Rather a convoluted journey to Oswestry, changing at Birmingham New Street, onto another train to Shrewsbury via Wolverhampton and Telford, and then a £30 cab up the A5 to a non-descript industrial estate a couple of miles from the Welsh border. I'm looking at a device on this desk called a Rexel LV340HS. Nothing about its appearance reveals what it might do. There's a dial with various readings, such as 150MIC (2×75). I don't dare turn it, in case 150 microphones appear. In two lots of 75.

Still, Shrewsbury, a beautiful town:

Soon I will be returning the way I came, if somone will let me out of this fortified building where every door is operated by a small plastic card. Look, no handles.

Last night I was sitting outside a pub in Clapham scant metres from John O'Farrell, whose books I enjoy. I told him so, in no uncertain terms. He seemed pleased, but as I made a respectful retreat he tried to shake my hand. It made him look silly. I didn't want this. “Oh, I'm sorry,” I said, walking back, with my hand outstretched. “That's alright,” he said, grasping it firmly. What a gentleman.