A day mainly concentrated around Marseille's Vieux Port, an area which, on the map, looks like a potentially attractive expanse of water. In fact, you're lucky if you can see any water at all, so rammed is it with moored boats. If you squint and ignore the salty aroma, you could be staring across an IKEA car park.

Maps are strange in Marseille. I've never done any orienteering, I don't have a compass built into the heel of my shoe, I can't navigate by the sun or by the stars, but I do like to know which way is north. It aligns me, it helps me to keep some kind of perspective, and more importantly it helps me to get to the place I'm meant to be sleeping at night. As you'll be aware, Marseille is on the south coast of France, but owing to the undulating nature of the coastline the Mediterranean actually lies to the west of the city. In all the maps, however, they turn everything 90º counter-clockwise and have the water at the bottom of the map, with North pointing off to the left. I've only just realised this. It annoys me. It makes me wonder why they chose to do it like this. There are surely other cities in the world where they do it, but you won't find a map of London with the Thames bisecting it from top to bottom, or a long, thin, horizontal map of Manhattan. Madness.

Wine and goat's cheese for lunch. Now that's continental. “That was goat's cheese,” a waiter saw fit to remind us as he cleared away our plates, imagining that British scumbags like ourselves were acquainted with only the most basic dairy products: Mr Men yoghurt, Primula spread, strawberry milkshakes. “Yes, it is made with goat's milk,” she added knowledgeably, imagining that British scumbags like ourselves thought that the stuff had been made out of some normal milk by a particularly talented goat.

Oh, I forgot. Annoying men on public transport Part 4: The Northern Line. Seen on Monday afternoon. If you see him, flick his ears for me. Ta.