If there's one thing I've learnt in the past week, it's that the consequences of Lisa's appetite can be far-reaching. When she announced on Sunday afternoon, whilst relaxing on my sofa in her dressing gown, that she was a bit peckish, little did we know that it would lead directly to an encounter with a Welshman and some women throwing knickers. But that's what happens when she refuses to eat my quality Lidl food, and forces me out onto the streets for a two mile walk to Marks & Spencers.

So I headed off into town, loaded up on Parmentier Potatoes and sausages, and made my way back via the seafront, where I encountered yet another traffic-related event, the Brightona Beach Bash, taking place five minutes walk from my flat. It was basically a load of motorbikes, people with tattoos, some odd facial hair, and a middle-aged metal band from Southampton, all strolling up and down Madeira Drive in leather jackets, and making a clean-shaven bloke with a Marks & Spencers bag feel slightly out of place. It's possible I'm in this photo, but even I can't spot myself, and I know what I was wearing.

Anyhoo, having mingled with the biking community for twenty minutes, and wondered how many donations The National Association For Bikers With a Disability get every year, I bought the Sunday Mirror and returned home to cook sausages.

Being someone who likes to keep up with the very latest news, Lisa naturally picked up the Sunday Mirror on Monday afternoon, and having flicked through the current affairs section, stopped in entertainment news long enough to notice an advert for Tom Jones at the Brighton Centre on Tuesday. Which was kind of timely, because we had tickets for it. And had no idea it was this week. Which is what happens when you book things months in advance, and then move house. So with 24 hours to spare, Lisa's love of sausages had saved us from wasting eighty quid on a pair of unused concert tickets. Hurrah!

Of course, some people would say that paying £80 to see Tom Jones in concert is a waste of money anyway. But obviously I'm not one of them. The man's a living legend. Although I hope he retires soon, because I don't want to have to go again.

Anyhoo, on Tuesday I also had the joy of being connected up to the building's new fire alarm system (not personally, but my flat as a whole). After a lot of noise and disruption, the result was a layer of dust all over my kitchen, a load of dirt trodden into my carpet, and my front door replaced in such a way that Lisa can no longer unlock it. Which could be a problem if we have a fire.

Fortunately though, we made it out to see Tom in the evening, which was quite an experience. The support band were the Cosmic Rough Riders, a Scottish band who were actually pretty good. Unluckily for them though, Tom Jones fans are, by and large, a despicable bunch of unappreciative hags (I don't think I'm generalising there), who greeted the Cosmics with regular cries of "Get off!" and "Bring on Tom!", before responding to the announcement of their last song with a huge cheer. I've never seen such embarrassing rudeness. Well not until Tom came on and started gyrating.

Anyhoo, I admit Tom Jones has a decent voice, but when you're sitting for an hour and a half surrounded by hundreds of middle-aged women wearing flashing plastic ears and singing 'What's New Pussycat?" with their hands in the air, you do start to feel a bit out of place.

So that was Tuesday. On Wednesday we met up with Lisa's friend 'S', who met me on my birthday and then emigrated the next day. I'm not sure if the two were connected. He was back in the country to show off his tan, so we took him to the dogs, where he and I discussed form, betting prices and complicated systems, before losing a fortune, while Lisa picked the cutest names and won ten quid.

We then returned home where I reluctantly agreed to let Lisa watch my DVD of The Aristocrats. It's a good film, though I think she's still slightly traumatised. Which is what happens when you miss the second 'r' and think it's a cartoon about cats.