And we rounded it off in Balans restaurant in Soho - having Eggs Benedict and lots of coffee at 6am.

As you probably know, Laurie (Taylor) is still on Radio 4 and sounding as eccentric, witty and clever as ever. I still pop up on the air when I feel like it, as do most of the other reporters. And Daire (Brehan) is now a high-flying barrister at the Inns of Court.

What was once the Afternoon Shift office - Room 800 on the top floor of BH - is now a glass penthouse occupied by Front Row.

It was definitely a love/hate programme, but I certainly had a great time working on it. And it's good to hear its spirit still pretty obviously haunting the airwaves.

Hello to anyone reading this who had any connections with the show. Hope you're well. Keep it quirky.

'Try everything once, apart from incest and folk dancing,' said Sir Thomas Beecham, and I've always found this to be useful advice. I've also made a point of avoiding flashing - until this morning.

It wasn't my fault. My bedroom isn't overlooked - except by the occasional chaffinch, squirrel or cat. So I occasionally pootle around, um, au naturel after my morning bath.

What I didn't bank on at 8.30 on a Sunday morning was two tree surgeons in the tree directly outside - just a few feet away from the window. They were brandishing chainsaws and looking straight at me.

So - I waved at them. Of all the stupid things to do - I waved, making zero attempt to cover anything up. And one of them politely waved back.

It was all terribly English. After the waving stopped, I got dressed, and they went on as if nothing had happened.

Radio 4 newsreader Charlotte Green corpsed (got the giggles) yesterday morning while reading an obituary on the flagship 8am news bulletin.

The problem was that the obit followed an archive recording, which a colleague said sounded like a bee trapped in a jar.

Here's the clip. Just click to listen.

Download file

I'm sure Charlotte wouldn't mind me sharing this recording I made with her for one of my features. It's her distinctive rendition of a famous Boney M lyric. She read it very well, as you'd expect (without corpsing) but I suspect she'd never heard the original track.

Download file

This sweet chicken appears on the front of my Easter card from Mum and Dad. Mum's very talented at embroidery and makes wonderful cards which she sells for charity.

A confession. I have beige carpets. They were just here when I moved and I've not got round to replacing them.

Beige carpets are an abomination. The Carpets of the Beast. The road to Hell is paved with beige and the Devil himself wears a beige blouson. It says so in The Bible.

The problem I have is that my drugs of choice are (1) real coffee and (2) red wine. My carpets don't take kindly to this. It threatens their insipidness.

Beige carpets are the Methodists of the carpet world. Every time I go near a mug of coffee or glass of Merlot, a sinister force causes a spectacular spillage. It's like living in a beige Bermuda Triangle.

I spend half my life spraying stain-remover. I'm keeping the Vanish company afloat single-handedly.

The other day, not one but two friends ('A' and 'A') spilt large glasses of Cabernet on the Carpet of Despond within minutes. They did, as Shakespeare would say, the multitudenous beige incarnadine. I removed it though, with the help of more Vanish and lots of frantic Lady-Macbeth-type scrubbing.

Cue Bolly - who sidled in looking unimpressed and was spectacularly sick on the same patch. It was terracotta-coloured, verging on mustard, with leaves in it.

More scrubbing. Beigeness restored.

Then another friend - 'H' - popped round for a cuppa and promptly threw an entire mug of Twinings English Breakfast within inches of the epicentre.

That's now gone, thanks to Vanish and more scrubbing.

The carpets are demonic and must go.

Peter, surrounded by my Thai cats

A big thank you to James and Nicola for Peter the Peacock. He's very well behaved and likes to perch on top of the TV, flanked by small cat bodyguards.

A very happy Christmas from Bollinger and me.

I've finally had my tooth taken out in hospital (sorry - the tooth saga has somewhat eclipsed my peacockshocking recently) and I'm back home for two weeks off.

See you again when Boll and I emerge from hibernation in early January 2008.

I'm worried it's too big and people will think I'm being all extravagant and nouveau riche. Advice please.

If I hear another TV presenter say 'thanks very much indeed for that', I'll throw a brick at the television.

I spent far too much of yesterday obliterating all traces of orangeness from the bathroom. It's now a tasteful white, with a pleasing wood-framed mirror from Wiggintons.

According to chromotherapists, orange relates to your pelvic chakra and is good for your sanity.

However - an excess of orange can cause 'confusion, tiredness, and pessimism.'

I've been painting since 7am and have eradicated most of the orange, but it's still peeping through. If I have to do 15 coats of white, then so be it.

It's 3.40 am and I'm awake, fretting about the orangeness of the bathroom. I just went in there, hoping it might look less orange, but it seems to have deepened overnight. Now I know what it must feel like if you're an insect and you accidentally land on David Dickinson's face. I'm going to get up at the crack of dawn, buy some extremely white matt emulsion from Focus and exorcise the orangeness to oblivion before breakfast.

What have I done? I had one of my whims and decided I wanted my insipid bathroom to look like a Tuscan palazzo. So I went to Focus and bought a pot of terracotta paint.

It wasn't terracotta. It was orange. About the same shade of orange as Dolmio Creamy Tomato Pasta Bake.

The bathroom now looks like Judith Chalmers has exploded all over it.

Rufus

A big thank you to Laurence for converting me to the excellent Rufus Wainwright. I've just downloaded the album Want One and it's sublimely brilliant. Here's one of the lyrics -

Vibrate

My phone's on vibrate for you.
Electroclash is karaoke too.
I try to dance Britney Spears.
I guess I'm getting on in years.

My phone's on vibrate for you.
God knows what all these new drugs do.
I guess to have no more fears
But still I always end up in tears.

My phone's on vibrate for you
But still I never ever feel from you.
Pinocchio's now a boy who wants to turn back into a toy.

So call me,
Call me the morning, call me in the night.
So call me,
Call me anytime you like.

My phone's on vibrate
For you, for you.

The water tank developed a small leak when I was in Thailand, so I got a plummer in.

After a lot of fumbling, he emerged with a grim discovery. A human foot, fossilised by limescale.

'Don't worry boss,' he said. 'It's a woollen hiking sock. Someone must have bunged it in the tank a long time ago to stop it dripping.'

He said this was the first sock he'd ever encountered in a water tank in a 20 year career and appeared to find it very amusing. I was relieved that it was a good quality sock and have put it on display in the porch. Friends have variously described it as 'disturbing' and 'downright spooky'. But I quite like it and may enter it for the Turner Prize.

My bewildering quest for new double-glazing continues. Every day this week, I've had salespersons round, bringing demonstration windows with them.

Today's salesman looked like Jim Bowen from Bullseye and turned up without his window. “I'm an old man,” he panted. “I've got a hernia, so I can't carry it from the car. Can I use your loo please? It's my age.”

He then spent two hours – literally - talking me through his tedious brochure and gave me a quote for £9000 – three times yesterday's quote.

"No," I said. So he frantically prodded his calculator and magically got it down to £4500 within minutes.

He then went to the loo again.

“I think I can get it down even more,” he announced when I said no again. And, putting his mobile on speakerphone, he called his boss.

“I've given the gentleman a huge discount but he's declined.”

Loud voice through speaker: “Oh dear. Did the gentleman like our product and did it fulfil all his criteria?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Why has he declined?”

“Don't know. But he's declined our generous offer.”

“Look. Give me a minute and I'll call you back.”

A minute later (still on speaker):

“Hello. I'm prepared to give him the windows for £3500 if he invests in our quality product today.”

“Thank you. What an excellent offer for the purchase of our fine merchandise.”

It was like being on Deal or No Deal with Noel and his Banker. I felt under severe pressure to say yes just to get rid of him.

But I said 'no deal'. The quote went back up to £10,000 and Jim Bowen left, after two and a half hours, in a slight huff.

I can't stop listening to the new Mark Padmore CD of Handel Arias - 'As Steals the Morn'. It's the best classical release of 2007 in my opinion.

'A beguilingly rich and sensitive recital from one of the most thoughtful tenors of his generation. Mark Padmore uses extraordinary diction and whispering chamber-like intimacy. Padmore is a master of taste, restraint and unassuming gesture.'
Gramophone Magazine

Last night was fantastic. I love my new look. Broadmoor chic has officially arrived.

I've now managed to cut myself and I'm spurting blood like a maniac. I'm starting to look like Magwitch from Great Expectations. If I go out looking like this, I'll be impounded by dog wardens.

I've just Britneyed myself and may never be able to leave the house again.

During a chaotic bathroom panic a few minutes ago, I concluded that my hair looked a bit too long for a night out in London, so I decided to do a number-two crop. But I forgot to put the number two thing on the clippers and ended up giving myself a 0.5 shave.

I now look like a psycopathic skinhead on the run from a correctional facility. But I'm determined to go out, so will counteract my criminally insane coiffure with studenty combat pants and an emo-ish belt.

It's good to know that Poland's politicians have got their priorities right. In Warsaw political circles, the latest hot debate centres on the sexuality of a purple Teletubby.

Apparently, Tinky Winky poses a grave threat to Polish toddlers. Because he carries a handbag, he's likely to turn them all gay. Ah. So THAT'S how it happens.

Perhaps the Poles have finally found some common ground with the good Christian folk of Moscow who enjoy nothing better than a nice afternoon's gay bashing. Makes a change from poisoning people who disagree with you.

Who cares what Tinky Winky does with his pinky? And since when did gay men go around with handbags? What century are we in? Would someone please remind me.

paw print in paint on living room window sill

I've been painting the house this week. Bollinger's been angelically well-behaved throughout, but she does have a bit of gloss-white Dulux on the tip of her ear and bits of paint on the ends of her whiskers. And there are a couple of suspicious-looking paw prints on a window sill.

'Don't worry,' said the nice Powergen person. 'We can transfer the final balance from your old house to the account of your new house and it will be covered by your first direct debit.'

This seemed sensible. I was told my first direct debit payment in the new house would be £44.

When I phoned up later to enquire about the date of the first payment, I was told it would be £91. Interesting.

And then I got a threatening letter about the final bill from the old house. I phoned up and a nice Powergen person said it was an error and apologised profusely.

A week later, I received a letter from a debt collection company, threatening to take me to court.

I wasn't happy and, in full Paxman mode, phoned up to fulminate.

'Well,' said the gormless operative at the other end. 'The problem is you've moved to a new supplier.'

I demanded a manager. At first, I was told there wasn't a manager. But, when I mentioned the BBC and Watchdog, a manager miraculously materialised.

'Oh dear,' she said. 'We didn't transfer the balance from your old house to your new account. We transferred the balance from your new house to your old account. So it's doubled the final bill from your old house. And the new direct debit's not been set up properly. So it looks like you've got a huge unpaid bill from months ago. I'm very very sorry.'

I demanded a written apology and got one. So it's all ended happily ever after, but I suspect I may be moving to a new supplier in the near future.

When Boll and I moved, we decided to downsize and get a tiny LCD TV, as we've always held that there's an inverse correlation between the dimensions of your TV screen and your IQ.

It arrived. The speakers were no bigger than hamsters and rattled oddly. I also needed binoculars to see the screen. It was the size of a guinea pig.

Also, Bollinger couldn't watch her birds-and-small-creatures video, as she throws herself at the screen while it's on, and she kept knocking the flimsy thing over.

So I've now given in and bought a frighteningly vast TV in a sale. It's not an LCD one so it has a huge bulbous posterior. It also comes with a monstrous stand. But the man in the shop says it has brilliant sound. And he confessed, sotto voce, that it has a better picture than its LCD equivalents. I'm also hoping it will be Bollinger-proof.

It arrives on Saturday. Boll and I are very excited.

Boll watching her birds-and-creatures video

Boll watching birds on TV when she was a kitten

Bollinger and I are currently going round singing 'Grace Kelly' by Mika. He reminds me of Sparks, although I can also see why he's also been compared to Freddy Mercury, The Darkness and Scissor Sisters.

We also like the new Just Jack track 'Starz in their Eyes'.

Both songs are excellent, but annoyingly catchy and difficult to shake off once you've got them looped in your head.

The washing machine installer, who looked like David Beckham in a bobble-hat, turned up at 10. But he couldn't fit it. 'Sorry mate,' he said (mate? mate? Hello?) 'You haven't got the right spiggot and your hose isn't long enough.'

I now have to wait till Thursday, when my friend Pete from Suffolk is coming to Hertford. He knows about such things.

I've been up since the crack of dawn because my new washing machine is due to arrive between 7 and 11 this morning. That means, of course, that it will arrive at three seconds to 11, if indeed it arrives at all.

Moving house went very well. If you ignore the police siege and the explosion.

The siege happened at the end of my old road - a sleepy rustic lane - just as I was trying to move out. Police cars and officers everywhere. A roadblock. Rough young men running around on roofs. Such things don't happen here.

Hertford Mercury report on the siege

After the siege was over, Boll and I moved successfully and were just remarking how quiet it is here in our bosky riverside glade, when there was an explosion upstairs. An odd, muffled sort of bang, accompanied by a peculiar burning smell.

On closer inspection, I discovered an alarming charred hole in the top of the immersion heater.

No hot water for five days. Marvelous.

The plumber said it was caused by a dangerous 30-year build-up of limescale. He then had to demolish the cupboard to get the boiler out and put a new one in. This cost £670.

All is well now. The house is lovely and Boll and I are very happy bunnies.

Bollinger inspects the new house from her windowsill

Boll supervises the move

Bollinger and I are moving tomorrow to our new house near the river.

'I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system. Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second.'

Some quotations to uplift and then depress you...

No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.
Charles Lamb (who went to school in Hertford by the way)

Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.
GK Chesterton

One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things.
John Burroughs

Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.
Oscar Wilde

Can one still make resolutions when one is over forty? I live according to twenty-year-old habits.
Andre Gide

New Year's Resolution: To tolerate fools more gladly, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time.
James Agate

Every New Year is the direct descendant, isn't it, of a long line of proven criminals?
Ogden Nash

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin

Boll and I were up betimes this morning after staying in last night. I was invited to various dinner parties and clubbing escapades and I did go out for an extravagant lunch with friends - before you conclude that I'm some kind of sad blog-bound loner. I just felt like a nice evening in with a bit of classical music and a cup of tea.

I also made a point of not drinking any alcohol whatsoever, which is unusual for me as I rarely make it to 10pm (some might say 10am) without a glass of wine. So I've started off 2007 without a hangover.

It was quite odd being sober as more and more bizarre texts flooded in from increasingly tipsy friends who were clearly losing control of all spelling and political correctness. One wished me: 'Happy Easter 1982, from the Alzheimers Society'.

I promise to stop savaging Ian's cleaners whenever they go into his bedroom.

I promise to stop mugging Ian's friend Frank for no apparent reason. He's a nice cat-friendly person and doesn't deserve it.

I promise not to bite Ian's toes ever again. His toes are connected to him and are not creatures.

I promise to wait till 6am before I wake Ian up by howling and scratching his bedroom door (if locked out) or biting him and putting my paw in his mouth (if admitted to his room).

I promise to overcome my irrational fear of ironing boards.

I promise to accept that children are human beings not dangerous predators.

I promise not to eat flies in a stagey fashion in public - especially when Ian's guests are having dinner.

I promise to watch less television and to stop flinging my copious fluffy frame at the screen whenever a small animal appears in a wildlife documentary.

I promise not to destroy Ian's carpets.

I promise not to terrorise Ian when he cooks broccoli.

I promise not to be offended when people think I'm a boy cat.

I promise to lose weight. I'm currently 6.3 kg and should be under 5.0 kg, but I hope Petplan covers liposuction, as I'm not going on a f***ing diet. No way.

Happy 2007.

Bollinger xxx

Madge from Neighbours

I'm confused. I was watching Emmerdale the other day and Edna Birch and her dog seemed to be having a row with Madge from Neighbours. I also saw a character from Neighbours on The Bill disguised as a policeman. And now The Bill has a policeman who looks just like that guy from Footballers' Wives who was also in Hollyoaks. Am I drinking too much coffee?

It's midnight and I've just finished packing before setting off tomorrow. Packing took about 17 hours.

I have various tried-and-tested packing checklists on my computer and I travel pretty regularly. But packing never fails to take up a stupid amount of time.

And I always mislay my international plug adaptor. Always.

'My parents have always been there for me, ever since I was about seven.'
David Beckham

'Alex Ferguson is the best manager I've ever had at this level. Well, he's the only manager I've actually had at this level. But he's the best manager I've ever had.'
David Beckham

'I definitely want Brooklyn to be christened, but I don't know into what religion yet.'
David Beckham

'If you don't believe you can win, there is no point in getting out of bed at the end of the day.'
Neville Southall

'I've never wanted to leave. I'm here for the rest of my life, and hopefully after that as well.'
Alan Shearer

'I'm as happy as I can be - but I have been happier.'
Ugo Ehiogu

'Leeds is a great club and it's been my home for years, even though I live in Middlesborough.'
Jonathan Woodgate

'I can see the carrot at the end of the tunnel.'
Stuart Pearce

'I couldn't settle in Italy - it was like living in a foreign country.'
Ian Rush

'The Brazilians will be South American, and the Ukrainians will be more European.'
Phil Neville

'I'd rather play in front of a full house than an empty crowd.'
Johnny Giles

'Sometimes in football you have to score goals.'
Thierry Henry

Bollinger and I have just watched the last ever Top of the Pops. TOTP is the same age as me and I've been a viewer on-and-off since I was 12, though not much in its last few years, as I've felt too young and trendy. Watching all the archive clips felt like seeing my life flashing in front of me. I felt an odd pang at the end when Sir Jimmy Savile, 79, turned off the studio power. Boll particularly enjoyed watching David Bowie and Robbie Williams. It was her first viewing of TOTP, being a recent convert to television.

'What dreadful hot weather we have. It keeps me in a constant state of inelegance.' Jane Austen

It's 6.30am and I've been up since 5.15. I decided it might be nice to spend an hour or two in temperatures below 36.6°C.

According to the news, there are dolphins, sharks and whales off the coast of Scotland. Such oddness is wrong. Repent ye for the end is nigh.

I kept my new fan on all night last night, pointing it at my bed. It has an oscillating function, but you can switch off the oscillations by pulling a knob. It also has three speeds. I had it on maximum.

The fan was noisy, but at least it blotted out the sound of the malevolent owl which normally wakes me up between 2 and 5am.

Boll and I were sad to learn of the death of Moose who played Eddie in Frasier. We were big fans.

What an excellent set-piece goal from Beckham. He ought to be made an honorary guinea pig. Come to think of it, he does sound like one. I watched the game alone, as none of my friends like football.

Thanks for the suggestions, which have included -

Sue from Sooty and Sweep

Fiona Bruce

Christine Hamilton

Emu

Anne Widdecombe

Dana International

Margaret Beckett

Dame Maggie Smith

AS Byatt

Moira Stuart

Jenni Murray

and

Cherie Blair

I'm not easily shocked, but I have been ruffled by this year's Big Brother - ruffled by the fact that none of them ever talk about anything. I find this really disturbing. The other day, one of them actually said: 'Let's talk about a topic' as if talking about ideas was a school project. Needless to say, they couldn't think of a 'topic' to discuss. I'm not talking about high-brow intellectual discussions - just the odd opinion or thought or cultural snippet. Their thinking just seems so impoverished, which I find sad and sadly typical.

Perhaps I'm just being snobbish (Arabella Weir argued in yesterday's Guardian that watching BB is all about defining yourself within the class system) But I suspect not. I just feel sorry for them. They seem to be missing out on so much pleasure by devoting the whole day to bitching.

That's when you can understand them in between the f***s. Channel 4 now subtitles a large part of the dialogue as they mumble and slur so much - espescially Mikey, who's a graduate. Yes. A graduate.

(The northerners get most of the subtitling down here - I wonder whether they subtitle the southerners up north?)

It might all be in the editing, but it does appear that most of them can't think and can't speak, and do very little apart from bitch and go on about sex.

And I watch them nearly every night.

Here are my nominations for a new assistant:

Bollinger

Nadia from Big Brother

Nikki from Big Brother 2006

Jo Brand

Clarissa Dixon Wright

Mavis from Coronation Street

Karen from 'Will and Grace'

Kim and Aggie from 'How Clean Is Your House?' (they could clean planets, polish daleks etc)

Please send me our suggestions and I'll pass them on to the BBC.

Dr Aric Sigman did in fact read my baseball cap admission, having been tipped off by a grass. His emailed reply to my crie de tête -

Have antlers grafted on to the upper cranium of your cerebral self. This will prevent any baseball caps or logos settling on your head, thereby protecting your high IQ.

I will take this as a compliment and intend to consult my neurologist.

Dr Aric Sigman

Suggested Cure

I thought you might like to know who I really am.

I am in fact a senior trustee of the WRVS, a non-executive chairman of the furniture group MFI, and a director of Lombard Risk Management. I spent most of my career in investment banking and I was also a special adviser to the Bank of England.

I'm also a barrister. I was called to the Bar in 1990. My practice covers property and commercial litigation, including professional negligence and company and insolvency work. I was instructed in the liquidation of BCCI. I have vast experience in neighbour nuisance cases. I'm a Labour Party Councillor in Hackney, London as well, and I stood as a parliamentary candidate in the 1997 General Election.

And I'm a lawyer in Bristol too, where I specialise in professional indemnity litigation.

I also work as Chief Financial Officer at a company called Iora. Before this, I spent ten years in public practice with Ernst & Young and PricewaterhouseCoopers. I have a first class honours degree in Biology & Computer Science from York University and I'm a qualified Chartered Accountant.

Meanwhile, I'm a principal of a financial products company, having spent over eighteen years in international banking with US banks in London. In 1985 I accepted an offer to join Logica, where I was a Principal Consultant. I also worked for a diverse range of clients in the UK and abroad including the Stock Exchange of Hong Kong, Lloyds TSB Group, Barings, Bankgesellschaft Berlin, Barclays, Shell, Credit Suisse and ING.

I'm the Chairman of Mothercare too.

I also find time to be a Canadian Senior Citizen. I was recently quoted in Canada's largest religious weekly, after meeting a group of 'youngsters':
Ian Peacock, 72, added, "We need to have more opportunities to talk like this. We can learn from them and they can learn from us. If we don't keep talking to each other, we start becoming suspicious of one another."

And I'm huge in the world of candles and hobbies, or "hobby's" as we hobbies people like to call them.

My spray-painting talent is legendary in the air-brush community.

And I'm a footballer in Guernsey.

Just thought you'd like to know. I've been misleading you for too long.

Me - being a litigation lawyer in Bristol

Me - being a barrister in London

Me - being a banker

I've been awake since 330am. I suspect this is because I spent most of yesterday drinking coffee. Bollinger, an early riser, is delighted about this. She had breakfast at 5am and is now with me in the study.

My aspidistra has now been given an emergency dose of plant food and inspected by Dr Bollinger who has declared it 'stable but a bit odd-looking.'

My aspidistra is gravely ill and only has one leaf left. I'm at its pot-side as I write. I've had it since I was a teenager, when it was given to me by my retired school headmistress, and it's accompanied me all over England. I'm very attached to it and it's always the first thing I place in the living room when I move house. Please let me know if you have any tips on aspidistra intensive care.

Sincere apologies for accidentally typing 'Artic' instead of 'Arctic' in a previous entry (now corrected). I find myself incandescent with rage whenever people say 'Artic' and deeply regret any offence which I may have inadvertantly caused.

Believe the hype. Arctic Monkeys rock. It's non-stop Monkeys on my iPod.

I'm a big fan of BBC London travel person Nicola Beswick, who always brings an elf-like quality to phrases such as "severe congestion on the Hangar Lane gyratory system." But what on earth was she wearing yesterday morning? Had she just got back from a bat impersonation party? I feel we must be told.

I saw it this weekend. It's actually about sheepboys rather than cowboys, but it's just as good as they say - stunning scenery, brilliantly understated acting and dialogue, and a leisurely but compelling storyline. One of the best films I've seen for ages.

Thank you to The Independent for naming me as a 'media star' of 2006. Apparently, I'm one of the media people who'll 'make the most impact' this year. How terrifying.

My programme about the cultural history of pineapples is going out again on Radio 4, on Boxing Day at 8.45pm.

The new Dr Who (BBC1 Christmas Day 7pm) will of course be David Tennant. I thought he was brilliant in Casanova - quirky and mercurial is a good combination. But who is he? Here are some facts which Peacockshock has uncovered (by torturing a dalek):

He's 34

He's Scottish and has a slight Scottish accent in real life

He was born David MacDonald

He chose his new acting surname in honour of Neil Tennant (Pet Shop Boys)

His father was a church minister

His favourite band is The Proclaimers

He once lodged in Arabella Weir's house

He was in the RSC

He acted alongside Christopher Eccleston (previous Dr Who) in the film Jude

He's described his image as 'geek chic'

And...he intends to do at least two series. Hurrah.

I'm only watching three programmes on TV at the moment: Space Cadets, Bleak House and The X-Factor. And all three are ending this weekend. Why are they doing this to me? There'll be tantrums. I demand a therapist.

Brenda should have won the X-Factor. The British public are tone-deaf and have no taste.

I'm now rooting for Shayne again.

Journey South annoy me by going on so much about being poor northern boys in need of a break. May they be consumed by whippets.

And Andy's a derivative one-croon wonder who also bangs on far too much about being a bin man. May he fall into his wheely bin, along with his miserable-looking toddlers, never to be heard again.

I don't actually watch the X-Factor by the way. I only hear about it from Bollinger.

I'm feeling ruffled. This is because:

(1) I've had no replies to half the emails I've sent this week.

(2) It's December.

(3) My aspidistra is unwell. It only has three leaves. I've had it since I was a student and I don't want it to die.

Has BBC newsreader Louisa Preston visited Peacockshock? I wonder. Anyway - for whatever reason - she's now a normal colour again and I no longer have to adjust my set when she comes on.

Boll has decided to comment on the alleged return of Louis Walsh to the X-Factor by falling asleep.

Bollinger Predicting The Demise Of Louis

Bollinger is a big X-Factor fan and has taken to predicting the fate of contestants and judges by turning her back on them.

Louis Walsh Quits X-Factor

It's International Tolerance Day today. And I'm pretty tolerant generally. But I refuse to tolerate one thing - White Teenage Boys With Afro Hairdos. Silly. Wrong. Must be stopped.

This fascinating history of pineapples has just been published by Chatto and Windus. My pineapple programme's going out again on Radio 4 on Christmas Eve.

I've incurred the wrath of the bee-keeping community.

This is because of my 'Joy of Laziness' entry, in which I

(1) anthropomorphised bees, suggesting they could be 'busy' or 'lazy', which (if you think about it) they can't

(2) said queen bees could live till they were 20 (not true - this was a slight exaggeration - they normally only live a year)

and

(3) referred to all bees as 'bumble bees'.

I apologise.

I just heard yet another track by the ubiquitous James Blunt. And, at one point, he repeatedly sang 'I'm so Harlow baby. I'm so Harlow.' I suppose it's one up from feeling Dagenham.

Harlow

I'm very into Breakcore at the moment and I'm a big fan of Venetian Snares. If you're not familiar with this type of music, have a listen to this Zane Lowe feature.

Aaron Funk and Cat (aka Venetian Snares)

Were-Rabbit

In Portland Dorset, there's a local superstition which means you don't say the word 'rabbit'. Instead, you say 'furry thing'. So the makers of the new film The Curse Of the Were-Rabbit have had to remove the 'r' word from their posters, replacing it with the phrase: something bunny is going on.

I was just looking at the Channel 4 schedule for tonight. How Clean Is Your House?, followed by It's Me Or The Dog, followed by Supernanny. Channel 4, probably the UK's most liberal terrestrial channel, is showing three consecutive programmes about tidiness, control and authority. I'm the first to agree with Einstein that "unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth". But could tonight's C4 schedule indicate some sort of public craving for a recognisable hierarchy and a few more rules? I wonder.

Thank you to John Curnow for observing that one normally 'pedals' rather than 'peddles' exercise bikes. Speling never was my strong point.

Louisa Preston

You may, if you're a regular, have noticed that I recently did a big section on orange tv presenters - particularly Louisa Preston of BBC1 who turned even more orange than usual last week. Then I dramatically removed the feature without warning. This is because my friend Martin Popplewell (newsreader, Sky News) emailed me to say Louisa had a terrible illness which caused the extreme orangeness. This resulted in a horrific guilt attack, causing me to delete my entire orange entry and go for a walk to contemplate life. Then Martin phoned me to say he'd only been joking. The moral of the story: never trust a journalist (though you can trust Martin when he's on the television - honestly - trust me).

It's 4.45am and I've been awake for two hours. All I can hear outside is the catflap next door. It's being used every few minutes. I'm not sure what's going on or how many cats are in their kitchen. As WC Fields said, "the best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep", so I'm off to bed again now, before Bollinger wakes me up at 6.

Moet the rabbit has just eaten an entire variegated plant in the garden. And I have to say I'm terribly proud of the little chap. I don't hold truck with variegation - never have - and consider it, well, somewhat Non-U. God intended plants to be green, solid green, preferably dark green. Anything else is nothing short of heresy and deserves to be "nipped in the bud" in no uncertain terms.

Good news. I now own an olive grove. Ever since someone told me that the broadcaster Natalie Wheen had her own grove, I've been desperate for one. And now I'm the proud owner and spent yesterday afternoon sitting in it.
Well, actually it's just a small olive tree called Nana (as in Mouskouri). But it's very pretty and makes me feel terribly Greek. The rabbits also like Nana, and are intrigued by the new Caledonian Pebble border...

Here's a new photo of me and Boll celebrating my return home, taken on Tuesday 19th.

Voted Top Choice by the Radio Times, the weekend papers, and the Guardian, Times, Telegraph and Independent, my next programme Lady Curzon And A Pineapple (a cultural history of pineapples, producer Caroline Barbour) goes out on BBC Radio 4 at 9.30am on Tuesday 19th April. Here's an excerpt from the Radio Times write-up:

Lady Curzon And A Pineapple - Presenter Ian Peacock explains that the former was the ultimate in upper-class guests, while the latter was an icon of largesse and luxury. Radio 4 at its most eccentric and idiosyncratic: like the fruit it pays homage to, this is gloriously tempting and deliciously sweet.

The programme's only 15 minutes long and features everyone from Lady Lucinda Lambton to 10-year-old Ben, who says his home-grown pineapple is "more than a pet: it's like a brother, almost."

Radio 4

My professional website, including clips from radio progs

Me, indulging in a pineapple feast
in a Lake District cottage

For more, go to www.historicfood.com and scroll down the page.

The 'Dunmore Pineapple' in Scotland
(real pineapple personally placed by me)

Me, recording the programme in an
underwater pineapple-shaped studio

My producer Caroline Barbour

The pineapple programme is delivered to
Radio 4

A Hawaiian listener tunes in to
the pineapple programme

I was oddly tickled by the recent Reuters headline Actor Tom Sizemore Fails Drug Test With Fake Penis. It reminded me of a New Statesman competition to write the perfect tabloid header. The result: Sex Change Bishop In Mercy Dash For Palace. But that was in the 80s. Now, you've got to stick a foreigner in there as well to guarantee sales: Swan Bake!!! declared The Sun last year. Asylum Seekers Steal Queen's Birds For Barbecue.

My favourite headlines, though, are the really obvious ones such as Queen Strokes Corgi, or, here in downtown Hertford, Chaffinch Sighted In Tree. Here are some more. And they're real.

Whatever Their Motives, Moms Who Kill Kids Still Shock Us Holland Sentinel

Larger Kangaroos Leap Farther, Researchers Find Los Angeles Times

Alcohol Ads Promote Drinking Hartford Courant

Malls Try to Attract Shoppers Baltimore Sun

Economist Uses Theory to Explain Economy Collinsville Herald-Journal

Bible Church's Focus is the Bible Saint Augustine Record

Biting Nails Can Be Sign of Tenseness in a Person Daily Gazette of Schenectady

How We Feel About Ourselves is the Core of Self-Esteem, Says Author Louise Hart Colorado Sunday Camera

Fish Lurk in Streams Rochester Democrat & Chronicle

Blue Skies Unless its Cloudy San Francisco Chronicle

Ambiguous ones:

Prostitutes Appeal To Pope

Sheep Attacks Rocket

Stolen Painting found By Tree

Then there are those headlines where they just miss an important part of a key word:

Nicaragua sets goal to wipe out literacy

I also love this one from the Los Angeles Times:

Chick Accuses Some of Her Male Colleagues of Sexism
Accusing some of her male colleagues of sexism, Los Angeles Councilwoman Laura Chick lashed out at City Hall on Thursday as the 'most sexist good-old-boys work environment that I've ever been in.'

Proper Snow On Plum Tree in Parents' Garden

I'm not happy with the snow at the moment. It's indecisive. It hovers round in the sky as if it can't be asked to land. It's as if it's texting its friends while it's falling. It has no moral fibre. And, here in the south, it refuses to settle. Can't they give it an asbo? Whatever happened to good old-fashioned blizzards? You knew where you were with a blizzard. Où sont les neiges d'antan? Où? I ask you. Où?

Being the very "pineapple of politeness" (to quote Sheridan), I feel I ought to inform you that I'm presenting a programme about the secret history and quirky culture of...pineapples. Lady Curzon and a Pineapple features the story of the Dunmore Pineapple, interviews with Lucinda Lambton and a teenage pineapple enthusiast and a pineapple feast cooked by the brilliant Ivan Day. BBC Radio 4, Tuesday 19th April, 9.30am (producer: Caroline Barbour - it's not her in the photo above, but she does like pineapples)

From Arial to Wide Latin
BBC Radio 4
11.02 am
Friday 11th February
What does your favourite font say about you? This programme is about the secret language of fonts (typographical ones) and the way they influence us.

I love penguins, but I also like shooting them with icecubes. Turn up your sound and click here for hours of penguin-bashing fun. It really is worth it. And I'd like to reiterate: I am not a penguinist. Some of my best friends are penguins.

"Work is the grand cure of all the maladies and miseries that ever beset mankind" wrote Thomas Carlyle. But what can you expect from a man who lived in Craigenputtock?

I personally side with Wilde, who believed that "work is the curse of the drinking classes" and with Van Gogh who wrote:

"I put my heart and soul into my work and have lost my mind in the process."

I've never worked. At least I've always (nearly always) done work I've chosen and enjoyed. I suspect I'd rather be on benefit than work in an office. And, contrary to popular belief, I'm very good at doing nothing, which I've done non-stop for the last month thanks to the vicissitudes of my bottom.

So I almost fell off my chaise longue when I read a recent Times poll that revealed:

29% of us love our jobs

78% would rather not work fewer hours

46% of women (28% of men) have less than an hour free per week

34% of people never do nothing (ie.they're always busy)

Surely doing nothing is what we're here to do.

No wonder the WH Davies poem Leisure is so popular at the moment.

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Now...stop reading Peacockshock and do something useful for goodness sake.

How old is the man in this portrait? Just yell out his age without thinking. Thank you. I'll reveal it later.

Whatever specific age you said, I'm sure you saw him as middle-aged rather than young or old.

The term 'middle-aged' first appeared (appropriately) in the Middle Ages, the 14th century, when they also used 'middle-life' and 'middle-eld'.

But what on earth does 'middle-aged' mean? Am I middle-aged? Are you? Can you ever use it objectively? Technically, I guess it means "in the middle of your life." But no-one ever knows when that is.

The Oxford English Dictionary is frighteningly precise: "aged 45-60"

But the Chambers English Dictionary is a little kinder: "between youth and old age, variously reckoned to suit the reckoner"

Other (less civilised) dictionaries state that you become middle-aged at 40.

So that means I am. Along with Brad Pitt (40), Rob Lowe (40) and Johnny Depp (41). All of us are classic middle-aged types. Brad, Rob, Johnny and I often converge on our real-ale local to smoke our pipes and make curmudgeonly comments in our cardigans.

Sometimes, we're joined by Fatboy Slim (40), Boy George (43), Madonna (46), Johnny Rotten (48). And, of course, Little Jimmy Osmond (41).

OK. Madonna does have her middle-aged moments. But the rest of them? And what about Mick Jagger (55), Tom Jones (64), and Tina Turner (65)?

Even people I think of as 'young' are approaching what was once considered almost middle-aged. Robbie Williams and Leonardo de Caprio are 30. Ant and Dec are 30 next year.

And 30 is the age of the chap in the portrait above, by the 17th century artist Frans Hals. In those days, 30 was pretty old.

In the Middle Ages, average life expectancy in England was only about 35. So you were technically middle-aged at 17. Less than half of the children born to medieval Royals actually survived into their 20s.

And in 2004, you're unlikely to make it to 40 in most of sub-Saharan Africa. That means you're 'middle-aged' in your teens.

According to the World Health Organisation, average life expectancy in Sierra Leone is a mere 26. In Zambia, it rises to 30. But things are better in South Africa, where you can expect to live to almost 40.

At the other end of the spectrum though, it's 75 in Japan, 72 in the UK and 70 in the USA.

And a 1999 survey (by Future Foundation) suggested that, in the UK, life definitely begins at 40. Like stubborn teenagers, the UK's over-40s are totally rejecting the middle-aged stereotype. The study (of a thousand 45-54 year-olds) revealed they'd rather wear Gap than M&S and spend savings on holidays than homes.

But 'middle-aged' grumpiness does appear to be setting in earlier. In 2002, Mori claimed that 35-54 year-olds are "consistently cross and fed up." The survey dubbed them 'Meldrews'. Not boring, but simply "disillusioned" compared to the optimistic over-55s.

The over 55s do seem phenomenally young to me. Recently, a friend's father asked for a gothic cloak for his 60th birthday. This seemed outrageously hip. Then I did my maths and realised that, if he turned 60 in 2004, he'd have been just 20 in 1964. One of the Flower Power generation.

I also know a couple who go abroad on holiday three times a year, go swimming, play golf most days and go to see a new film once a week. Young? Middle-aged? No. I'm talking about my parents. Aged 78 and 80.

So...I'm afraid I've cornered myself into a cliche: being middle-aged is, as they say, a state of mind. Some people (Woody Allen, Alan Bennett, Michael Aspel) have been middle-aged since birth. Others never will be. It's all as relative as a Pringle pullover (trendy again in some teen circles).

I myself have been much more of a Meldrew this November than I was in October, purely thanks to my hip accident at the gym. But I actually enjoy the Janus-like status of my age. I can eat a cream tea in Suffolk then go clubbing in Soho on the very same day. I can listen to XFM and Radio 3. I can read Heat and The Telegraph.

On the other hand, I would look pretty silly if I wore a baseball hat backwards, pootled round Hertford on a skateboard, or said "dude", "cool" or "uni." I'm all for mutton dressed as lamb, but there's a time and a place for a sheep to be dishonest.

So perhaps there are some actual, objective signifiers of middle-agedness.

Here are some criteria that occurred to me earlier when I was watering my hanging baskets while listening to Perry Como:

You know you're middle-aged when...

you get annoyed by teenagers wearing flares that trail on the ground and trainers with the laces not done up

you think Fergie's a princess and not a DJ

you know how to put a vinyl record on and still use CDs rather than MP3s

you find predictive texting perplexing and refuse to write in textspeak

you think it's wrong that newsreaders stand up and news reporters no longer wear ties

you get angry when young people mumble (or speak too loudly) and make their voices go up? Interrogatively? At the end of every phrase?

you have nostalgic conversations about chocolate bars that are no longer on the market

you always take a jumper, just in case...

all policemen, dentists and academics seem too young

you have a party and your neighbours don't notice

your friends phone you at 10pm and ask: "did I wake you?"

your back goes out more often than you do

I also rather like these definitions:

"Middle-aged is ten years older than you are" Anon

"Middle age is when you're old enough to know better, but still young enough to do it" Anon

"Middle age is when you've met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else" Anon

"Middle age is when your broad mind and narrow waist begin to change places" E Joseph Cossman

"The young know everything, the old believe everything, the middle-aged suspect everything" Oscar Wilde

"The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life's tragedy" Oscar Wilde

"Middle age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you" Ogden Nash

Quiz? Are You Middle-Aged?

Finally, put your reading glasses on and try this exclusive and deeply scientific quiz. Tot up your scores, then Peacockshock will definitively diagnose how middle-aged you are...

(1) Can you name this week's Number One? Yes:1 No:0

(2) Do you own any clothes by Diesel? Yes:1 No:0

(3) Can you name all the current Blue Peter presenters? Yes:1 No:0

(4) Do you have a copy of Heat in your house? Yes:1 No:0

(5) Would you enjoy a snowboarding holiday? Yes:1 No:0

(6) Do you know who Zane Lowe is? Yes:1 No:0

(7) Have you stayed up beyond 1am in the last week (for reasons other than back-pain, indigestion, insomnia due to office politics or whatever)? Yes:1 No:0

(8) Do you know what Manumission is? Yes:1 No:0

(9) Have you ever referred to a university as a "uni"? Yes:1 No:0

(10) Do you have any piercings (in locations other than your ear lobes)? Yes:1 No:0

Results:

7-10: You're young, or at least very trendy

4-6: You're approaching middle-age: you may be an 'adultescent'

1-3: You're definitely middle-aged

0: There's no hope for you whatsoever

If this quiz has caused you to have a mid-life crisis, here are some answers and crucial facts (correct on 29 Nov 2004):

This week's UK number one single is: I'll Stand by You by Girls Aloud

Diesel is a fashion label

Blue Peter is currently presented by: Konnie Huq, Liz Barker, Matt Baker and Simon Thomas

Heat is a pop-culture and gossip magazine

Zane Lowe is a presenter on BBC Radio 1 and...

Manumission is a famous nightclub in Ibiza...it's not something that happens in a car engine

If you have any middle-aged definitions or anecdotes, please send them to me via the Contact Me page.

In return, I'll put them up on the site and email you a pair of fluffy slippers (assuming you're young enough to know how to open a jpeg attachment or even know what one is).

I've just got an iPod and it's fantastic. I'd really recommend it to anyone who likes music. iTunes is extremely good and user-friendly too. Get the 40GB iPod which has space for 10,000 tracks.

Dex and Lex, Frank and Henrietta's Persians, doing a spot of ironing. But my cat Bollinger can't stand ironing boards and hides whenever I get mine out. I detest the things too. I've never seen an aesthetically-pleasing one. Can't someone design an ironing board that actually looks nice and you don't want to hide?

It's official. After weeks of dramatic speculation, Lee Brewster, BBC CD archivist and nubbinologist, has discovered the definitive term for the middly bit of a CD cover which grips CDs in place. This is in fact known in the inner sanctum of the CD world as a..."spider". Peacockshock is most grateful for this entomological etymological elucidation. Lee would like to point out that he does have many interests other than CD cases.

After much consternation and fitful googling, I finally had an epiphany today and consulted the Oxford English Dictionary on the subject of a "nubbin" (scroll down for nubbinabilia and speculation regarding alleged 'nubbins' in CD cases...long story). According to my two-volume version of the OED, a nubbin is a "stub, stump, or residual part" and a diminutive form of the word "nub" which is a "knob, small protuberance" or central "point or gist of a story". This would suggest that "nubbin" is indeed the correct word for the centre of a CD case, on which a CD clicks into place. It is, after all, a small central protuberance. No...I'm not doing any links to sites featuring small or even large protuberances. This is a family blog.

The great nubbins debate continues (see nubbin-related entries below). Thank you to Frank, a nubbin boffin, for observing that some CD case cognoscenti and CD case manufacturers such as Jewelbox refer to "nubbins" as "hooks" and that companies such as Triggerpack don't even use them.

Thank you to Lee from BBC CD Archiving who is investigating the word "nubbins." I suggested in a Peacockshock entry last week that the little teeth in the middle of CD cases were possibly known as "nubbins", but no-one's entirely sure and Lee is determined to find out. Watch this space.

I have a shower in my bathroom but I've never used it. I'm a bath person. I believe that shower people are feckless and devoid of moral fibre. Baths are excellent for thinking. Archimedes knew this and so should you. One of the most powerful men in the world - the chairman of the US Federal Reserve Alan Greenspan - has a two-hour power-bath every morning at 5.30 am. Good for him.

I've just broken yet another new CD case. Why oh why do they have such flimsy plastic hinges? And why do the little teeth in the middle, which I believe are called "nubbins", always snap? Can't someone invent CD cases that aren't annoying?

I recall Hardy's Tess of the Durbervilles commenting that, every year, we live through the date on which we'll die, but we never know or notice it. An odd thought. If you do want to know the date, try the Death Clock. It's only a bit of fun and not at all scientific, as far as I can see. So don't be spooked by it. To discover how much longer you've got, click on The Death Clock