Coming out of White City tube last night I was accosted by a young woman parked in an alleyway, leaning out of her car. “Psssst!” (She didn't say “Psssst!” actually, but I like the idea. I also like the idea that her “Psssst!” would be a preamble to her revealing to me a bag full of uncut diamonds, and getting me to help her transport them to Hatton Garden in exchange for a couple of grand, at which point I get arrested and sent to prison. Hm.) What she actually said was “Excuse me?” She wanted some directions, and had clearly been waiting for someone to come along who looked like they knew what they were doing. And I always look like I know what I'm doing, except when I've been challenged to a few rubbers of contract bridge. I don't know much about the environs of W12, but I was willing to try and help. She produced a piece of paper with an address on Seven Sisters Road. “You know that you're a very, very long way away, don't you.” She looked crestfallen. “Oh. Maybe I went wrong on the A219,” she said. I pointed her onto the Westway and told her to ask again when she got to Kings Cross or Angel. She offered me a lollipop as way of thanks, which I declined in a suitably selfless and gentlemanly fashion. “No-no. You have it,” I said, with a dismissive wave of my hand. Tragically I realised too late that you can't get on to the Westway travelling eastbound at Wood Lane, and despite me waving at her again, more frantically this time, she sailed up the westbound filter lane en route to Oxford. “Forget it,” I said to myself, walking off. “Oxford's much nicer than some scummy hotel overlooking Finsbury Park.”

I promise not to mention this again, but HOST launch their album tonight at the St Moritz, 159 Wardour Street, with the very wonderful Montana Pete and Keith John Adams propping up the bill. Doors at 8pm or so. It will be a glorious evening. Everyone will be there. Everyone. You'll see.