When I’m in the car, I like to listen to Smooth FM. There aren’t many radio stations that guarantee to play “Moonlighting” by Al Jarreau on every single programme, in fact there probably aren’t any at all, and nor does Smooth FM, probably, but it certainly bloody feels like it. “Some walk by night,” sings Al, with a reasonable degree of accuracy. “Some fly by day,” he continues, steering haphazardly into the realms of warped, winged-human fantasy. Things move on quickly to an astonishing middle eight, where the chords jazzily manoeuvre the wrong way down a one-way street, leaving Al with approximately 3 seconds to get back where he started, which he manages, just, and then he goes and repeats the whole fiasco about a minute later, to the sound of gentle hissing from the driver’s seat. I also enjoy singing along to the song, but substituting “Cos we met, ‘long the way” with “gyre and gimble in the wabe”.

Christ, Lewis Carroll invented the word “chortled”. I didn’t know that.

Other good reasons to listen to Smooth FM: you get to hear the phrase “David Prever’s Smooth Breakfast”, which conjures up a delightful image of a bacon and egg purée; you can delight in the sound of Sandra from Dartford leaving a message on the Smooth On Demand voicemail, saying “Hello, it is Sandra from Dartford and I would like to hear Sweet Love by Anita Baker thank you”; and then of course there’s Russell Pocket. He does the afternoon show, and, my god, he doesn’t half have the surname “Pocket”. He hasn’t given his show a name, but he really ought to. “Pop Me In Your Pocket, with Russell Pocket,” perhaps. “Pick A Pocket, with Russell Pocket,” that could be another. Pocket. Strewth. If you fancy a quick distraction this afternoon, try giving your family the surname “Pocket”, and then simply read out your family tree. David Pocket. Pamela Pocket. Jenny Pocket. Then give your family another twee surname, such as Cup, Bottle or Pin, and repeat to fade.

Last night Jenny and I had been invited to a karaoke night at The Groucho Club, which seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so we went. By the end of the evening I had inadvertently bought a whisky mac for a renowned British sculptor, watched Chris Evans discussing the issues of the day with the wife of a reasonably famous chef, and seen Jenny belting out “Young Hearts Run Free” to a roomful of the pissed and posh, including a bloke with a saxophone who extemporised loudly throughout the song. Jenny then sang “Brass In Pocket”, at which point I got deeply distracted thinking about that whole Russell Pocket business again.

Annoyingly, it turns out his surname is spelt Pockett. Oh well.