Could somebody please describe to me the thought processes behind Kellogg's Nutrigrain bar? I just bought one, for the first time in my life, on the understanding that I might be getting something that either had some kind of grain content, or was vaguely nutritious. What Nutrigrain appears to be, unbelievably, is some cake. A strip of cake and jam, in a foil wrapper. It's not even the slightest bit granular. And now that I've eaten the thing, my body doesn't feel as if it's pulsing with nutrients at all; it feels like it's just had some cake stuffed in it. I mean, I don't need Nutrigrain to get that feeling. I can get that from cake. So I've decided that I don't need Nutrigrain. No-one does.

*

The girl next to me at work is still receiving a ton of phone calls on her mobile about her TV, which she sold via Loot last week. Some guy called her at the weekend asking about it. “No, I'm sorry, it's already been sold.” “Oh. Er, are you selling anything else?” “What?” “Are you, like, selling anything else?” “Er, no.” “Oh. What's your name? You sound like a nice lady, and I'd like to get to know you.”

She has now embarked on a full and deeply satisfying relationship with this man. Not really.

*

I've just remembered that when I was about 11 I wrote a song about my dad's cricket club, and the players therein. It was to the tune of William Brown. The lyrics were written out neatly on A4 and pinned up on the club noticeboard. This hideous nugget of personal history came zinging back into my head while I was crossing Camden High Street about half an hour ago, and I nearly swooned with the potential embarrassment. I hope no-one still alive remembers it; sadly I can even recall some of the verses, and I'm going red, just typing this.

Then there was the time I was trying to explain to some schoolfriends that I'd walked a long way at the weekend. Instead of saying “It was about 2 miles” I said “God, it was like, from here, to.. uh… Barton-Le-Clay!” Barton-Le-Clay is a town in Bedfordshire. What possessed me to say “Barton-Le-Clay” rather than “Luton” or “Flitwick” I've no idea. But they looked at me with utter contempt, and I wanted to quietly erase my entire being from history.

And then was the time that The Keatons played with The Lavender Faction, and I drunkenly skipped around the venue after the gig, saying “I'm in The Lavender Faction” in, you know, a gay voice, and only learnt later that several large men who comprised The Lavender Faction had to be physically restrained from harming me.

And then was the time that… Oh god. There's so many. Feel free to offload your foot-in-mouth confessions. Except for the lovely , whose journal is pretty much a catalogue of that kind of thing in any case.