To Greenwich last night, with Kev and Richard, to an English Folk Music night in a pub just behind the market. Pints of Brains Bitter came in at a reasonable £1.80, although as I wasn't familiar with Brains Bitter it may well have had the alcoholic content of Panda Pops Shandy for all I knew. At about 9.30pm, the place started filling up with accordion, melodeon and fiddle players who all sat around a single wooden table and started playing unfamiliar folk tunes, but all umistakably English – i.e. upbeat and cheery, none of that mournful Celtic stuff. It wasn't really a performance, more an arrangement with the landlord that they'll use that table for playing folk music on a Tuesday, won't they, because that wife of yours, she's a nice lady, it'd be dreadful if anything nasty happened to her.

Downstairs in the toilets, you heard the rhythmic stamping of feet on the ceiling above. Back in the bar, the landlord had placed small bowls of cheddar cheese and Ritz crackers on each table. We ate the cheese, and had another drink, the bell rang, and it was time to go home.

Richard asked how I was getting home. “Cutty Sark”, I said. “I think you'll find it's dry docked, Rhodri,” replied Kevin. What an amusing mixup: I meant Cutty Sark station! Hoho! Although I like the idea of attempting to push it into the Thames after too much beer, shouting “Anchors Aweigh” to puzzled passers by. Anyway, it's a long way from the Cutty Sark to Tooting Broadway via Bank. I listened to music on the iPod, set to “random”, and was treated to such gorgeous segués as Bim Bom by Astrud Gilberto, into Caligari's Mirror by Pere Ubu into Fernando by Abba. As the driverless train of the Docklands Light Railway glided silently over Heron Quay, My Love Paramour by the Cocteau Twins came on, and everything felt very filmic. Or at least it did until I felt that I – or rather my audio equipment – was being eyed up by some local Shadwell yout'. MUST get some black headphones. That whole white cable thing is a complete giveaway. You're asking to be tapped on the shoulder, punched in the face, felt in the pocket and left on the floor. I'm getting used to music on the move, but not at the expense of my beauty. “Not my face! No, please, not my face!”

Still ripping CDs here, including ones that burnt for me last year from his weighty collection of vinyl. Tragically, 's record player plays about a semitone – about 80 cents, to be exact – too fast, and that does my head in. So I have to rip all the tracks, bring them into Logic Audio, shift them down by 80 cents, export them, convert them back to MP3s, by which time my family have long since passed away and the contents of my fridge have become exceedingly mouldy.