I began yesterday evening in the Sherlock Holmes public house in Charing Cross, to meet a photographer who showed me lots of photos of meat. This wasn't for purposes of titillation; he wanted me to write about the meat he was showing me. I agreed.

Then a 341 bus to Islington to begin the annual slog around umpteen pubs for the purposes of writing 150-word vignettes for the Time Out Pubs & Bars Guide. For a gentle breaking-in I limited this first jaunt to 3 pubs, accompanied by translator-extraordinaire Jo Curtis and . The first pub didn't sell food. The second pub sold food, but no-one was eating any and the prices looked suspiciously cheap. By the time we got to the 3rd pub – The Social – which sold excellent food, they had actually stopped serving food. Drat. A most accomodating barman brought us a basket of bread and butter to stave off the hunger. He was an odd chap. When we bought a round – large glass of red wine, half a lager, vodka and diet coke – he said “That'll be £8.40, Sorry.” Apologising for the prices! Now THAT'S what I call service.

Jo Curtis was featured in a full-page feature in the Evening Standard last week. She does translation work in Spanish and French, and frequently gets flown over to Brussels to conduct high-level discussions on behalf of a certain National Lottery company. Instead of just putting her email address at the end, they decided to print her home phone number, along with details of her earning power and her marital status. Since then she's been plagued with calls ranging from those of a perverted nature (“So, heh heh, it's 300 quid a day then, is it, love?”) to the just plain stupid (“Yes, I'm ringing about the ad in the Evening Standard, I'm interested in earning 300 pounds a day, please call me back as soon as possible.”)

Over to for a quick laugh-out-loud interlude: “Moose Looseness was once a major problem in Scotland. The problem was particularly acute in This Hoose.

You know that hotel that didn't charge for that sh!t meal Jenny and I ate at the weekend? A debit of £53 just cropped up on my credit card. Unauthorised! All that signing of yellow and white duplicate slips of paper, it's all just nonsense, isn't it. Who knows what expenses that place will now start racking up on my account. Considering the state of the ensuite bathroom we were provided with, it'll probably be a trolley load of tiles and grout from B&Q.

Many of you will be familiar with ex-Emmerdale actress Malandra Burrows. I'm not, but you may be. Anyway, I was advised yesterday that she was named Malandra because her father was called Malcolm, and her mother called Sandra. Can any readers think of any rather more amusing children's names that can be created by combining two parents' names? Catherine and Peter could have a sickly little girl called Catheter, of course.. Helen and Hamish could have a pesky little blighter called Hellish. Benny and Linda could have an odd little boy called Benda. You get the idea. Never accuse me of failing to provide activities for wet lunchtimes. Oh, it's not raining.