Road To Nowhere

All right, so I wasn't quite as well turned out as a Lady Penelope Creighton Ward and my pink roller was certainly nowhere to be seen, but I carried out a daring rescue the other night on Oxford Road.

I rescued a woman mown down by a cyclist.

Yes, a cyclist. Because these guys can be the pedestrian's worst nightmare - The Hood in a fluorescent tabbard.

There she was our said pedestrian victim, rolling about in the road, right in the path of a bus which was, admittedly, stationary at some traffic lights just after the swimming pool. I nipped out, scooped her up my the arm she wasn't clinging to and yowling at, and picked up her bits of tackle and got everything onto the pavement.

I was aided by the cyclist with whom she had collided while she tried to cross the road.

'Sorry, I couldn't stop,' said the cyclist. Given the lights were on red the phrase 'Well you fking should have, you ** * ****.' But, you know, it's best not to get into blame culture when one of you is armed with a cycle pump and a beard (No, not me).

Injured pedestrian continued to cling to her arm and yowl at it while cyclist continued to try to help her so, as a heroine in shining anorak, I left him to it. Maybe not Lady P to the end but have you seen the weather out there lately? It's every so-so samaritan for herself when it looks like there's a chance of actually catching a bus.

Sadly, my Parker drives a 43.

How is it the smell of fish clings to everything, permeates everywhere and hangs around forever?

Having griddled trout last night for tea (not a brilliant idea as it turned out, but the griddle pan is new and so I have to try...) the whole house stank of fish.

I washed up. I lit candles. I sprayed essence of green fig liberally about several rooms.

I get up this morning. Fish is back.

there is bound to be some droll Stephen Fry-style reason why, which I'm sure I would be fascinated by if I weren't distracted by waves of smugness which waft about the man, but how do you get rid?

Seriously. How?

On the theme of Santa, I ran into him on the escalators of Kendals department store on Thursday evening. He came up behind me as I was exiting the lingerie department. (A small shopping trip designed, and quite successful, in cheering me up after a particularly grim afternoon).

'Yo ho ho,' he said. I turned round to find a very pink-faced man, complete with tiny specs,in the usual costume, beaming behind me. It's hard to be cynical in the face of cuddliness. A flurry of ladybird books and sitting on Santa's knee at the Co-op department store in Banbury, age seven, fluttered through my mind and made me quite cheery.

'My Santa,' you're early,' I replied.

'Yes, I come earlier every year,' said Santa.

'I bet Mrs Claus doesn't like that,' fell out of my mouth.

Fortunately Santa found this hilarious and half a dozen people turned round to see why two adults were laughing heartily on an escalator and one of them was Father Christmas.

I really haven't been a very good girl this year. Hopefully I'll get one of those 'think before you speak' things I've always wanted.

Well, almost. I have found a way of getting myself off to sleep.

Moomin books.

Really, a couple of chapters and I'm fit to drop.

Of course, they don't keep me asleep and they have inspired the odd bad dream, but there's something about them that lulls you to the Land of Nod.

It can't be the content being comforting. I read a couple to New Man and he thought they were 'a bit sad'. Of course its creator was Nordic, and they're not a people known for embracing the light. I think it's the rhythm of Tove Jannson's writing that induces sleep. I must look at this a bit more, but I can't think what else it is. Probably a fusion of things; most great things are.

It won't be the drawings, they're too interesting. She provides amazing illustrations which I'm afraid this little film doesn't do justice to, though it is very cute.

The content is great though. There are characters with admirable traits - Snufkin believes in 'no possessions' and revels in being a tramp. And there are those who are naughty. Little My loves causing trouble and isn't beyond enjoying a bit of red ant genocide. Moomin is a nice lad but is a bit of a wimp and hopelessly besotted with the snork maiden. Everyone has their flaws and their qualities and amusing character quirks.

Then there is the Groke. Everything she touches turns black and dies. She wanders the wastelands looking for light, a shapeless hill of a creature with hypnotic eyes. it's been said she represents that Nordic gloominess, but she is an excellent characterisation of depression, if not death itself.

The tales of Moomin Valley may be familiar from childhood. I had a couple of them, but there are dozens. Which of course I am now working my way through, thanks to Amazon making bookworm eccentricity an easy vice to endulge. I don't have that masochistic streak that needs those rainy Saturday, holy grail-style expeditions around charity shops. Just post it me.

Interesting what brings the house down in one country and what sets televisions alight in another.

(Though not literally, more's the pity).

We got that Scottish woman didn't we and somehow got over excited about the idea that looking like your average person in the street was extraordinary for a woman blessed with an amazing singing voice. Like being able to sing but not look like Leona Lewis was some sort of amazing feat in itself.

This is what the Ukraine had to offer for 2009.

Thank goodness for cultural diversity.

It gave me a warm glow to see I am not alone in my love of Radio 4, apparently it's winning audiences hand over first.

It has a record 3.84 million listeners aged between 35 and 55, and it has built up its female listenership to more than 5 million for the first time, with 10 million listeners overall.

Not surprising though. it's bloody brilliant.

The news coverage is really good, though Mr Humphrey's is too shouty for me in the morning. Fortunately I'm out the house with the end of the farming programme. Love From Our Correspondent though.

But it is the non-news programmes that I really relish. Front Row is unparalleled - the culture team at the Observer team clearly think so too. Listen about it in the week, read it again on Sunday. Front Row is not vicious or bitchy but you get a very clear idea of whether a play is worth seeing, a book worth reading. Interesting interviews and thought-provoking opinion. This week's feature on the vampire genre was first class.

Then there is the Archers, Woman's Hour and all the drama generally. I am completely gripped by The Dead Hour which finishes tonight as our intrepid Glasgow journalist faces drug gang killers in this thriller set in 1984.

The comedy is mixed. That thing with Lenny Henry is a bit comedy by numbers, but Just A Minute is fantastic. No straight faces in my house when that's on.

Why anyone bothers with tele I don't know.

Potato, po-tar-to, tomato, tom-ar-to... class B, class C

Has no one considered the health effects of cannabis in terms of what happens to your figure after you've ingested it? Like when you are immediately compelled to eat 12 Tunnock's teacakes in half an hour.

Because it can happen children. Believe me.

Yours pondering whether she would have the figure of Kate Moss today if she hadn't spent her latter teenage years wandering through the fields of oxfordshire in a cloud of heavily scented smoke, binge-eating confectionery.

This video was made in Antwerp, at the Belgium Central (Train) Station on 23rd March 2009.

. . . with no warning to the passengers passing through the station,

at 8am a recording of Julie Andrews singing 'Doe, Re, Mi' begins to play on the public address system.

As the bemused passengers watch in amazement, some 200 dancers begin to appear from the crowd and station entrances.

They created this amazing stunt with just two rehearsals!

Enjoy!

Dear god, are they serious?

I can't say I'm happy about the rabbits either.

Bit misleading, this global warming.

Turns out we're not going to get tropical sunshine in Britain.

Quite the opposite.

We are definitely going to get plenty of rain. And who can stand any more of that in Britain. (oh yes, I've got the Winter's Coming Blues)

So read this and this and think about making a change. Saturday 24 October is Action Day.

Will we save the planet? No crystal balls here, but I do know if you do nothing, nothing happens. If you take a stride forward then you're moving.

I can even provide a recent example. A few weeks ago I wrote a bursary application for a friend where the bursary didn't exist. We just pointed out why that scholarship package should. We've just had confirmation that she'll get the grant money she needs and the bursary will be set up for people who come after her.

Now I'm not saying I made that change alone, or even with Tracy's inspirational story. I may have just watered seeds that were already sown. I may have only underscored what was already happening.

But I took a step forward and there was a change.

Look, it's dragged me out of a 105-day blog hibernation, so it must be worth considering. Eh?

Come on, get weaving.