I've had time to reflect on last night's performance of Red Riding Hood at Shotley Village Hall, but for the life of me I still can't work out why the policemen were wearing tights.

Another trip to the post office, another slimming masterclass. This time I got out the photos and we discussed dumplings. I also mentioned the dreaded 'D' word (that's depression, not donuts), which the lady took in her stride surprisingly well, perhaps because I have a habit of going to the post office in a dishevelled unshaven state which makes me all too believable as a mental case. So by this time next week the population of Shotley Gate will have heard not only about my weightloss achievements, but also my state of mind. These are interesting times...

I was in the studio this afternoon, laying down some tracks for my new album. Well ok, I was in my living room with a battered old tape recorder, doing songs for this website. It's interesting how one starts out with certain ideals, intent on standards of perfection, only to find yourself saying within twenty minutes, "oh that'll do, let's move on to the next one...". By the end, not even patently wrong chord-changes were stopping me.

Valentine's Day. The most romantic day of the year. And indeed it seemed so, when I was caught up in a menage a trois at the post office this afternoon, sandwiched between two old ladies who wanted some weight-loss tips from me. One said "I keep telling people about you". Which, if true, might explain the lack of Valentine's cards in my hallway this morning.

During today's fine edition of Richard & Judy, I witnessed for the first time an advert for new Walls Balls - spheres of sausagemeat in breadcrumbs, aimed squarely at the children's market. Can there be any more cynical marketing ploy than to name your product after a mildly rude word, safe in the knowledge that children all over Britain will eat them, merely so that when Mother asks what they want for tea, they can shout back "BALLS!!!"?

I'm off now to buy a packet of Bernard Matthews 'Up Yours'.

AND ANOTHER THING!!! What's happened to Catherine Zeta Jones' accent??? She sounds like Dick Van Dyke attempting Welsh.

I've been down to London today, trying to sneak into the high court with a hidden camera to snap a few shots of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. The court artist may have had the official coverage, but my photo of Catherine munching on a pork pie in the witness box should be appearing in tomorrow's Sun.

The 80s revival downstairs has gone to my head, and I found myself getting out my old Howard Jones LPs yesterday. It's like being reunited with an old friend. A preachy vegetarian old friend with bad hair, but an old friend nonetheless.

I'm getting worried. Midweek it was The Cheeky Girls, now the weekend's here it's Musical Youth coming through the floorboards and encouraging me to pass the duchie on the left hand side. Which I will do, I assure you, just as soon as I have a moment.

My neighbour is currently playing The Cheeky Girls at full volume. It's only when you hear them coming through the floorboards without the benefit of an accompanying video that you realise just how crucial those visuals are to an appreciation of the girls' work.

It's 12:20am on a Saturday night, and I've just got in. It's the one night of the week when every young hip dude in the country is out on the town larging it (as I believe the younger generation say). So where have I been tonight...? Yes, that's right - playing Scrabble with my parents.