I've just returned from a band rehearsal in Old Street, and on the way home I stopped off at the Tooting Broadway all night convenience store, once a 7-11, but now a Budgen's subsidiary: B2. It's a haven for bleary eyed drunks who are looking to stuff a tempting looking Toblerone into their jacket before sitting in the cool cabinet surrounded by bottles of Volvic, just to piss people off. Rather like the old slogan “You Can Be Sure Of Shell”, “You Can Also Be Sure Of A Heated Argument About Debbie's Ankle Bracelet In Any Branch Of B2.”

I wanted some water, which I got, and paid for with a ten pound note. The guy behind the counter handed me four pound coins and a £5 note issued by the Bank Of Ulster. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. He'd surely been trying to palm this note off on some poor customer all day. I had no intention of accepting it, despite it being legal tender. I'd probably not get shot of it for months. I looked at the unfamiliar brown piece of paper. “I don't want that,” I said, a phrase which seemed familiar to him. He sighed, and put it back in the till. “You'll have to have pound coins, then.” Fine. “I can live with that,” I said.

I know from experience that acting confidently can persuade most shopkeeprs to accept any kind of money as legal tender. “You what? Oh, come on, everyone takes groats. Come on! Thanks.” But I don't have the will, these days. I'll stick with B of E.

These are down to £1 in Borders:

And with good reason. Activity book, indeed. There's only one activity appropriate for the late purchaser of such a set, and that's counting down the 600-odd days until the World Cup when we'll go through the whole sorry charade for the umpteenth time. Oh, and while we're on the photos:

Mamma Mia? There's not a lot that's intrinsically Italian about the terrifying list of additives and preservatives that they've chosen to highlight on this deeply upsetting poster. I'm finding it difficult to imagine why someone would choose to exclaim “Mamma Mia!” on being told that value pizzas were available for 99p at Tesco. They would need to be simultaneously confronted with a stunning Tuscan hilltop view, or touched inappropriately by a sleek, sexy, olive-skinned local. Or both. But dough smeared with tomato puree and a few strands of dried up cheddar does not an Italian outburst make. I've probably libelled myself with this entry. Erm, I'm sure the above item is delicious.

I'm currently indulging myself with this new phone service that claims to text you back the answer to any question that you choose to send it. I'm steering clear of philosophical lines of enquiry, as their replies are always 160 characters or less in length, and I imagine it's tough to sum up the work of Descartes with such restrictions. But I'm striking up quite a relationship with them. Watch me, now, as I fail to pitch an idea based on this concept to a national newspaper.

It's my mum's 60th birthday today. She doesn't look it. Happy birthday, mother dear.