So, yesterday was meant to be a relaxing day, free of deadlines, maybe listening to a little light classical music, lying back on an IKEA Klippan sofa, sipping herbal tea and watching restful images of the nutbrown nutcase Steve Whatley selling his Zhuzh Tan Accelerator on the Ideal World shopping channel. But no. I had to convince my bank that I hadn't spent £14,000 in 6 days.

Even in retrospect, I'm alarmed by the letter that advised me that there was suspicious activity on my account. “We have attempted to contact you,” it said. Well, I have answering facilities at home and on my mobile, and no-one saw fit to leave an urgent message to ask me if I'd just spent £4860 on some hi-end audio equipment in Central London. Nope, I had to wait for Royal Mail to casually pop the information through my letterbox at 12.30pm a couple of days later. Brilliant.

I was assured by the friendly staff at the fraud centre of my bank that I would receive all the money back. Their calls were masterpieces of Samaritan-esque hand-holding, in the face of an increasingly flustered and wailing 32 year old man who envisaged his mortgage payments going up by 100 quid a month to cope with this disaster. “You're being awfully nice,” I said, gratefully. “Oh, it's just our job, sir,” they replied. “What? It's just your job? You mean you don't MEAN all this stuff about me getting my money back?” “No no, you will, sir, you will.” But were they just saying that to stop me from suffering an aneurism? What did they mean?

No, it's fine. I'll just sleep slightly more easily when it has all been credited back.

What better way to get over being a victim of crime by going to see the wonderful playing at the Betsy Trotwood, a miniscule caravanette of a venue which can barely hold an audience of 20, let alone the band themselves who were all packed together in a few square feet and looking strangely like a French version of Herman's Hermits. Les Hermites d'Herman, if you will. It's the stripy t-shirts and berets that do it.

You've got to love anonymous comments on these journals. Someone just called me a mentally unstable muppet. I think that's something on which I can build.