On the back of a white van, belonging to an electrical company called Evans, driving through Kent (where else) this afternoon was the slogan: "Thank 'eavens its Evans"

Not only a bad pun, but also the phrase lacked an apostrophe. Grrr.

I've just been to watch sports day at my sisters' school, Pipers Corner.

It's very reminiscent of sports days at Taunton School (in as much as I maintain my record of attending sports days without actually competing in anything, if nothing else), although the inter-house competitive edge at Pipers is possibly even healthier than it was at TS.

There are four houses, each with an associated colour: Hampden (blue), Mandeville (green), Milton (yellow) and Penn (red). Each house is named for a local area around Wycombe, where the school is based. Alice and Lucy, my sisters, are in Penn.

From the very start, competition between the houses is encouraged. They're divided into four along the home straight of the athletics track, each decked out with balloons, banners and mascots in their house colour. There's plenty of chanting too. The atmosphere is more reminiscent of 'house singing' at TS, which was a raucous annual event with much chanting of house songs, than sports days at TS, where the sense of competition was lessened and proceedings generally quite relaxed. Or at least, that's how it seemed from inside the scorers' hut.

Both Alice and Lucy did well. Alice came second in two events, behind the same improbably quick young girl on each occasion, and then performed magnificently in the relay to drag Penn up from fourth place, going into the final straight, to second. Lucy won the three spring jump competition (a hop-skip-jump competition, minus the hopping and skipping) and won a relay competition too.

Penn actually won the overall inter-house competition. Clearly I'm a good omen, since this was the first time they've done that in eleven years. After an interminably long wait, the lady announcing the results began to go down the final scores in reverse order. Milton were last, but still greeted their name with a loud cheer, as did third placed Hampden. When the name 'Mandeville' was read out for second place, a similar cheer went up - except it came from the Penn area, which had turned into a sea of red bouncing up and down with joy at the thought of having come first. Very satisfying. This is why we bring the children up with a ridiculously over-egged sense of 'do or die' by playing football with them in the back garden. Even if it does mean my dad has to support a team that wear red.

I am alive, I am reading posts and I do plan to post soon but with everyone else doing such a great job, it didn't seem necessary... I am driving lots (Ldn twice yesterday, Heathrow today and about 300 miles around Kent over the weekend) and also clearing gravel off our driveway. It is a gravel driveway. Go figure. I also want to work out how many sq feet the driveway is, average the number of stones in such a small area and then calcuate the number of stones my Dad and I must have moved in the past few days. It's a fun life.

The admin department of Exeter College continues to harass me even though I'm long gone.

My final battels statement (invoice, for those of you in the real world) has just been emailed to me, coming to roughly thirty quid, which is a pleasantly low sum. I doubt it'll beat OJ - last he told me, he was actually in credit - but it's a sight less than I'd been anticipating.

Of course, this doesn't stop the college admin trolls being as pleasant as ever. The full text of the email I received reads as follows:

Please find attached statement from Exeter College as at 29/06/2005. This account is now due and early payment would be appreciated.

No 'Hello', no 'thank you', no 'please', not even a name at the end of the email! I realise I'm probably no concern of theirs now that I've left the premises - I was barely a concern in comparison to rich conference guests even whilst I was there - but the least they could do is try to treat me like a human. Basic courtesy would be far more likely to facilitate the early payment they crave so much. As it is, there's no payment date on the invoice and I'm now going to leave it festering in my inbox for a month or two out of pure spite.

By contrast, I emailed the tech support at Webfusion - the hosting company I use for a few sites of my own - last night, with a problem. By this morning there was an email in my inbox with a few suggestions, none of which worked. Half an hour later I got another reply asking me to try again, and the problem was solved. Both members of support staff who emailed me were courteous and the problem was sorted with barely any effort on my behalf - full marks. It doesn't take much.

I know I should really get out more, but browsing through our site stats once again, there's a few people coming here looking for information about The Customers and their new single, 'Fifty Eight'.

In order to help them in their quest for knowledge, and in no way a dirty self-aggrandising plug for stuff I've written, I'm happy to provide a link to my interview with them.

Every year since 1973, a cricket competition named the Brewers Cup has been contested by the old members of schools across the UK. The Old Tauntonians, among whom OJ and I would count ourselves, have won it no fewer than six times, a feat bettered only by the Denstone Wanderers.

Alas, the Old Tauntonians won't be winning it this year - they've been thrown out of the competition.

Last weekend, the Old Leightonians turned up to play the Old Tauntonians in Taunton, and were soundly beaten. The OTs amassed a score well into the 300s during their fifty overs, whilst the Leightonians could only struggle into the mid-200s. The hero for the OTs was one Chris Gange, who contributed a century to the OT total.

And here we encounter a minor difficulty. The Old Leightonians politely enquired about Mr Gange and his roots at Taunton School, and became more than a little suspicious. As it happens, one of the Old Leightonians is a friend of my dad's who does plenty of business with our company. He knows I went to Taunton School, and even asked my dad for directions to the school before the match (my dad got them wrong). This morning, my dad received the following email:

I wonder whether you could ask Ollie whether there was ever a Chris Gange, who attended Taunton School in his time. He could have left in the 5th Form.

I've never heard of Chris Gange, and with good reason - he never went to Taunton School. In fact, he's the 21-year-old product of Somerset County Cricket Club's youth academy. Though I have no idea how he came to take his place in the Old Tauntonian side, significance might be attached to the departure of one Will Penny, whose name will be familiar to OJ, as captain of the Old Tauntonians the moment this revelation was made.

The Old Tauntonians have, therefore, been disqualified from the Brewers Cup for fielding a ringer. I can only imagine the fury coursing through the veins of our erstwhile maths teacher and spin bowling supremo, Mr Hogg, at this news. I seem to remember hearing that Mr Kennedy - otherwise known as former Lancashire player Andrew Kennedy - was also leaving the school this summer. Is this the beginning of the Dark Age of Taunton School cricket?

There's a rather large thunderstorm rolling past as I write this. In fact, I feel positively Caribbean, sat here with the rain lashing down outside, making that lovely it's-been-raining smell. The lights flicker in time with the lightning for added effect. However, I think what's doing the most for the atmosphere in here is - Jeeesus, that was close - er, is the band War Against Sleep.

Well, I say band. It's actually just one person, around whom a live band is sometimes constructed, but it's darned good. The track 'Damaged Woman' was the source of my Caribbean inspiration a moment ago, and the tracks on this album - 'Invitation To The Feast' - are precisely that, warm and inviting. They're full of melody and soft, rumbling rhythms that neatly entwine themselves with the weather outside. The vocals range from something reminiscent of the Barenaked Ladies (especially on the delightful track 'Puppies And Kittens') to a low, awkward, distant Interpol growl. It's the perfect accompaniment when you're staring outside wondering whether you should still be sitting at your laptop, or if it might blow up in your face with the next lightning strike. Time to see if the ol' Belkin surge protector thingy does what it says on the tin...

I'll confess that when the Bucks Free Press came out last Friday, I was a bit disappointed only to have a couple of articles in there, and no byline.

Now I find out why. Today's edition of Midweek, the thinner paper designed to tide people over til Friday, is practically written single-handedly by me.

The first three pages are given over to three articles that I had nothing to do with and a page of announcements. After that, it's the Ollie Free Press.

Of four articles on page four, three are mine - 'Gang attack and rob man', 'Police seek missing man' and 'New chief plans to keep a close eye on his beat'.

On page five, the article 'Helpline eviction causes outrage' carries a byline for James, the court reporter, but the body of the article is almost word for word written by me (I mentioned the county court hearing from which the article arose last Thursday).

On page 7, there's the photo of a cow that caused consternation last week, with my accompanying caption, along with my article about a local team of garden design students going to the Hampton Court Palace flower show. The sub-editor clearly didn't read the article properly. The headline is 'Young garden designers head for Hampton Court show'. The second line of the article reads: 'The eight-person team of mature students...' (emphasis mine). No wonder Kris et al constantly complained about them...

Oh and let's not forget page 8, where there's actually a photo of me! Sita, the Marlow reporter, was doing a small feature on MRSA and needed one extra vox-pop on it, so she interviewed me and took a photo with her digital camera:

What! I am scared. One in eleven chance apparently! I'll keep the ingrown toenail thanks.

As you may be aware, the US Supreme Court delivered a hammer-blow ruling against peer-to-peer software yesterday. The verdict effectively holds the owners and operators of file-sharing environments responsible for the music illegally traded within them.

If I parcel up a few CDs, write the address of a friend on the front, pop a few stamps on it and post it, is the Royal Mail therefore liable for my illegal distribution of those CDs? Surely the principle is exactly the same, except I'd have paid the Royal Mail to carry out my evildoing for me, whereas most P2P applications are entirely free to use. Isn't accepting payment in order to file-share even worse than doing it for free?

Or, as I suspect, does this kind of legislation entirely ignore the offline equivalents of online activity? Just because it is easier to do something online, that doesn't mean it's impossible offline. If the operator of an online network through which files can be shared illegally can be held responsible for all goings-on within it, why should this change for an offline postal network? By rights, the various US music labels that have been pursuing this ruling should now be hunting down the US postal service with as much vigour as they have the independent peer-to-peer distributors.

We're currently result number six on Google for the term 'Andy Murray'. Do I take it not many people really call him that then? In any case I apologise to serious tennis fans who will have ended up here thanks to my ramblings during his match against Nalbandian.

Whilst I'm on the topic of search results, a lot of people seem to end up here after having searched for 'Su Doku'. Amy and OJ are far more the Su Doku experts than I, but surely nothing can beat Sky's latest offering, Su Doku Live?

It's hosted by Carol Vorderman - assuming she's in a fit state to present it following the death of Richard Whiteley - and you can apply to be a member of the audience or even a team member here.

OK, I'll see what this audioscrobbler thing turns up as well then.

In other news, I hope you were all watching University Challenge: The Professionals tonight. (Is now the right time that I almost wrote on my grad application form that I wanted to stay to have more chances to get on the show?) Regular readers, or listeners as Frasier might say, will be aware that a few weeks ago Ollie and I debated on air the issue of the plural of the word octopus. We lacked any definite guidance on the question, since we couldn't find a classicist, but it turns out tonight that I was right (always a good thing). A bonus question stated that the plural of octopus was indeed octopuses, not octopi, and then asked why the latter was incorrect. The answer, as I shouted out to Jeremy, is becuase octopus is derived from Greek, not Latin. I can't remember when I first learned this, but I sure am glad I know it. And besides, isn't that enough to get Lincoln on University Challenge already?

My Dad and I had a blazing row yesterday about whether Coldplay are currently the biggest British band or not. I said yes, he begged to differ, suggesting Oasis as an alternative candidate.

Happily, the BBC agree with me:

Glastonbury fans declared Coldplay's festival headline slot a huge success on Saturday as the group cemented their position as Britain's biggest band. [source]

Feel free to join in the debate.

In tenuously related news, I've now set up an Audioscrobbler account. This will keep track of the music I play on my laptop, displaying tracks that have been played recently, favourite artists over a period of time and favourite tracks from those artists. Once it has registered 100 tracks, it will also point you in the direction of people with a similar taste in music, and recommend bands it thinks I might like based on my music taste.

You can find my Audioscrobbler page here, and can follow the links from that page to set up an account of your own, if you regularly play music from your PC.

No, there's no Idiotchild on there - yet. I'll play some in a minute just to make sure it gets registered...

Apologies for the absence; everything's been a bit hectic here at home as we try to rearrange my room and tidy the house up in a very short space of time. There's still an awful lot to do, so this shall be a short post. Regular readers will be aware that Ollie and I are fans of the sadly decomissioned Futurama. In particular, we like the minor characters, especially Dr Zoidberg.

On Thursday, my mum and I went to Ikea in order to pick up new furniture for the room. A post about Ikea could go on for a long time, and I suspect that as Amy (who is currently yomping in East Sussex) moves into her flat, she will have plenty to say about the place. It caught my eye, however, that the desk we got was called Norbo. (Apologies for the cached link; Ikea's website seems to be having a hissyfit, not unlike its staff.) Since then, I have been unable to get a picture of newscaster Morbo out of my head. I wonder if keyboards also give him gas?

So there'll be no British heroics at Wimbledon for the rest of this year, at least.

Still, it was good whilst it lasted. Andy Murray put up a hell of fight and certainly didn't disgrace himself.

Worryingly, I could identify a few traits I'd normally associate more with my own tennis game. Perhaps it's his age and apparent lack of condition, both factors I've never found helped me either. For a start, he's got a real temper on him, which some are marking out as a good attitude, but for a first proper Wimbledon appearance he seemed a mite melodramatic to me. If I were a family member or coach, I'd be wanting him to gradually employ that emotion rather than unleashing it from the first point. True, it got him out of the blocks flying, but by the time the match reached its halfway point, he was both physically and mentally drained.

Indeed, his behaviour as the game dragged on was very reminiscent of my attitude on a tennis court, especially when I was in my early teens. I used to play against my dad when we were on holiday, and I would routinely end up losing, a fact I would take in the worst possible spirit. There would be no end of swearing, gesticulating, pouting and even tears here and there. Myself and Mr Murray thus share a bit of a competitive edge, but he has to be careful not to be too like me and let it consume you on the court. As an absolute amateur I'm in no place to start advising him to any real degree, but I can see from his expression and his mannerisms that he eats himself away with the same inner demons I end up surrendering to on a tennis court.

At least the great British phenomenon of the heroic but ultimately failed tennis player is going to be with us for many years to come. This year will be remembered partly for Henman's failure, but mostly as a positive year thanks to the discovery of Murray. Wait until next year, when there's just as much expectation on Murray's young shoulders as routinely rests on Henman's. 2006 will truly be the year of tennis disappointment.

'Nalbandian senses the lack of mobility in Murray right now.'

So says MacEnroe. Nalbandian hardly needs to sense it, it's plain for all to see. There was some speculation that Murray might simply be laying the melodrama on thick for the benefit of the crowd, in preparation to come out guns blazing for this all-important fourth set, but I don't see it. He looks genuinely bushed, and that's a great shame, because he's played some fantastic tennis here. Either way, he's done himself proud.

As I write, Nalbandian has made consecutive unforced errors. There is hope yet, but Murray has followed those with one of his own, which is the last thing he needs. It's been a very scrappy affair and, having not won a game for thirty-five minutes, I still fear for the boy, but he's hanging on in there. I'm absolutely engrossed in this.

Game Murray! You can reset that clock from thirty-five minutes now. Game Murray, game on...

Murray has just won the first set. During the break in play, the BBC switched to 'Henman Hill', which is rapidly becoming 'Murrayfield'. Their reporter there interviewed three young girls. His first words to the camera:

'I've found three of Hen- er, Murray's youngest and most fervent fans.'

That says it all about the changing of the guard that has taken place during this tournament.

The roars every time Andy Murray wins a point against David Nalbandian are quite extraordinary.

I'm going to err on the side of caution and say he'll lose. But my God I hope I'm wrong. Nalbandian is making unforced errors, the crowd love Murray to pieces, you never do know...

Having praised the BBC's coverage of major events yesterday, they might want to tweak a few aspects of their Wimbledon coverage.

The rather well-spoken gent commentating on Kim Clijsters' game on Centre Court can be heard loud and clear by viewers when he thinks he is off-mic. During a pause between points, audible as something of a stage whisper, we heard:

'You want me to say something about that guy there? But I don't know who he is.'

Two seconds later, an image of a gentleman sat watching the game appeared on screen, with the following voiceover from our commentator:

'A well-dressed gentleman there ... no doubt, um, a friend of one or the other of the players.'

I'm fairly sure most Glasto-goers have had enough of blue for one day after the torrential rain that engulfed the festival site this morning, but for those of us who elected to stay at home and keep the money, pressing the blue interactive button opens up a world of possibilities on BBC3.

This must be what Glastonbury feels like, at least from the 'decisions, decisions' point of view. There's five different options on BBC3 interactive. At the moment, it's between The Killers, Doves, Babyshambles and The Secret Machines (the fifth channel doesn't go live until 11pm). I really can't decide. I've stuck mostly with The Killers so far (mainly to hear their new tracks), but I've dipped into Doves and listened to Secret Machines, because I know people who will have gone to watch them. All this without needing a portaloo or a snorkel.

In other words, credit to the Beeb for this. We used to barely get through a day without warbling on about BBC News on Dayorama - I think that if we're going to be paying them any attention, it should be for this kind of thing. When people criticise the BBC, they don't take into account the unrivalled service they produce when events like this come along. It's frankly unbelievable that at the touch of a button, I can choose between live or near-live performances from a host of acts at the world's greatest music festival. That kind of technology has no right to exist, and even less right to actually work perfectly, especially given that BBC3 had to abandon their purpose-built studio earlier due to flooding!

It's not just music fans that get this kind of treatment either. I've not had the chance to watch any Wimbledon coverage yet, but I know damn well from past experience that the interactive feast the BBC serves up from SW19 each year is equally as impressive. Even a BBC strike didn't stop them covering the Chelsea Flower Show, and there's no doubt that the World Cup and Commonwealth Games next year will be given the same treatment. This is what marks the BBC out, because no other broadcasting company in the world has quite the same scope and range. We, as a public, pretty much make that possible with the licence fee, but everyone must be getting their money's worth with the range of output on so many channels.

Right. Back to Glasto, but first a quick roll around in the mud outside. It just won't feel proper otherwise.

Disaster.

I walked into the office at about 8:50am this morning and it was relatively quiet - about four of the news crew were at their desks (there's about fifteen in total).

Even then, it was too quiet, and then it became apparent why. The printers, based in Oxford, had suffered a technical problem late the night before. The Bucks Free Press itself had been published as per usual, but the Marlow, Chesham and Amersham editions of the paper - which carry separate headlines for their first five or so pages - hadn't made it. For the first time in at least a decade, those areas wouldn't have their weekly newspaper.

The initial reaction around the newsroom was frustration, as might be expected. These people, particularly Nic, Julian and Sita, who are responsible for those areas, had worked all week to get those editions ready. Now a printing error meant there would be no paper at all and that their articles would most likely never be seen.

Complications began to surface which hadn't been anticipated. First, it was realised that this also meant adverts which had been been paid for wouldn't be shown, so a lot of people were going to need a refund. Second, corrections from the previous edition (including one involving a heated dispute between Marlow's two archaeological societies - why a town that size needs two such societies, no one knows) would not now appear in this edition, since it wasn't going to be published. This could be resolved by carrying the corrections over to next week's edition, but would that appease irate members of the public who had been promised a prompt correction this week?

The news editor made sure that everyone was aware of what had happened in case residents rang to complain that they couldn't find a copy of the paper - we were told to direct them to our online version instead, where .pdf files of the missing pages from each local edition were posted. But the frustration only deepend when it became clear that no one was going to actually ring to complain. In the words of Steve, the editor:

'No complaints? None? That's really scary.'

James (not court reporter James, a different one) said what we were all thinking: 'Are we going to have to face up to the fact that no one gives a shit?'

So that was a downer, and since most of the reporters were away for one reason or another, I suspect most of them don't even know yet. Only seven of the usual team of fifteen turned up all day long, since Fridays, being the day the paper is published (at least usually!), are very quiet. Even those journalists who did turn up took a half day. After 2pm, only three of us were left in the office: the news editor, the 'weekend' reporter (which changes on a rota - the weekend reporter assumes sole responsibility for any events happening over Saturday and Sunday) and me.

In fact, I was probably the busiest of the lot. I came in and tidied up a bit of work from the day before, then went with Jenna to interview a new inspector who was assuming control of the South Bucks local police area. This was a tiny press conference being held by the local police station, so for the first time I got to meet the competition - there were representatives of four other local newspapers present. Jenna, who is young, fiery and certainly not one for hiding feelings, oozed contempt for the lot of them (admittedly, the contempt was more often deserved than not). All of them, including Jenna, looked stunned when I started asking the inspector questions once they'd all had their turn, but then one lady had only just been telling the tale of the work experience kid at their paper, who had been unanimously voted an 'arrogant shite'. I don't want to know the outcome of voting in our office...

I wrote that story up along with one about a group of local residents who are displaying a show garden at the Hampton Court Palace flower show, and with a bit of luck they'll make one of the papers next week. As for this week's Bucks Free, I've got an article on page 5 about a theft at a furniture manufacturers, and a couple of news in brief items, but nothing to which my name is attached, which is about par for the course. Some quotes I sourced are in stories by other reporters, and I fell victim to the printing disaster, since a lot of my work involved stories about Marlow, which will now never see the light of day. I'm very happy with it all though, and the thought that a couple more stories of mine might surface next week is a nice one. When I left, the news editor said I'd be welcome back at any time, which is not surprising considering I'm an extra pair of hands at no extra cost, but all the same I felt quite valued there. Full marks to the Bucks Free for the way they treated me as a work experience kid, I only hope the Somerset papers can match them in terms of involving me!

Finally, I had one hell of a nightmare last night. I had a dream that I'd passed my exams - as in, not failed but got a pass, not a first, 2:1, 2:2 or third. It'd be a fate worse than death, a bit like being kept comatose on life support for decades: yes, technically you're alive, but it's no life at all. When I woke up, it took me a strangely long time to appreciate that it hadn't actually happened, and that chances are I'd get a decent second class degree, but I stayed in a bad mood about it for most of the morning. Frankly if no one bothered telling me the result of my degree I'd be quite happy, it seems like an entirely unnecessary inconvenience for it to actually get graded. They know I've done it, I know I've done it. Let's all move on, eh? I've got more important things to worry about. Like what page that flower show story's going to end up on.

Ok, well only exciting in the world of "me"! Contracts have been exchanged on the flat, and completion will be two weeks today (8th July). Next stop: IKEA.

Earlier this week I went along to my local surgery to re-register with them. Whilst at Oxford, we had to make our College-assigned Doctor our main "Doctor" and thus all my medical records are now sitting in Oxford. Ironically, in all the time I was at Oxford, I probably attended the Lenham Surgery more than the Oxford one, filling in a "visiting patient" form each time. Now I want to re-register and I need to go along for a health-check with the Doctor. I really can't see the point of this, although I accept that it is their procedure. The Doctor I am seeing has seen me through "everything", my medical records should show that my blood pressure was checked last month and all is ok, and yet I still have to go in. And yet, every month in the local magazine people complain that they have to wait too long to see a Doctor.

--

Now back from the Doctor. I was in there for all of two minutes. I suppose for piece of mind, that wasn't too much of a waste of time.

My Mother and I have just had a good giggle over a friend of my Mother’s (ex-colleague) son’s wedding list. Clearly the couple have not lived together before, so items such as a broom, a digging spade, a jazzy beach towel, a bath mat (at £33!), a pansy pillow case, a melamine blue mug, a Bridgewater Starry Toast Oval Platter (just pop that into Google… clearly anything to do with Bridgewater is nasty) and the piece de resistance, a Narnia Faux Fur Rug in Chocolate Brown for £80 (likewise, viewable through Google) are all available. There is also some Denby, but this slips into the background when there are other such delights in store! I don’t mean to be snobby (but this couple aren’t badly off as it happens), and nor do I wish to condemn adding common items to a wedding list, rather than the standard “good” crystal/cutlery/china, but it just seemed such an odd mix.

The gift list has been provided through John Lewis (and excellent service, despite that fact that you can’t automatically view the items available on their website) and finally my Mum and I settled on 6 dinner plates, and then proceeded to the check out. Here, I selected my Mother’s title… and then we laughed some more. I expected to select from Dr, Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms and Other (as is usual). Oh no, this is John Lewis. Try this for a selection:

Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms, Dr, Baron, Baroness, Capt, Col, Count, Countess, Dame, Duke, Earl, Hon, HRH, Judge, Lady, Lord, Lt. Lt Col, Major, Majoress, Prince, Princess, Prof, Revd, Rt Hon, Rt Rev, Sir, Viscount, Viscountess.

A few things to note. a) Does the Queen really order through John Lewis? b) I never knew there was such a thing as a Viscountess (and Word doesn’t recognise it in its dictionary); c) Is the distinction between Rt Rev and Revd so different that it merits a different title for a simple address?; d) Where is the Wing Commander option for Graham? and e) It would have been really useful if they had put them in order of hierarchy, rather than just alphabetically. That way, the list would have been both funny and educational.

Page seven of the South Bucks Star, a free advertiser/tabloid published every Thursday by the Bucks Free Press group. My first byline in professional print journalism. Oh yes.

Things picked up after this morning's slow start. The curtain shop complaint I'd taken on the phone got knocked back to me, but before I'd even had the chance to quiz the irate grandmother in question, James swept me off on another court trip. (Email from Adam Keeble, reminiscing: 'Ah, those days of everyone scrambling to take the workie out on a nothing job.' James is winning that scramble hands down.)

This time it was Wycombe County Court, and a civil case between Buckinghamshire County Council and the High Wycombe branch of a charity named DIAL. In a nutshell, four volunteers for DIAL - which is a helpline for disabled people - had been using a room on council premises for well over a decade, thanks to an informal agreement with the council whereby no rent changed hands.

Last year, the council decided that they needed the room to help cope with the sheer amount of filed paperwork the Family Centre next door was generating, so they served DIAL High Wycombe with three months' notice to make arrangements for alternative accommodation. The volunteers, quite elderly and disabled themselves, felt they had been betrayed and vowed to stay put. Today, more than a year later, the matter came to court, with the council accusing the volunteers of trespass, a charge they did not deny. They were thus served 28 days' notice by the court. As one volunteer, Ray, told me, 'the council are in the right legally, but it's the principle.'

James told me I could have a go at the story, so when we got back, I set to work on it. You have no idea how unhelpful people can be until you try being an unimportant journalist for an unimportant local paper. First I tried to talk to someone at the head office of DIAL, since Ray reckoned they 'hadn't done a lot' to help their local branch's cause. Yes, the receptionist at DIAL told me, there was a press officer who could help me. But she was in a meeting. All afternoon.

'It's only 2pm,' I said. 'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'Any idea at all what time she'll be free?'
'None.'
'Is there anyone else I can talk to?'
'No.'
'It's just that this is important - one of your charity's local branches is probably going to have to close because of the county council, and we really need to hear what your charity has to say.'
'Sorry sir.'
*click*

I moved on to the county council. Here it was no surprise that no one particularly wanted to talk to me, since local newspapers do not sell more copies with headlines such as COUNCIL LEGALLY CORRECT TO EVICT TRESPASSERS. As the council press officer was only too well aware, the headline was going to be ONLY DISABLED HELPLINE EVICTED BY COUNCIL. She duly refused to give me a quote - 'I'll get in trouble if I do' - and referred me to the council's head of adult disabilities. He was in London and 'would be all day tomorrow too', according to his assistant. She recommended I talk to another gent at the council called Peter, but he, too, was out. His PA told me to get in touch with Ann, the council's head of legal proceedings. She was 'in a meeting' and would call me back. The phone did not ring. 'Neither Buckinghamshire County Council nor DIAL UK could be reached for comment,' my story thus reads. And I duly upped the tugging-at-the-heartstrings tone. 'Bloody council' should be the motto of this newspaper.

Elsewhere, a delighted Mr Crick rang me to tell me all about his son Adam, Wycombe born and bred, who has just got into London's Royal Academy - taking one of fifteen places from a field of four hundred applicants, according to the proud father. Bless. Meanwhile, a lady named Janice phoned to say that she was donating most of a cheque she had received, as a Voluntary Works Award for her work at a local hospice, to charity. Her £150 prize was going to be broken down so that three charities each got £40 donations. I forwarded her story to the reporter who deals with her village, adding as a suggested headline: LOCAL MISER HOARDS £30.

But for all this, what should my first byline - my first published article, for that matter - be, but a re-jigged press release? The waste paper story above involved hardly any work. The deputy news editor sent me a press release from Envirowise and asked me to 'turn it around', i.e. rewrite it with a slightly different emphasis. My take on it is reproduced above, and the original press release is online here (Envirowise, cunningly, substituted the name they attributed to the quotes in the press release according to the region the press release was being sent to).

The Bucks Free Press itself, in all its glory, is published tomorrow. The number of Ollie-inspired pieces could range from a likely none to a possible twelve - stay tuned.

It's a slow morning in the BFP newsroom.

Julian, Wycombe villages reporter, is off for the day; Carla, Chief Business Writer, has completed her work for the week, and Jenna, Beaconsfield reporter, is out at a court case all morning. This leaves just myself, Kris and Sita at the desk. Even they don't seem particularly busy, so naturally I've got sod all to do.

I get the feeling Wednesday, with its 5pm deadline, is action day around these parts. Thursdays mean very little to the ordinary reporters - instead, from what I can tell, it's the editors and sub-editors who are scurrying around, trying to cram all the copy generated earlier in the week into Friday's paper. 'If we miss the last printing deadline, we're screwed,' asserts Vicky, the news editor, as she and Vinnie (deputy news editor) gaze open-mouthed at a PC screen.

So, the sum total of my work in the opening couple of hours has been:

- reading the Wycombe Wanderers fixtures out so that a guy from the sports desk could type them up (if he'd just let me type it we'd have done it far quicker, so it's probably a good job he typed, since it killed time);
- and taking a phone call from a gentleman very irate that his grandmother had been badly treated by a local curtain shop.

The only source of amusement so far has been Kris, who was overheard on the phone to Trailfinders complaining that they had got his partner down as 'the wrong sex' on his plane tickets. 'It's Miss,' he repeated down the phone several times, 'M-I-double-S, Miss.'

So much for Swiss timing. The entire Swiss rail network stopped working earlier today for a number of hours due to a power failure, leaving trains stuck in tunnels and stranded between stations. The network had to rely on 'a few' spare diesel locomotives to mount a recovery operation before power was restored.

I've been on Swiss trains many times, and they are without doubt the finest trains in the world, ever. According to the news reports, passengers were evacuated from some stranded trains to get fresh air, since the air conditioning systems on the trains weren't working. Those passengers should come to England. I think I can guarantee that the air inside a powered-down Swiss train, somewhere out in the Alps, is far healthier than the air either inside or outside an English train.

Still, at least our inability to get rid of our cumbersome diesel rolling stock means that it'll be a while before we're vulnerable to anything like this. Imagine the British reaction to our entire rail network stopping for two hours - that's the kind of thing the BBC makes apocalyptic drama-documentaries about. By the looks of things, the Swiss just sat around, phoned their friends and laughed for an hour or two. Different worlds.

Not like me to praise two nights running, but…

There’s been a lot of press recently about the lack of security regarding money transactions between banks, in particular regarding internet banking. Well, after today, I have no doubt in the security of my money with Barclays.

I have had a large sum of money in my savings account for several months now, and I’ve received three phone calls from Barclays asking me why it is there, when/where I plan to use it etc – solid customer care. I needed to transfer a six-figure sum to my solicitor today, so telephoned Barclays yesterday to see how I could do this. Internet banking only allows transfers of £2,000 and even then there is often a 24hr delay, just in case someone has hacked into your account. That suits me fine. By telephone, you can only transfer a maximum of £5,000 – also, good security. However, if you walk into a local branch, equipped with passport and driving license (or two equivalent forms of I.D), as I did today, then you can do it straight away. So, earlier today that is precisely what I did and I paid an extra £20 to have it transferred instantaneously. Ok, so that’s how banks make their money, but it suited me guv. Then, about 2hrs later I received a telephone call from Barclays, asking me whether I was who I said I was, and asking me *literally twenty questions. I debated whether I should divulge what they asked, but I am sure fraudsters are aware anyway, so here goes: name, address, phone, mother’s maiden name, amount of money transferred, what time it was transferred, where it was going, who put the money in my account and when, when did I open my account with Barclays, what was my local branch, what standing orders I had on all accounts, the balances of all three of my accounts, etc etc. That’s good security. I applaud them.

The premise of 90s TV comedy Drop The Dead Donkey wasn't too far off reality, it turns out.

At least that's how it seemed when the deputy news editor plonked a photo of a cow on my desk this afternoon and told me to 'find out about it'. Apparently we'd sent a photographer down to get the photo, but now no one could remember where the cow came from, what the cow was doing and why the cow was important enough to warrant our attention.

It transpired that the cow was Isobel, a three year old jersey heifer owned by Odds Farm Park, just outside Wycombe. She had given birth to a calf which the livestock manager had, in a moment of Coogan worship, named Pauline. Now that Isobel was lactating, the farm wanted to announce that it was able to give cow milking demonstrations all summer, to add to its other attractions, such as 'meet the sheep', 'meet the rabbits' and, indeed, 'meet the pigs'.

I actually spent most of the day in Marlow, doing very similar things to those I'd been put through during my interview at City University. Sitala, the BFP's Marlow reporter, drove us in, then after a short while abandoned me in Marlow to find as many decent stories as I could (she was behind with 'her page' and had a deadline of 5pm, so it was all hands to the pump). About an hour or so later, she returned. During that time I had amassed the following:

Schools Come Together For 'Praise In The Park'
Leisure Centre Car Park To Be Re-Lined
Big Band To Play For Blue Cross

and a few other snippets to do with various local fetes and charity events. I'd even taken to approaching strangers in the park for a chat about the issues that affected them - one gentleman, on being asked if he could spare a few moments, replied with such a violent 'No!' that I pretty much ran off. Other people asked for ID to prove I worked for the Bucks Free, which was a blow, since ID wasn't something anyone had thought to offer me. I pointed to my 'innocent looks' instead. It worked.

Sitala, already snowed under with 'her page', ended up spending most of the afternoon tending to someone who had fallen ill in reception. She is the newsroom's designated first aider, as she proudly told colleagues:

'I'm off to do my first First Aid case! ... [picks up green first aid box and proudly displays it] ... And get a story at the same time ... [picks up notepad and pen] ... Better prioritise though.'

Elsewhere, I wrote up a few Thames Valley Police press releases (the sheer number of burglaries in this county is ridiculous), spoke to the Christie's press office about this fire engine we've been covering, and rang round businesses in Chesham to ask if they welcomed the alcohol ban being introduced in the town centre. Four store managers gave me very helpful quotes; the fifth, manager of McDonalds' Chesham branch, declined to speak to the press because 'we have to refer all media to head office'. It's about Chesham, for Christ's sake! Who is going to sue McDonald's for saying that they agree with an alcohol ban in Chesham town centre?

Finally, it seems that my first byline in the world of print journalism may - oh, the irony - be a story about wasting paper. Envirowise, a government programme, wants workers to cut their office waste and has made a 35ft paper aeroplane out of the average paper used by a employee each month (1,584 sheets of A4). I'm told my coverage of this will appear in The South Bucks Star, a free weekly tabloid published each Thursday. If I read a copy to find the story in question, I'm likely to double the circulation, but everyone starts somewhere.

As if I get to watch any tennis at the Bucks Free. No, my friends, today was the day I got to witness the wonders of Wycombe Magistrates Court in all its glory.

And my word it was fun. At about 10am I was plucked from my desk by James, the 31 year old BFP court reporter, two and a bit years into his first posting as a journalist having done a training course in Cornwall in his late 20s. Before that, he was a sports science graduate from Manchester Met university, working as a fitness instructor in Bristol - then he decided sports journalism was the life for him. Alas, sports vacancies don't come up all that often, so he's gone from Princes Risborough reporter to Marlow reporter and finally this, his first week as hack with sole responsibility for documenting court proceedings.

Court reporting seems to me to combine the best bits of journalism and law. You get to watch all the interesting legal bits (it's like watching Judge John Deed except without the cut scenes outside where John gets all morally righteous about something everyone else had no problem with), and you get to write it all down. At no stage do you either have to do any of the legal work or get up off your backside, which remains firmly planted on the designated Press bench. There is much admiring of young legal eagles, studying of wizened magistrates and cowering from unrepentant defendants to be done.

James was not only very nice but very helpful. He explained how everything worked, from making sure we check that the names of those involved are as printed on the media briefing the court issues us, to making sure we nod our heads at the 'mags' whenever we enter or leave a court that is in session. He gave me a tonne of advice on how to take notes, stressing the need for balance and accuracy and to make sure that we got extensive quotes, but that we got them word for word and used them properly. Then he talked me through forming the stories from the notes. In short, this man is very good at what he does and at helping others to do it.

This did not, however, stop him from leaving his phone switched on. It rang halfway through one session and the clerk promptly ordered him to leave the room. This left me on my own for the rest of the session, scribbling furiously in longhand to keep up with events, whilst James's neat shorthand notes lay unattended for a good half hour. In other words, I was now the only person in a position to write the story, because he missed the entire speech of the defence counsel. I contemplated asking the clerk to excuse James because it was only his second day of work experience, but thought better of it.

In the end we were there from 10am til 4pm with no sign of lunch (I had a Mars bar at 11:30ish - us journalists on the front line have to sacrifice small things like food and water). We covered five cases, three in detail: one gentleman who had been abusive in public and found in possession of cannabis, one gentleman who had stolen cheques from a business in order to fund his heroin addiction, and one gentleman who had spat at a police officer, kicked in the door to a house and chucked a garden gnome at a front window - this was the case I'd been left on my own with as James and his phone beat a hasty retreat.

When we eventually got back to the office, I wrote the story up and emailed it to James, who tweaked a few things and came back to me to talk me through the changes he'd made. It was then dispatched to the newsdesk as final copy, and we can now only wait to see if it makes Friday's paper. It beat the Cats' Protection story, that's for sure.

In other BFP news, the paper is running a story about a new system of rubbish collection in Wycombe, about which residents are up in arms. I mentioned to Kris, whose story it is, that my dad is particularly unhappy about it. He told me to ring him and get a quote for the paper. I did. I'll be looking out for that, too, when we go to press. Before I went to court I had the honour of penning 150 or so words on the thrills and spills of a Thames Valley Mobile Police Office being set up at Wycombe General Hospital last Thursday to advise patients and visitors on staying safe this summer, and remember Elsie the one hundred year old? She's not one hundred years old. She's eighty-eight on Thursday. This was the response from a puzzled receptionist at Abbeyfield sheltered house, where Elsie lives. We'll be shooting the photographer who told the newsroom she'd reached her centenary year, then.

Finally, the office mirth continues. Kris, holding up a page of Midweek with a series of photos on it:
'Is that the Regatta spread?'
Vinnie, deputy news editor: 'Yep.'
Kris, pointing to one photo: 'That one there, she's the barmaid in my local.'
'Lucky you.'
'Nah.' Pause for thought. 'She's quite fat actually.'

No, nothing like that, but virgin.net. Last week, the internet died at home and on Saturday I telephoned the virgin net help service to try to discover the problem. As OJ pointed out, broadband hasn’t quite reached this little dwelling in Kent, so whilst we have “broadband” speed, we still use the phone line, rather than a broadband cable. That said, if we are on the internet, it doesn’t mean that our phone is engaged. Anyway, the internet died and said it had no dial tone (we have to “dial” each time we use the internet – it takes about 5 seconds). So, I called the help desk, and spoke to “Gareth”. A very nice young chap, who talked me through various procedures – uninstalling and installing the modem (we repeated this about three times, altering the procedure slightly before deciding that this didn’t work), deleting some of the disk space on the computer, checking that the internal modem wasn’t overriding the external (I’ve seen parts of a computer I didn’t know existed), manually inputting the network connection, and even swapping cables and USB ports. Finally, Gareth decided it was the modem. The strange thing was that the modem was alive (it had little green lights) and it did turn off when the machine was reset, however it was unable to receive any info. A new modem was ordered by Gareth, and it arrived at 9am this morning. This whole process took about two hours on Saturday morning, with Gareth running through stuff, calling me back, leaving me to do things etc. It was incredibly efficient service, and really really helpful. Go virgin!

I'm back. Well, the modem has been replaced so we now have internet access again. Incidentally, Daisy didn't kill the first one, contrary to what OJ may think.

So what have I been up to?

Well, Saturday and Sunday I managed to sit in the glorious sunshine and turn a delightful pink colour, but that has now gone to a dark olive brown. Yes, for the last three years I have shied away from any sun claiming that "white is the new brown" and waving a pink breast cancer supporter's badge, but I've decided I need some sun. Vitamin D. It must be good for me, in moderation. Plus, I tan well (unlike Mr One-Big-Freckle Wooding).

Yesterday I began the task of sorting out my bedroom. And I mean sorting it. I began with one cupboard, progressed to a chest of drawers, moved on to a long cupboard today and I've also cleared under my bed - you can actually see through it now, there is nothing there! I am left with the airing cupboard and a double wardrobe. So far I've filled six black bags, and there must be a couple more to go. That said, the room is still very full. The room was never messy, but the cupboards were filled with "things from the past" which will never be needed again. For example, two years worth of Law supplements from the Times. I read them religiously through my A Levels, and haven't glanced at a copy since. Why I kept them is beyond me! A few A level revision notes were also thrown, along with useless odds and ends. In addition, I've also (much to OJ's shock, but also pleasure) managed to file all my bank statements (since 1999) and phone bills and other "admin" things in three separate lever-arch files. This is a big big improvement on the big pile of envelopes (some open, some not) which constituted my filing of bank statements in the past. With a flat comes money and responsibilities. This is the new me (or is it just the fear I have of OJ?!).

Other than that, I've lazed around, done some gardening (yep, my Dad and I cleared a gravel driveway on Sunday morning/afternoon... in 30 degree sunshine. Go figure), watched Wimbledon (the Tim saga has begun again) and I've been to the gym (post finals/E numbers/chocolate detox/slim-down). I've also been doing "flat" business; solicitor yesterday, flat visiting today. Hopefully we should exchange next week and complete within two weeks. The delay has been due to the fact that the guy didn't want to complete until July in the end, and I was doing my finals, so couldn't be around to exchange any earlier. Fingers crossed. On that note, there is a considerable amount of money sitting in my current account at the moment, so if I don't post again this week, assume I've gone on holiday. On that note, my solicitor reckoned you would need a client account of £20 million to successfully abscond; as he said, after all you need to be able to get to South America and live in comfort and anonymously for the rest of your life. Now there's a thought...

Well the first and most important thing to note is that I didn't have to make any hot beverages.

In fact, what work I did have to do was actual journalism and involved no edibles or photocopying whatsoever. I got there at 9:20 and was introduced to Kris, Wycombe town centre reporter for the Bucks Free, who has all the features you expect of the archetypal journalist: flowing slicked-back hair down to the neck, at its most hilarious when he wore his shades over it like an alice band, and the kind of forehead that permanently screams 'I am deeply and righteously concerned'.

Actually, that forehead was a bit scrunched up for other reasons too. It soon transpired that Kris was in his last two weeks at the Bucks Free, for reasons as yet unknown, but probably something to do with a column he had in last week's edition of Midweek, a 'fish and chip paper' as he called it, designed to fill the gap between the weekly editions of the Bucks Free itself. His 'Straight Talking' column can be found in full here, but this excerpt should provide the meat of its argument:

Well that's it from me folks. After two and a half years of venting my spleen I've decided enough is enough. ... The town really is a depressive wasteland of empty furniture showrooms and "unaffordable" flats. For a town that is expanding so quickly the infrastructure simply can't keep up. ... It all adds up to one hell of a mistake. Which is why it still amazes me that people move here. ... Sandwiched between this rot we have an ageing population who seem to take great satisfaction out of criticising today's youth normally while they're queuing at supermarket check-outs. Which brings me onto Eden. This can only serve to attract more business to the town, hike property prices higher, and further cripple the town's infrastructure. Fortunately by that time Straight Talking won't be the only thing I've kissed farewell to, it will have been the bloody town as well!

So, this cheery chappy was the gent who came down to greet me at reception and give me stuff to do (having plonked me down at the Risborough desk, since its usual occupant is on holiday all week). He clearly wasn't best thrilled with his job last week and it went from bad to worse for him today. Two people rang to complain that his articles about them hadn't made it into the paper, through no fault of his own on either occasion, so he duly berated the deputy news editor before airing his exasperation to anyone else who would listen (i.e. his erstwhile colleague Julian and me). He got a bollocking off the deputy editor for not booking photographers for certain events and was then told he was the only one who had remembered to do just that for certain events, a mixed message which had him at the throat of the deputy news editor once again. Then his PC stopped working, and when it started working again, the Bucks Free Press website crashed on him (and the rest of us). It was not a good day to be Kris, and was thus an odd day to be on work experience with Kris responsible for assigning a workload.

Suffice to say I didn't get over much to do. What I did get was at least proper work, however. One gent rang to place an announcement in the paper about Cats' Protection in High Wycombe, who had raised £344.73 with a collection at the weekend. This warranted all of two sentences in the Community News section but I got to write those two sentences, my first proud foray into the world of print journalism proper. Someone else rang with a message for James, only for me to discover when passing the message on that James 'no longer worked for the paper'. I got to research a fire engine from the 1920s that had been Buckinghamshire's first motorised fire vehicle and was coming up for auction, so I rang the local museums asking if they were likely to bid for it (they weren't, because none of them knew where they'd put it). I also got the job of ringing Abbeyfield nursing home to ask how Elsie Smith's hundredth birthday had gone last weekend, but alas, no one picked up the phone. Tomorrow morning's priority is thus to get hold of Elsie and co, so we have something to put under the photo of her beaming with the local MP. The glamour oozes out of work experience in journalism, I can tell you.

Adam Keeble probably knows that only too well, having qualified as a journalist himself. He's a friend I made whilst running the fantasy league, and now lives in the USA having done his training at The Editorial Centre, with whom he is clearly still on commission since the boy won't let me forget that they exist! During a moment of boredom this afternoon when the work really did dry up, I checked my email to find a message from him about the people he knew at the Bucks Free, along with the following advice:

You will probably be assigned to shadow a reporter on a job at least once, maybe even at court. And you will be working on the BMDs (births, marriages and deaths) I'm sure.

He's not wrong - apparently there's some kind of inquest being held on Wednesday and I'm booked in to attend that with Kris. As for the BMDs, it must be a step up from Cats' Protection announcements. Why couldn't I have been the one who got the phone call from a lady keen to get the Chief Business Writer to do a report on her new company, Angel Parties? The concept is simple: they hold a party for you where you can get in touch with your guardian angel. Julian, fielding the call, was told by the lady that she was surprised he had not heard of them. Julian concurred that evenings set aside for communication with 'dead angels' (I'm sure there's some tautology in there) were right up his street and he couldn't believe he'd missed it.

Still, at least Julian wasn't the one who picked up a proof copy of tomorrow's Midweek front page - ACID LEAK SHUTS POOL - and held their hand over the L of 'pool', before proudly declaring, 'Look! Acid leak shuts poo!' It's a pleasure to be in the company of such inquiring minds. Four days to go, onward!

At the age of 20, tomorrow will be my first day of work experience that didn't involve the dusty back room of the Cats' Protection League Taunton branch or a family member.

That's right, your truly is the brand new crack correspondent for the Bucks Free Press. No, not that kind of crack, nor that one - you foul individual - although Wycombe could probably do with correspondents for both. By 'crack' I meant 'utterly inexperienced', and by 'correspondent' I meant 'maker of hot beverages'.

For I am utterly inexperienced when it comes to making hot beverages. I reserve by far the most trepidation about work experience for the horrors of having to make someone tea or coffee - in fact, in all seriousness, I think that's why it's taking me so long to do any. The journalism side of things I can do. They could send me out anywhere and I'd do them proud, they could give me any copy and I'd have it spotless and ready for print in moments. If they ask me for a cuppa, they're risking their lives and my brief tenure at the paper.

My plan of action so far is to go in and make this absolutely clear from day one. Photocopying is fine. Sandwich fetching sounds good to me. Give me the vacuum cleaner and the office carpet will never have looked fresher. Ask for tea or coffee and all bets are off - I'll do it, but they'll be signing a Release, Indemnification & Hold Harmless agreement first. Since it should by rights be another scorching day, I'm hoping they'll all be on ice cold drinks instead, about which I am quite the expert. Diet Coke, that I can do.

Apologies for the delay in posting - it's been a bit hectic since I got home last night. This being a Sunday, we decided to forget unpacking all my stuff, and instead completely change my room around. We have removed my desk and bookshelves, which means my floor is now covered in books pending the selection, purchase and construction of new shelves later this week. On the up side, I do have more floor now. Posting shall be intermittent from Devon for the future; typing on bed is not conducive to long winded posts. Still, only two weeks until I'm back in Oxford, ready to start work.

I shall also take this opportunity to apologise for Amy. No, not like that... Her internet access is down in Kent, and unlikely to reappear until Wednesday at the earliest. She has some concoction of dial up rather than always on broadband which is just weird, and her modem has died. I think Daisy killed it.

It's another lazy Sunday morning and here I am, on the train back from Somerset having only just got here, gazing in awe as the Vodafone wireless card maintains some kind of signal through all manner of cuttings, tunnels and underpasses.

May I take this opportunity to say how absolutely beautiful the westcountry is. Perhaps I should be taken to task for having only noticed this whilst glancing out of the window and thinking, 'How can it possibly be picking up the Vodafone network here?', but at least I did eventually notice. Even in the muggy grey mist that has enveloped Britain this morning, the countryside we are roaring through at this very moment, courtesy of Great Western, is gorgeous beyond belief.

To those of you leaving the country on holiday or on a gap year this summer, I have this to say to you: fool! Go to Devon. Go to Somerset. Don't bother with Newquay or, dare I say it, the bloody Minehead Butlins in its concrete-tented squalor. Get a tent and go out in these fields, whose bovine occupants we are disturbing as we canter past. Go down the pub in a quiet village in Wiltshire. Sit by the beach on the Devon coast.

In fact just get on this train - it's air conditioned, praise God, it's pretty much empty in this carriage and it's a glorious way to see the country in comfort and tranquility. The 10:25 from Taunton to Reading is probably my summer holiday for 2005 and I must say I'm enjoying it immensely.

My appreciation for all things peculiarly British, let alone particular to the westcountry, rose a notch yesterday whilst sat at Taunton station waiting for the bus to Minehead. There were four of us sat inside the spacious shelter. On my left, a middle-aged gentleman dressed in that wonderful tradition of British summer attire which acknowledges the potential of a Kenyan safari to strike at any given moment: tan trousers, leather belt arranged at extraordinary height, leaving collared beige shirt barely a few inches of chest to cover before open top button exposes crimson wrinkles of sun-baked Brit. On my right, a younger, perhaps mid-30s gent, kitted out in solid yet unspectacular urban chic and therefore presumably roasting in his black jacket and jeans. Opposite me, Barney Rubble come to life and updated for the twenty-first century, ginger mop offset by blue Kangaroo Poo t-shirt and matching shorts.

'Excuse me,' says Barney, who is far more Welsh than I remember him from those televised tete-a-tetes with Fred. 'Is there a paper shop here?'
'There's one on the other platform,' quoth I, clothed (for the record) in Oxide 87.7FM pink and yellow t-shirt and black jeans, and slowly baking to death.
'Oh right,' he replies, checking his watch. 'I'm just not very good on buses, see? Need a paper, takes my mind off it. Dunno what it is really, maybe it's all that diesel. Didn't realise we'd be on the thing for an hour.'

'I've got the Mail here if you like,' pipes up Crimson Brit. Barney says he couldn't, but Crimson Brit insists he is finished with it and Barney relents, mightily relieved for having acquired something to distract him from the winding road to Minehead. 'No supplements, I'm afraid,' adds Crimson Brit in a guarded voice as he hands the paper over, as though this might jeopardise the entire deal and land us all back at square one. Thankfully, Barney appears unaffected by this revelation.

The conversation proceeds in fits and starts and is dominated by that quintessential British topic of conversation, the weather. It's going to be very hot, says Barney, to murmurs of assent from Crimson Brit and Urban Chic man, chiming in for the first time. I turn to look at him as he speaks and realise, at once both intrigued and mildly disturbed, that his left ear is missing. Only the lobe remains - the rest has either been removed or has not grown as it should, leaving a fleshy inlet but precious little else. In its place is what I had first taken to be an earring, but what on closer inspection is revealed to be a slim, metallic hearing device implanted into his ear.

With the would-be big game hunter and the alpha Rubble in tow, I'm sure that when the bus arrived, we made for a very odd quartet indeed. As for poor Barney, he finished his paper with twenty minutes of bus ride still remaining. Mere moments after setting the Mail to one side, he was clinging to the rail in front of his seat, steadying himself around corners, one hand over his mouth, looking for all the world as though his breakfast were readying itself for an encore performance. He made it all right in the end though. These Bedrock kids are made of stern stuff.

So that's that then. I have left Oxford University, never to return.

Well all right, to return tomorrow for a buffet lunch thingy, but after that, never to return. Far more dramatic that way.

It was quite depressing hauling myself off the unfurnished college mattress this morning (my bedding having gone home yesterday) for one last time, then handing my key in to the porter for the last time. I'm a great one for trying to make things poignant and melodramatic when it's not necessarily there - I've spent the last day or two seeing people and silently deciding that it's probably the last time I'll ever set eyes on them - but the last glimpse of college this morning was seeing the 'Exeter College is now CLOSED' sign as I looked back.

Happily, I've got a four-seater and a table to myself on this train, by the kind of minor miracle I thought only happened to sixth century Gallic saints, and the wireless card is behaving so far, so I have plenty of time to relax with some music and a little browsing.

Last night was a lot of fun. Oxide ceased FM transmission (it's still going online, I think), and to celebrate, the station management set aside the last hour for us important folk to come into the studio and par-tay on air one last time. Tim and I had a fight over the news on air, we all threatened to swear to get the new station manager in trouble in the opening minutes of his tenure, and I answered my phone on air. The station closed with the memorable words 'Tom's gay!', shrieked into the microphone by Tim at co-manager Tom before fading down for the last time.

I was once again reassured, by a different person this time, that the audio logs of our election night broadcast are 'in there somewhere'. Apparently we have a good chance at the Student Radio Awards with it, but given that I know nothing about these things, I'm not holding out that much hope. I've got to edit it down into a four-minute package of highlights, which will be fun (albeit time-consuming - there's six hours of audio to trawl through).

Hmm. We're at Newbury and this train is packed, but still no one has claimed one of the other seats at this table. There are three possibilities:

a) I smell.

b) The Oxide t-shirt is scaring people off with its pink and yellow colour scheme. Like certain types of frog, Oxide DJs like to mark themselves out as a threat to ordinary people with bright delineation.

c) Something unpleasant has been spr