Contrary to rumours circulating nearby, I wasn't one of the three Suffolkonians (?) arrested in dawn raids today, accused of fixing horse races. Frankly not even the police could get me up at dawn. But the sixteen dodgy characters in question (they must be dodgy - look at John McCrirrick - he's considered normal in racing circles) are accused of fixing eighty races in the past two years, so that explains all my losses. I just hope the case goes to court - I've got great odds on a guilty verdict.

Personally I've been avoiding dodginess like the plague, and instead creeping through the bushes at a top secret Shotley location with a notepad and camera, all in the name of research. And I'd just like to say that this window...



... was already broken when I got there.

Though obviously I took advantage of it by sticking my camera through and taking a couple of photos. But no, I won't be drawn on what they show. (But it's alien bodies, I swear).

When I'm not testing the robustness of Britain's trespass laws, and being hassled by the wife of a university cow farmer, I'm replying to text messages from Italy, where Lisa has caringly attempted to cure her dear friend's phobia of heights by insisting she go on a cable car ride. She's all heart that girl. As a vertigo sufferer myself, I struggle with the fact that Lisa lives on top of a hill, without voluntarily dangling off a mountain on the end of a wire.

I'm also currently surviving on 50% less bagels than standard, which frankly is verging on the superhuman.