'Can you help me love, only I'm not very good with my numbers,' said the woman at Oxford Road bus stop this evening, peeping out from a purple hood.

She was with a man who had a marvellous line in jokes which, given the rain, was really quite heroic and after five days of commuting very welcome. 'They said the 41 would be a stagecoach, but I don't see any horses,' he remarked.

'Ah,' I said. 'Those days have passed. It's a Finnigans now, times change.' He nodded before remarking, 'I ordered a Rolls-Royce you know.'
'Do they run the 41 now?' I asked.

A 41 came and went - I pointed it out, they ignored it - and they get on a 43 with me, which seemed odd but the 43 is a Stagecoach bus, if nowhere near a Rolls-Royce...

I disappeared up the bus and behind my paper, to discover the labour party is sinking further into the vortex of failure (don't you just love that imagery), boys as young as 12 are using steroids and DNA evidence has led to the arrest of a man for an unsolved murder of 50 years ago. All gripping stuff and only disturbed by the couple from the bus stop cheerily starting up conversations with everyone they managed to sit next to (they both swapped seats several times).

At one point they were helping to entertain a griping baby and everyone was smiling (mostly because the baby had stopped crying) and everything was the best of communal travel. This is how it should be. Talking and smiling and it all seemed very shiny for a moment. Why can't we always be like this; happy together, moving together?

Last night I'm walking down to the station when I hear this voice behind me calling 'Excuse me. Excuse me.'

I turn round to see this small woman in her thirties running up to me in an anorak with little rucksack. I expect her to be lost and in a hurry as she's just dodged through four lanes of traffic to cross the road.

It turns out something has happened to her car, she's used the last of her money to buy what she needs and now she's almost out of petrol. Did I have a pound I could give her towards buying some to get her home to Glossop?

As it turned out all I had was a fiver. I wrote down my name and work address for her - she offered to send it me back - and told her to be careful.

I know it may have been a scam but if it was it was a desperate one, dodging through traffic on a damp, November night. And if it wasn't could I leave a woman asking complete strangers to help her get home?

I'll let you know if anything arrives in the post.

Do you know what I want for Christmas? I want the Guardian editorial team to promise faithfully that their editors will gather in September and draw lots to see who gets to do the Overpriced Nonsense No-one Wants to Buy at Christmas guide.

Yes that's right, just one editor gets to turn their feature section into some shiny red and green catalogue for a day. And that is it.

I am sick to the back teeth with finding '20 presents for the man/woman/child/dog/boss' cluttering up the features sections. I don't care if the usp is they are ethical gifts, or unethical gifts, or gifts you can buy for under a tenner or over half my salary. I don't care if they are edible, postable, indestructable or recyclable. I don't want to see it. Anymore.

And no more party clothes for him/her/the cat. Enough with the glitter make-up collections and which cake, mince pies, turkeys, champagne, puddings and hampers are on sale now. Stop it.

You would think we didn't know what shops were and weren't capable of wandering into one, picking something up and going 'oh, perfect' before wandering up to the till to pay for it.

It's not even December yet!

You are a newspaper not a shopping guide. Get a grip.

...And yesterday I learned Colin Firth, Peter Firth - not the same person.

I know, I know, now I say it it all seems so obvious but I've somehow managed to meld them together in my head over the years.

Child actor from the Double Deckers, bloke who waded about in a pond with his shirt off in Pride and Pred - all the same in my mind.

It was only when I sat down to watch Spooks the other night that I realised the man looking cross and confused all the time looked a bit different from Briget Jones' good boyfriend and who,in the spirit of wanton consumerism appears to have his own online shop.

So that's how I can tell them apart now. One's in Spooks, the other's got an online shop all about him.

I know I'm not alone. My mother keeps getting Priscilla Presley muddled up with Lisa Marie. I keep telling her Priscilla married Elvis not Nicolas Cage. Lisa Marie married Nicolas Cage, Michael Jackson and a few other people.

I used to put that down to her age but since the Firth revelation I'm more inclined towards the theory that our memory crosswires when exposed to overwhelming quantities of media. Funny that...

So now the woman with the dubious honour of being the voice behind 'Mind the Gap' on London's underground has been dumped, for having the temerity to suggest hearing her own voice when riding on a tube train was all a bit of a nightmare (see today's Guardian).

Has the corporate world gone completely doolally? Can we now not make a joke on the internet?

We've all read stories of bloggers being sacked for suggesting their company is a hell-hole or their customers are making their lives unbearable.

I think we're all agreed that biting the hand that feeds us is foolish and it's really not surprising that most of us may talk about our lives, but skate around our nine-to-five existence.

Blogging is publishing and so we're as bound by the libel laws as any other publisher, but surely making a few jokes isn't the end of the world?

May particular favourite:
'Would the passenger in the pinstripe suit and £1,000 glasses who obviously works in the media please take one step forward on to the track.'

A little sadistic I know, but I have had a long, hard day... not that that is the fault of my employers. At all... Oh dear.

My little cold seems to be almost away. Hussah.

My mother will claim that this is mostly, if not entirely, due to daily doses of vinegar and honey which she heralds as a great tonic (one teaspoon cider vinegar to two tpsn honey, preferably local, pour in boiling water and sip when suitable temperature).

But if that doesn't work I'm going with laughter being the best medicine.

Try this: http://www.slide.com/r/Ngfqlneb0j8BDIQIZ1VfKAxOXG8G40jz

It's a monster of my own making, I know, but because the Beloved has been busy tidying up in the kitchen today he's gone and unearthed one of his birthday presents. I know, a man who tidies without prompting, can it be true?

I'd stashed the gift in a cupboard on Tuesday night as I rushed in, quickly thrusting it behind a collection of bags we use for dragging sport kits to work and the recycling to the local collection point.

But in a fit of 'I'm too busy to turn round' absent-mindedness, I forgot I'd left it there.

Now I'm up here, churning out articles for the work in-house magazine, B has been left to his own devises down in the kitchen. Usually he reads the Observer cover-to-cover and then slopes off to read some epic tome of historial import and play his guitar in the loft-den. But of course, not today.

'What's that radio-in-a-submarine in the kitchen in a box?' he asks, as he appears at the door of the back-bedroom study.

'Erm... it's part of your birthday,' I reply for want of a realistic explanation that is somehow going to retain its surprise element. He goes all giggly and then extols its virtues before asking if the submarine is motor-driven. I say I think he has to provide movement himself. He disappears, giggling still and returns 20 minutes later wearing his sunhat and announcing that he's created lots of room and can now move the mortgage/bills boxes down to the kitchen. What this really means is whatever was in the kitchen is now lost somewhere but there is more room in here for his history books. But it is tidying and you can't knock it. I think I can hear the clink of washing up being done...

Me and B are off to see I Am Kloot at Manchester Academy tonight. A crowd from work are going too, from the techies team. About 20 years ago I interviewed the lead singer of this group when he was in a band called Ignition. It's all making me feel about 106. But I'm not as old as B is next week so I'm clinging to that bit of flotsam.

My mum has been enjoying the wonders of Macbeth this weekend. She went to the matinee yesterday and was very excited when I spoke to her on Friday night. I would be too - Patrick Stweart is supposed to be amazing in the title role.

'We're going to the matinee because I want to be home in time for Strictly,' she said. I don't blame her. She has her cultural priorities and they have just got a new DVD recorder so best not leave such important events to new technology.

I hope she got home in time because it was greatlast night, what with Matt's salsa and that ten-tastic performance by Alesha. of course, the question is, can I fit in the who's-out show before we go out tonight? I could set the video (not so high-tech in this house!) of course, but is it the same as watching it live? Not really. Yes, I know it's recorded on the Saturday night but I have to know...

Maybe it's the cold... maybe it's the mizzle... but a rainy, wintery Saturday afternoon has had me trawling the internet for memories of childhood. Turns out trains and buses have been a feature of my life for a long time.

Remember this?

'Time flies by when I'm the driver of a train, and I ride on the footplate, there and back again, under bridges, over bridges to our destination...'

Yes, the lyrics to Lord Belborough's song as he drove Bessie through the landscape of Chigley. Remember Brackett the butler slowly striding down that hall (which I realised eventually was supposed to be lined with marble panels - it wasn't frost on glass at all. As a kid I could never work out why it wasn't winter outside when there were frozen trees through the windows).

And then I found this - the Double Deckers.

I wanted to be Tiger (I was five, all right?!) I wanted a den and a double-decker bus and all those adventures with Sticks and Billie and Doughnut... anyone remember the Cool Cavalier? Possibly their finest moment. It had this fantastic party scene. Sticks is the most amazing dancer and, of course, grew up to be Brinsley Forde of Aswad.

Look, I'm on a roll now so I'll just throw in my other TV heaven moments.

Mary, Mungo and Midge, anyone? My, how properly people spoke in the 70s!
Jamie and the Magic Torch. I've found a whole episode, remember that song?
One more - Catweazle -

Right. I must stop, if I'm not careful I'll drown in nostaliga and the washing won't do itself.

OK, just one, but only because it's a great song... On white horses, snowy white horses, let me ride away...

I'm A Celebrity: Get Me Out of Here

and

Amy Winehouse's life.

What's the difference?

Ok, so Amy's competing in an urban jungle, but the game seems pretty much the same to me. A series of humiliating trials (Amy's mostly taking place around courts and prisons), an endless airing of chaotic private lives in public (see previously bracketed comment), an alternative diet (whatever Amy's 'bush tucker' is it doesn't appear to have many calories), oh and constantly fending off hell's own insects (Amy has the paparazzi).

So who is the biggest loser? Us for watching the games from our remote circus seats? Those panto-playing in Aus in an attempt to revive ailing careers? Or Amy who's so ahead of the game she's playing on her own, with her real life, while still able to pass for 'cool, talented and now'?

...my three top tips for keeping warm on public transport this winter.

Wear a hat, keep those gloves on and try to sit next to the biggest person you can find on the bus/train/tram. They radiate heat like no one else can, it's like sitting next to a hot water bottle.

I thought I'd lost it today. I rifled through the Guardian twice as the bus raced through Withington but it turned out to be hiding in the technology supplement. So, the last lap of the Guardian's guide to 1,000 albums to listen to before you die. I opened with relish.

I scanned through to make sure the essentials were there. The Beloved had bobbed into the back bedroom/shared study last night, midway through England's hapless attempts to beat Croatia, to have another look through yesterday's offerings.

Having had my own internal struggle with the point/sense of these things the Beloved dismissed my quandary and has been utterly gripped. I maybe a closet anorak but B is an alpha anorak. He keeps CDs in genre then alphabetical order. He has 64 books about Bob Dylan.

'They had better have John Zorn in,' he said adamantly, 'Or I shall be writing to the Guardian to point out they've missed something important.' Stern words indeed from a man who doesn't even sign Christmas cards.

So I checked John Zorn was there before continuing to smile at words like Stiff Little Fingers: Inflammable Material and Young Marble Giants: Colossal Youth.

At home, while cooking tea, I watch B thumbing through T to Z. 'John Zorn's in,' I say.
'Humph, but it's not the best one, it's just one of the popular ones.'
Ah, popularist v acquired taste - now there's a debate...

This morning's Metro newspaper revealed (page 11) that celebrity chefs are taking up the cause of chickens in an attempt to wake up the world to the plight of the battery hen.

It's a rotten industry, for sure. Putting aside our prejudices against celebrity chefs, chickens have a miserable life in the battery farm world. We used to keep chickens when I was a child and so I'm rather fond of them. Some kind of quasi-pet creature for me. Having spent many a morning trying to pin down the odd one who escaped from the run me and my brother still shout: 'Run, run like a chicken' at directionless footballers (so the entire England squad, then!).

I buy free range, organic eggs (because I like to think the chickens I exploit get a decent diet as well) but I hadn't thought that hard about cakes and the like. It's very true, how do you know where those eggs inside that lovely cake have come from?

I also have it on good authority (well, Julian Cope raised it at a gig once) that that quorn stuff vegetarians are so fond of contains egg white that isn't free range egg white, allegedly.

If people were to stop buying food containing battery eggs manufacturers would switch. Let's help the chickens. Are you with me? Everybody say 'cluck'!

It's bad enough when it's raining outside, but here it's raining in the house.

Well, ok, I'm dramatising, but our second bedroom - the one I use as my study room/getting dressed before 6am so I don't wake his nibs room - is dripping from the ceiling. A pasta bowl sits underneath.

The roofer is supposed to have come today to have a deck. Finger's crossed.... indoor umbrellas? Mmmmm

Top of the pops for the bus journey home is always the Guardian so this week I have been pouring over the 1000 albums to hear before you die series.

Charlie Brooker pointed out the horror of these lists with far more eloquence than I can muster on Monday, but he didn't like the Grand Canyon either so let's just say he's a man who's hard to please.

Me, I loved the Grand Canyon. Very 'like wow!', but then it was snowing when I saw it for the first time. Snow imbues everything with a magical air of purity, so maybe I got nature's delux package. Maybe he got the post-screaming row with the girlfriend version. I also saw it at dawn the next day too, but you know if you are going to visit one of the wonder's of the natural world you've got to see it at it's best.

Anyhoo, I digress. Back to 1000 albums to hear before you die - says the Guardian. It's interesting, particularly if, like me, you have an agressive anorak gene.

Part of my is chuffed to see albums I have, part of me is annoyed with the part of me that's chuffed because that part doesn't like the idea of getting its taste validated by the Guardian. Part of me suspects it's a pre-Christmas shopping guide in disguise. Part of me is having a great nostalgia rush - Closer, by Joy Division. 'Ah, remember the first time you heard that..' The White Room by the KLF... Killing Joke's self-titled album... Jesus and Mary Chain's Psychocandy... The Manics' Holy Bible.

Sitting on the bus, mentally flitting through the soundtrack to my past is as good a way as any to pass the time. And then there's the people I've never heard of. Keith Jarrett, The Lefte Banke, Light of the World. You see, it's starting to look like a trip to HMV now and I must resist... Christmas is looming, looming like a big scary looming thing. Roll on the sales.

Dear god, I never thought it would happen... Week after week we've seen that poor woman flung around the dancefloor like a Sindy tossed about a nine-year-old's bedroom. At last. Kate whoever-she-is has gone home. Back to GMTV. I feel sorry for Anton. Every year a no-hoper. What do they think he is, a miracle worker?

So who is it going to be this year, now the lame ducks are weeded out? My smart money's on Alesha Dixon, bless her, the way she gets overcome with emotion when the judges say something sweet to her. She is a joy to watch. And that's probably why by joint favourite is Letitia Dean. She's trying so hard to do well, improving like she's suddenly found third and fourth gear, and she's so sweet. Yes, I just love to see people try like they mean it.

And so why can't I warm to Kelly? What is it about that huge smile that seems slightly sinister? Not that I'm obsessed or anything.

Right, off to do work stuff, like prepare for Monday. Until tomorrow...Keep Dancing!

Maybe it was the bleaky wintery greyness that did it, keeping the fairweather runners at home and so the banks of the river were relatively peaceful this morning. Maybe it's they're not afraid of people anymore, or are just suffering from SAD and can't be bothered, but this morning my run was accompanied, in part, by two herons.

As I plodded up the river, jogging through the grass to avoid the water-logged dirt track, there they were. One would see me as I got within ten feet of him and then swoop further down the river. Then the other would do the same. This went on for about 400 metres and then they disappeared into the golf course.

Then I saw a cormorant (I think, it was bigger than a duck, black with a thin, long beak/bill) and a moorhen. Considering it was sheding down by the time I'd turned round for the jog home it was all very wildlifey out there. The herons were there for the return journey too and did exactly the same thing. They don't seem to understand that it you're approaching them settling 200 yards down the bank isn't going to make the approaching person disappear.

Jogging in the rain isn't as crazy as it sounds. You won't get bothered by feeling too hot and, as long as it's not lashing down, it's quite refreshing. Though I have to admit it's not shorts weather anymore. Thank heavens for porridge and hot baths.

Honestly. Just because it happens in London it's national news.

Police at a north London railway station have adopted a cat. And it makes the BBC news site.

We've had a cat at Oxford Road station in Manchester for years. In fact I think Jumper has brothers and sisters. She's black and right haughty, as all good cats should be. We passengers drop food in from time to time and she's a welcome sight, stalking down platform one early in the morning.

When I was a junior reporter on a weekly newspaper in Manchester, many years ago, the local police station had a cat called Penny Meadow. Great big black and white puss. Used to lie on the front steps up to the station like she owned the place.

Any other railway cats out there?

When I get in of a weekday evening, often feeling like I've been swept through a hedge backwards, I look forward to a little TV.

I don't watch much. Heroes. The Simpsons. Strictly BBC2 thing... but I thought I'd have a look at I'm A Celebrity the other day. See who the celebs were.

And who are they? I don't live on an island (well ok I do, but it's not a desert one). I read two newspapers every day, watch the news, monitor news websites. I even subscribe to Pop Bitch and yet I haven't a clue who half these people are. Has someone changed the definition of the word celebrity while I wasn't looking? Does it now mean 'as long as you've been on tele once and have an agent'?

I recognise Lynn Franks, Rodney Marsh's name I know (it's football, yes?), and that girl who used to be in Hollyoaks, Christopher Biggins, that ridiculous chef and the woman from Changing Rooms, but who are the rest fo them? Who is the scary blonde girl who can lie in a coffin being molested by thousands of cockroaches without going completey insane? And who on earth is the woman with the American accent who looks like someone has stitched her face on too tightly? Has she been in a fire or something?

I thought I'd have a deck at ITV's website. See if I could find out more. It's like a flamin bushtucker trial in itself. Once you've opened up a page you can't go back, stumble on and you wind up in some sort of 'those were the days' clips hole.

I'm not suggesting websites are a reflection of a company's business sense but I can tell you ITV's is too busy, too fiddly and about as easy to find your way through as a jungle.

Anyway, anyone who can elighten me as to who these people are (especially Janice) I'd be delighted to hear from you.

'We regret to announce this train will terminate at Oxford Road station because...(pause)... there are too many trains at Piccadilly station.'

Ok, so I'm quoting out of context but those were the words our conductor used this evening as the 4.59pm from Bolton to Manchester Airport stood stationery outside Salford Crescent station. For far too long.

Apparently some other train has 'failed' on the Piccadilly to Oxford Road line so we're all down to one line into the Mothership, aka Piccadilly, and there's a queue. A big queue. Everyone has to get off at Oxford Road and herd up a flights of stairs to another platform. From there those of us not heading for the semi-bright lights of the city have a snowball's chance in Hell of finding a train that will get them to the airport on time.

You do have to admire the bloke on the train, keeping us up to date with the chaos. He does have an amusing turn of phrase. 'For all passengers travelling to Piccadilly and onwards to stations to Manchester airport.... Can you make your way to platform four.... crossing over to the platform... using the bridge... (presumably for those for those of us without our jet-packs/hover boots/olympic long jump records)... checking the train time display. We are ahead of the train you will catch. The train you want is behind us'. I have to say at that point a small titter could be heard.

Two girls started doing impressions. 'I have to go... to the toilet... can you get me... a drink... while I'm gone.' These are two girls whose previous conversational wit has included:
'What happened to that bloke who fell asleep on your bed?'
'Oh he's dropping out of uni. he doesn't like it... It were nothing I did.'

'I don't like Facebook.'
'Why'
'I don't gerrit. Why'dyhavta do that password thing? It's soooo boring. And when yer do a search why won'tit letcha see who all them Adams is?'

Maybe you had to be there but me and the bloke with the tattooed hands were hanging on every word. The next French and Saunders, I tell you. if they ever get there.

You won't believe this, but if it's not true I'll eat my travel pass. Prince Charming drives the 43 bus in Manchester.

No, it's true. It's crazy, but it's true.

'Good morning miss, how are you?' he says as I stumble onto the 6.40am-something-too-early-for-sanity bus this morning with the mantra 'one more day... one more day' parading through my mind.

I stop and look up. Let's face it, this doesn't happen every day. Personal greetings from bus drivers?

He appeared to have a book on his lap (but this is coincidental and it was very early so I may have imagined that bit). He was smiling. I smiled back. It is all very cool.

And so I continue to smile as I see beaming passengers coming towards me, their smiles ignited by his cheery greetings and his 'alf-inched-from-an-Ealing-comedy care for us. 'Hold on tightly now, ladies and gentlemen,' he shouts out to us as we rattle through Withington, swerving to give a wide berth to a cyclist.

'You have a great day now,' he says to each flurry of passengers disembarking at various stops. 'And you too,' I say, turning to smile at him as I get off at Oxford Road.

Stagecoach: you should give our Prince Charming an award. He's a complete star. I've seen the rubbish bus drivers have to put up with. Spitting. Swearing. Rudeness. Threats. They all deserve medals but our Prince Charming truly deserves honouring. Go on, have a Bus Driver of the Year. Let the passengers choose. You know you want to.

I remember very clearly the first time I saw her face.

I had just moved to Scotland. It was January 1991 and I was living in a rented flat in the heart of Edinburgh. Ten doors down from the Tron Church, ten doors up from a massage parlour. It made for an interesting view.

She disappeared from a bus station near her home in Bathgate, just a few miles away. She vanished in the February. A 16 year old girl on her way home. Last seen eating chips on a park bench.

Her picture was all over the newspapers for months. Brown hair. An uncertain smile. I seem to remember that no matter how hard they looked all the police could find of her was her purse.

At last she's been found, though it seems she's been lost to all those who tried to find her for years. Buried in a garden in Kent, hundreds of miles from home. Now, 16 years later her picture is back, staring up at me from the Metro. Vicky Hamilton.

I've seen more, felt more and experienced more than I could have ever imagined in those 16 years. She would be 32 now, a grown woman. But she's not. She's frozen in time, in a picture in a newspaper. A pretty girl with brown hair and an uncertain smile.

So there I am, pottering through the kitchen without my contact lenses in, hair wet, kettle on when I look up at the clock.

5.15am.

So I wander up to it, squint at it. Stick my ear to it. Squint at it again. Find my watch. Find my mobile phone. Squint at each of these in turn.

5.16am.

Somehow I have managed to get out of bed, complete ablutions and not notice I am a full hour early. I swore I heard the alarm go off as well and had sneaked an extra five minutes lie in.

So I got the 6.08 bus and the 6.47 train. It's wonderfully quiet at this time of the morning. No scuffle to get on, no trouble finding a seat.

Of course I am completely brain dead.

Reading on the bus is a great thing. Newspapers are great, but there's nothing better than a good novel where you can lose yourself in the plot. Time flies by and you're home before you know it.

I've been reading this can't-put-it-downable thriller. Took me three days to polish it off in the end. And it was set in Glasgow so I had all the fun of knowing where our hero was as he revved his engine at the traffic lights on Byers Road, near the university, thundering through the plot to its exciting conclusion.

My only qualm was it veered towards the racy at time. One moment our hero was rifling through boxes of antiques at a house clearance the next he was enjoying the prostrate favours of a young american gentleman who had signalled his availability by taking off his vest at the window of a tenament flat.

Now I don't have any issue with that in itself. Consenting adults can do what they like as far as I'm concerned and I have to say it was all quite fascinating in a rather TS Eliot kind of way, but I was concerned some poor dearie sat next to me would catch the odd sentence and have kittens on the spot (which would make an interesting blog entry).

Should you mind your literary Ps and Qs in public?

There's a bloke on the morning 43 who is always gripped by his book. He's bundled up in coat and hat of indistinguishable colour, completely rapt in the pages' contents.

Now after several weeks of this curiosity was killing the cat and I purposefully sat behind him and had a good look. I have to say, that will teach me, because to say the dialogue was quite racy would be a major understatement.

Perhaps I'm just being over cautious. I don't think there are any laws about reading about sex in public, along as you're not waving great pictures in people's faces. But is it polite?

Right, I know I'm like a dog with a bone here, but this bus adverts thing is really beginning to annoy me.

Since I first noticed this common theme of advert doom and misery I've been making notes of what those little rectangular posters promote. It's just as I thought, Ad Land has written us off as a bunch of losers. This is what the posters on the bus said this week:
* Don't fiddle your job seekers' allowance: we're watching
* Want a secured loan?
* Come and work for our charity for nothing
* We're an opticians with special deals for the over sixites
* I'm Kerry Katona: come and shop at Iceland

In other words, buses are frequented by the
* unemployed/not very unemployed fraudsters
* and/or financially insolvent
* with nothing better to do with their time
* because if they're not robbing the dole they're retired
* and willing to eat anything as long as it costs £1.99.

I suppose we get the last laugh because it's our one sanctuary against the constant bombardment of 'buy this' 'buy that' (and God knows we'll relish this as Chirstmas looms closer).

We know, as we sit surrounded by mp3-wielding, mobile-phone yakking students, that the Wilmslow Road buses have more white goods than Curry's on a weekday tea-time and it's a wonder buses don't buckle under the weight of them on Saturdays. If they haven't worked that out then ha, ha!

And I can also tell you the person who designs these ads has never sat on a bus - the typefaces are way too small to read unless you're nose up against them, for which most passengers would need an orange crate.

But does this mean buses aren't seen as the transport of choice for high earners? Does this mean ad men, their pay masters, and their target audience have no intention of getting out of their cars and using public transport? Have I had too many cups of coffee today?

I think we should be told.

Sailing past the Total petrol station on the way home through Rusholme I spotted police cars parked up.

And there they were, police officers talking to demonstrators. Demonstrators who were blocking the entrance to the petrol station, holding up a banner which read something like: Totally Out of Order. Funding Oppression in Burma.

Imagine that. Real political demonstrators. In public. Causing actual inconvenince to... well, people with cars and who cares abut them anyway.. but when did this last happen?

I'm not going to detail my youth as dabbler in protest politics. It's too boring for you to read and besides, you didn't have the Communist party faithful round for tea in 1980s Britain without getting a taste for paranoia. But it seems to me a passion for protest has been bred out of young people today and so I was delighted to see them out with their painted bedsheet causing a bit of a cafuffle at tea time. And it turns out the Burma protest has been touring the country. Good for them.

Having mentioned Deborah Kerr's death a couple of weeks ago it seems remiss not to mention her husband died this week, Peter Viertel.

Apparently not only was he a novelist and screenwriter, but he was also credited with bringing surfing to Europe, so Cornwall's got a lot to be thankful to him for.

Blimey, it's somewhere north of Winnie the Pooh's blustery day out there today, isn't it?

As it's Saturday the beloved and I have been for a bracing walk along the river to Didsbury for a mooch and a bit of shopping. Impending winter looming heavy in the grey sky, we didn't see much in the way of wildlife. Just some ducks and moorhens wiggling through the water, cute as but