One week in to The Summer Of Lily Allen's hols and I'm more than a bit concerned about the pacing of the Kesgrave vandals. In addition to the usual broken glass, there's been bits of packing crate, further paint scraped off the underpass walls, and a trashed traffic island light. Nice of the council to do their bit by replacing THE LIBRARY lettering next to the boarded-up window by the up-ended trees, all of which face the local police's Safer Neighbourhood Team drop-in centre.

Half-four today, cycled past a flurry of fire engines attending a suspicious heathland fire. So I needn't have worried that those kids would burn themselves out.

Vital to know how a man handles himself, like Geddy Lee, under pressure. Lunchtime chess, and there I was, ruthlessly turning the screws on my opponent, and this a man who knows a thing or three about the game. I had him, really I did, nailed in the corner. And then I didn't. Un mauvais quart d'heure later, I was hot, bothered and beaten. Chalk it up as another moral victory.

Everyone knows that you simply mustn't sport socks and sandals. An article on the fashion crimes due to the heatwave recommended, with shorts, a pair of good Italian loafers. But what are they? Do they have a heel? Could I find them in the cheapo shoe shop near The Range?

Felt like more than sixteen candles were on the go in the darkness of The Riverside flicks on Wednesday for Mr Depp's POTC2. Perhaps not the best plan, alertness-wise, to have those delightful three courses beforehand. As Cap'n Jack buckled and swashed, we in the audience blew and swooned. Hugely entertaining though it was, 150 minutes makes for a marathon moving picture. Out into the evening air: ah!