A busy few days. I had to conduct 2 phone interviews yesterday, using my trusty Heath Robinson-esque method of wedging a small microphone into the earpiece of a BT Decor 500 telephone, and plugging it into a portable minidisc recorder, which was plugged into the mains. Wires everywhere. This creates a certain degree of discomfort as I can't enjoy the usual sensation of smooth, moulded BT plastic against my smooth, moulded ear, because there's a microphone in the way. If the person on the other end of the line refuses to Speak Up, even when I demand them to Speak Up, there is danger that I won't be able to hear them, especially when Tony the builder is drilling into an inch of particularly solid render in order to attach a Hygena unit to the wall of my kitchen. I have chosen a set of units called “Space”, mainly on account of the name being the least offensive in the catalogue. Ludicrous monikers such as “Greenwich”, “Biscotti”, “Pembury” and “Gold Latté” make we weep with mirth, and you can't weep with mirth every time you go into your kitchen, as it would severely hamper any attempt to make 's famous pea risotto. As it is, I've had to buy an Aquarius dishwasher and a light fitting that goes by the name of Thor. When it eventually gets attached to my ceiling, I'll take particular delight in repeatedly asking my sous-chef to “turn on the Norse god of thunder, thanks.”

So yes, I interviewed John Oates, and had trouble hearing him, what with transatlantic interference and all. I warned him that Tony the builder was attaching a Hygena unit to the wall of my kitchen; he countered by warning me that his 9 year old son was getting ready for school. “Not gay, then” I thought to myself, dispelling 2 years of pondering on Oates's sexuality in the face of pictures such as this. I resisted the urge to ask him if he was in a “Philly Kind Of Mood”, or whether he'd seen the Big Train sketch where he and Daryl were depicted removing a turd from a lift on an inner-London council estate. The conversation was cordial, which was a relief, as when I met Ian Botham when I was 8 years old I could only open and close my mouth without any noise coming out.

Jenny and I walked swiftly from Balham to Tooting on Sunday night in order to rescue flatmate Mark who had locked himself out. We walked past the Polish church on the High Road at about 11pm; it was open, so we walked inside. About 150 people were inside, who all seemed to be Polish and who all seemed to be around 20-30 years of age. It was odd, as if the church had set up a service particularly for post-pub Pope prayer. At one point everyone knelt down simultaneously, and Jenny and I nervously and reluctantly dropped to our knees, not wishing to be seen as disrespectful, but also mindful that we were paying respects to a chap who has indirectly been responsible for millions of deaths from AIDS in the developing world. Tricky situation. What would you have done?