I stayed up, doing my “writing test” for some prospective employment as mentioned a couple of days ago. My task: to watch last night's “Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares”, write a short summary of the programme, and an even shorter character study. Nothing, not even hanging around in the playgrounds of local primary schools, had prepared me for the sheer level of potty-mouthed expletive-driven bile that was contained within this programme. Gordon Ramsay issued forth with so many “f*cks,” it was as if he was going for some kind of record, perhaps the Kenneth Tynan Memorial Trophy. The lad whose cooking was under scrutiny was utterly incompetent, but one thing's clear: Gordon's no social worker. But we knew that. We knew he was a chauvinist, car-obsessed bigot. Still, good telly.

The poor head chef, Tim, was the object of my character study. A gormless, uncharismatic 21 year old with a permanent hangdog expression, his ambition was to be a TV celebrity chef. I concentrated on the dis-similarities between him and the Jamie Olivers of this world. For instance, his un-photogenic appearance. “If there ever were to be a book published called Tim's Kitchen, the cover would be more likely to feature the Kitchen, than Tim.” Uncharitable, maybe. Amusing, possibly. A sentence written in 12pt Arial font, definitely.

I saw on the news that Dulwich was flooded. I texted Kesta. “Are you flooded?” “Yes,” she replied. “I've been bailing out water all evening and now I'm attempting to salvage a load of photograph albums.” “Touché,” I countered, chuckling at her turn of phrase. Turns out she was telling the truth. I feel bad about this, now.

I've been to collect my beautiful Clavia Nord Electro 73 keyboard from the Securicor Omega depot in Vauxhall, although when I got there all I could find was a DHL office. “Yeah, that's right, DHL, it's all the same thing” shouted the security guard at the gate. Christ. I'm worrying that by the end of next year everything will be owned by just one bloody company. Hovis, perhaps.

It arrived in one piece, all the way from Germany, despite it being wrapped in some old newspaper, a commemorative tea-towel and 8 slices of Sunblest, glued together with Copydex. I exaggerate for comic effect, but you get the idea. I've spent the last 2 hours tweaking gorgeous Fender Rhodes sounds and pretending to be H*** and O*****. Living in the 21st century is great, very occasionally.