Recently, when I look downwards, be it to pick up something – or someone – off the floor, to check the creases in my trousers, or just for a bit of fun – I've noticed that I can see bits of my own face, particularly my cheeks, in the periphery of my vision. I'd not noticed them before. I'm concerned that my face is enlarging rapidly. Maybe I've got Acromegaly, or, more likely, maybe not. Perhaps the taut, blemish-free skin that has characterised my youth is giving way to a slack-faced middle age that will leave me looking like the lugubrious Clement Freud, or worse, his lugubrious bloodhound, Lucy. Bah.

There's a 10p piece in my toilet. Mark dropped it there, a few nights ago, and now, whenever I “visit the bathroom”, it's there, shining up at me. I asked Mark how on earth this had come to pass. “I don't know,” he replied, his eyes flashing with panic as he relived the moment. “It all happened so quickly.” We both mused on who would eventually plunge their hand into the bowl to retrieve it. I quickly bowed out of the running, shortly followed by Mark himself. For one moment of madness I wondered if I could persuade Jenny to do it, as there are some rubber gloves in the flat which, after much testing by various Ugly Sisters in the Tooting area, seem to only fit her dainty hands. If you're reading this, Jenny, please could you come round and get 10p out of my toilet? There's not too much shlt in it. Thanks. (The 10p came down tails, in case you were wondering.)

Yesterday I had to visit Chiswick for a piece I'm writing for the Independent On Sunday. The PR, in a moment of generosity prompted by my willingness to pen 1200 gushing words about her client, mentioned the possibility of arranging a car to take me to Chiswick. Normally I would refuse immediately, terrified that there would be some kind of catch, but this time I decided to go for it as the journey by public transport would have been somewhat hellish. I proceeded to to take the piss by asking if I could be taken home again afterwards, and rather splendidly, they said yes. So, the boroughs of Wandsworth, Hammersmith and Fulham were graced by my presence in the back of a silver Mercedes. You may have seen me looking rather regally out of the window. On the way home, lulled by the snoozeworthy sounds of Classic FM, I fell asleep, and was woken gently by the driver outside my flat. “Sir? Hello, sir? We have reached your destination.” Marvellous. I got out of the car, fished out the keys to my destination, and went upstairs, to my 2-bedroomed destination.

I'm having my kitchen replaced in my destination, and in the process have had my first encounter with a dishwasher. Not only have I never owned one before, I've never used one. I lovingly filled it with salt, rinse aid and Glist tablets, selected the 40º Fast And Dry programme, and watched it spew a pint of soapy water onto my new kitchen floor and grind to a halt with two flashing lights, which corresponded with Hotpoint error “35″. Currys really are a despicable organisation, aren't they. I spent about an hour on the phone to various dimwitted employees, one of which sounded like a boy in his late teens and who could barely string a sentence together. He had arranged for a new machine to be delivered to me, but was refusing to arrange an installation, because “we've already thrown in free delivery.” My gratitude was infinitessimally small. He refused to budge, so I asked to speak to the manager. “I am the manager,” he squeaked. “Well, alright, can I speak to your superior.” Pause. “I am my superior.” [gag © Jenny.]

Sorry for the length of this entry. Ray Mears is coming into this office in half an hour for a book signing. God knows how he'll cope with a sanitised office environment. He'll probably start blubbing and asking for his mummy.