In a novel twist to an otherwise nondescript day, I was asked at the last minute to stand in as a photographer at this evening's launch of Your Game, an initiative between the BBC and the Football Federation which takes football to under-served communities.

In a further, superb development, it transpired that this launch would be taking place in the underground car park beneath the Swiss Embassy in London. The Swiss are on board as they are hosting this summer's European Championships, and their car park is unlike any other I have seen.

For a start, it has the unique distinction of having been decorated by none other than Banksy. Or, as the Swiss ambassador would have us call him, "Bansky".

Six or seven years ago, when not a widely known artist, the Swiss hired Banksy to help decorate the car park for another outreach project's launch night. The graffiti stayed and has somehow survived a change in ambassador. I genuinely cannot believe the Swiss, whose reputation in matters financial is still somewhat tarnished after their dealings in World War Two, tolerate a wall bearing the legend "Vulture capitalists" in their embassy's car park, but there it is. All the other walls and pillars are similarly decorated, with many other rare Banksy numbers on show.

I'll confess I snapped the lot of them for posterity, but the organisers were rather more interested in getting snaps of the celebs, with the likes of BBC sport editor-at-large Mihir Bose, broadcaster-turned-pundit Garth Crooks and sports minister Andy Burnham all turning up. The Swiss, trying hard to impress, had laid what appeared to be real turf instead of red carpet between the door and the venue.

Being a photographer for this kind of event is an odd job, and not one I would want on a permanent basis. You occupy a strange position between on the one hand being the scum of the earth, and on the other being a vital cog in the marketing process. This lends a strange degree of power (e.g. barking at Arsenal star Philippe Senderos - Swiss, therefore roped into the launch - to get him to shift to the left a bit) at the same time as the unnerving sensation that I am about to be scraped off somebody's shoe.

It does not help that at this kind of event, photographers from other organisations see me with a camera and assume - understandably, I suppose - that I know what I am doing. While I can hold a camera and make fairly good use of it, I am hardly a seasoned pro. This means evenings like tonight entail vast amounts of blagging, nodding sagely, and sly glances across to see what the real paparazzi are up to.

Disappointingly there was no Ferrero Rocher in evidence, although the canapes I snaffled more than made up for that, little Swiss flags poking out of scampi and pizza bites. Senderos shared a brief moment with the Swiss ambassador for the photographers, Crooks and Burnham both posed amiably several times over, and Mihir Bose lingered forlornly next to an empty tray of canapes before being hauled into vision for a quick pic.

The evening went very well and I think there's some fairly strong photos, so I'll link to any gallery we do once it's published. However I did very nearly disgrace myself on the way home.

Having boarded the coach I sat down opposite an elderly gentleman on the bottom deck. Distracted by finding a home for my Swiss goody bag (bless them - cap, chocolate, tourist brochures, lanyard), I leaned back on my rucksack a little too hard and BANG.

For a split second I thought I'd punctured my laptop, before remembering the packet of McCoy's Oriental Rib flavoured crisps in the bag. Thankfully the burst packet had not scattered crisps everywhere, so I was able to retrieve it without any mess. But the open end of the packet told me it was now or never if I was going to eat them.

Three minutes later, a message comes over the coach tannoy: "To whoever's eating hot food, you're smelling the whole coach out."

Oh, the shame and embarrassment. In my angst about the open packet of crisps I'd scarcely given a thought to the fiercely penetrating effect of certain flavours of McCoy's. In a testament to the accuracy of the flavouring, the poor coach driver had mistaken the pungent crisps for somebody tucking into a takeaway on his bus, and had duly issued a stark warning.

I sat for the next fifteen minutes with one hand wedged inside the bag, creating a miniature vacuum so as not to allow any more smell out. At one set of traffic lights, in a truly harrowing moment, the bus driver got up, walked past me, up the stairs, could be heard pacing up and down frantically, then returned at speed just in time to drive away as the lights turned green. I can't be sure but I think he was hunting for someone with a box of spare ribs and some aromatic duck on their lap. I kept the hand attached to the crisp packet firmly out of view. He walked past. It was like trying to stem a gaping wound while a shark swims by.

Eventually I summoned the courage to quickly and efficiently fold the half-eaten packet of crisps away, with the bare minimum of aroma leakage. On leaving the coach I made a subtle but determined break for the door at the earliest opportunity, issuing a trying-too-hard "Thank you! Goodnight!" in the direction of the driver, then whipped the crisps out and downed them as a show of resistance. Only I could suffer public rebuke at the hands of a packet of crisps I accidentally forced myself to open. Nowhere, and nothing, is safe, is it?

A man doing the full monty on horseback is not something I ever expected I'd see, nor do I suppose I ever thought about. However, on Saturday my friend Jo and I went to watch an equestrian circus-come-dance-come-artistic performance-come-theatre and the full monty was one of the routines.

It's difficult to know where to start when describing the Zingaro Theatre. According to their website, there are 45 human members of Zingaro, 30 horses and the company comprises of both male and female equestrians, dancers and musicians. I could describe it as a horse circus, but this wouldn't do it justice. It's much more than this. It really is the presentation of an amazing relationship between man and horse, coupled with lively music, dancing and amazing stunts on horseback. Considering I can't remain mounted on a horse for more than 10 minutes without either crying (when I was around 5) or falling off (when I was around 13), I found the entire performance mesmerizing. Jo on the other hand, who has stables and around four horses of her own, was able to provide an interesting commentary on the skills, level of difficulty and performance (and condition - impeccable, incidentally) of the animals.

Adding to the performance itself, and more on that below, was the dynamic and energy shown by the human performers. These guys (and gals) were real artists. Verging on bohemian and full of the spirit of life and love. Granted they were in a "performance" but you sensed that they weren't acting. These people are passionate about what they do, they enjoy the horses, they are clearly a close team and they oozed a powerful sexual spirit. Slightly nomadic, slightly gypsy, the troop are are French with Eastern European influences.

The stunts and the performance by the horses were amazing. People riding without saddles, people standing and riding, people vaulting onto moving horses, people acting, people simulating sex (yes, honestly), people riding without hands, people using the horse literally as you would a "horse" in a gymnasium and doing acrobatics on it whilst it was moving, people picking things off the ground whilst still mounted... and then of course, someone doing the full monty standing on a moving horse. Absolutely amazing. And great costumes too.

If it's ever touring in the UK, then I'd urge you to go. It's utterly unique.

And to continue the racing theme, my leaving drinks were held at the Happy Valley race course in HK. The final thing to be ticked off the guidebook. Time to go.

So as the sun sets on my time in HK, I can truly reflect on the last six months and say that it has been an amazing and rewarding experience. Yes, yes, that sounds really corny, but it's true. The time out here has flown by, particularly since Christmas.

I'll not say it's always been easy. There are cultural challenges, there have been times when I've been homesick, and there have been weeks when I've hardly slept (partly to do with work, partly because it's often hard to sleep when you know that "back home" people are just about to go out or just about to sit down for dinner). And yet at the same time there have been fun times, great laughs, good friends and some fabulous food and sight seeing.

I remarked to a friend in the UK yesterday that I never imagined it would be so hard to leave. She remarked that "It's like you put out tendrils to steady yourself when you arrive, and put in place links to keep you there, and then...rrrrrrip... suddenly it's all over. If it didn't hurt you'd have no soul". And I quite like that analogy. You really do have to work to plant your roots rather quickly - but the soil in a foreign field is different, so they don't sit quite the same as they would on home turf - then dig them up and try to return them to how they were. But, with any re-potting, I don't think you're ever going quite get the same fit again. I've certainly changed. I think I've become "older" somehow? Perhaps more independent and certainly more self-assured. Maybe I've learnt more about myself and become happier with myself? There's a great sense of self-achievement from realizing you did manage to live for 6mths on your own in another country, with another culture, and survive and make friends. On the latter point, I think that's the hardest thing about leaving. I always knew I'd come away with acquaintances and the better for having met people over here. But I've made a particularly good friend out here - you know, someone who really gets under your skin in the friendship stakes - and so that's something I never expected to happen. I'll miss her for sure, but at least it means I'll always have free accommodation this side of the globe. I think though, that being away has ironically improved (for the better) relationships I have with people in the UK. Being away makes you realize who really counts in your life and who makes you a better person for being your friend. My parents have also probably had a better idea of what I've been up to in the past 6mths, than they ever will do again.

In terms of other things I'll miss... the proximity of everything. If something takes longer than 15mins to reach, then it's classified as an expedition. I'm meeting a friend for lunch on Saturday in London, and TFL's journey planner reckons on 1hr 20mins to get from me to her. It's not even that far to the airport here. Taxis are certainly cheap here, but then nothing beats the confidence you have in a London black cab. Expensive, perhaps. But at least they get you there safely and know where they're going. What else? The variety of food is great, though the lack of puddings is criminal. The cultural diversity is exciting, as well as educational. And then of course there are the silly things - like the refit of the Dior shop, in all it's glitz and opulence, being carried out by men with scaffolding made from bamboo. I've basically been offered a permanent place back here, should I ever decided to take it up. It's a fabulous note to leave on. And in addition, I've been provided two books to read... one as a memoir by my boss, The Fragrant Harbour, by F D Ommanney and the second, Gweilo, by M Booth. The idea behind the latter is that apparently, after reading it, I shall always want to return. Perhaps. But there's the rub. Come Monday, I shall be back at work. The last 6mths shall feel like a lifetime away and I shall slip into London again. Yes, things shall be slightly different (see the root analogy above), but as I said when I left - in the words of Horace - those that travel the seas, change the sky above them, but not their souls - and mine rests in Blighty. For now, at least.

On a lighter note, it turns out I go through 1 x 50ml bottle of Chanel No. 5 per 6mths. I bought some in duty free when I came out here, and this morning I pretty much used the last dregs from the bottle. In The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot says that "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons". Well, clearly mine can be measure by bottles of Chanel. I'm sure Coco would have approved.

Just occasionally, a piece of spam comes along that's not really spam. It's serving a purpose for somebody, somewhere, except it's gone astray, reached your inbox, and sits there offering a tantalising glimpse into strange new worlds.

For reasons beyond my ken, I find myself subscribed to the mailing list for an auctioneer of second-hand food processing equipment. I haven't a clue how, but when the emails arrive they make sensational reading.

Today I was delighted to receive an email from the auctioneer, advertising what they claim is "without doubt the most exciting auction of food processing equipment ever to come to the market". Well, when you put it like that, it would be rude not to look. And what do you know, all this could be mine:

It turns out that no less than Bernard Matthews has decided to have a bit of a clear-out, getting rid of plenty of second-hand stock, but also - gasp - some brand new stuff that's never been used. If you're in the poultry and snacks mass production industry, this presumably is some sort of nirvana.

Here's what you could be going home with:

• Ishida multi-head weigher with bucket elevator (shown above!), feeding on to MultiVac 530 thermoformer
• Urschel M slicer dicer, unused
• Rademaker pastry line suitable for Salmon en croute
• Townsend Supermatic RT6 with hanking unit
• Cryovac shrink tunnels
• Septomatic meat recovery machine
• Continuous nitrogen screw auger for free-flow mince
• Much, much more

The list reads like a page of a Wallace & Gromit script. "Gromiiit! Turn off the Townsend Supermatic! It's the wrong shrink tunnel!"

And who wants to eat anything that's been within five hundred yards of a Septomatic meat recovery machine?

I got one of these emails for the contents of a kebab van the other week and I'm telling you, PETA ought to publicise these things. You try going near a doner meat and chips after reading up on the prerequisite machinery.

God bless them, the machines they're flogging might be used to prepare spam, but their emails are anything but. They've put a little "unsubscribe" link in at the bottom, but I'm damned if I'm using it. This is my only chance at losing weight!

Want to see what the Septomatic looks like? Inspect the continuous nitrogen screw auger for yourself? Download the PDF of the sale catalogue (a whopping, but well worth it, 6mb) by clicking here.

By the way - what is "hanking"? Entries on a postcard (or indeed in the comments) please. What's hanking, what does a Septomatic do, and why would I need a shrink tunnel?

Isn't it great when an earthquake hits Britain?

It's so great that every time it happens, I can't help myself documenting the British reaction to the aftermath. We'll get to today's monumental (international visitors, read: trifling) quake in Lincolnshire in a second, but first a trip down Dayorama's memory lane to tremors past:

15 Feb 2005: Who Needs Canaries

An earthquake has apparently hit North Wales overnight, reaching 3.1 on the Richter Scale - trivial by global standards but one of the stronger tremors the UK could hope to experience.

So to the reaction of the locals affected by the quake. Concern for property? Thankful that it wasn't worse? Intrigued at the science? Step forward Trevor Taylor of Llanfairfechan: "My parrots went absolutely nuts."

28 Apr 2007: A Tremor In The Voice

(Earlier in the day, earth tremors had shaken parts of Kent...)

We don't as yet know what precisely has happened - some are saying there's been an explosion, some are saying it was just an earthquake, measuring 4.7 on the Richter scale.

What we do have in all situations like these are eyewitness reports from people in the region. People like Paul, quoted by BBC News Online. The following emphasis is mine:

Paul Smye-Rumsby, who lives in Dover, said: "It was about 08.15 when suddenly the bed shook violently. "I thought my wife had got cramp or something but then I saw the curtains were moving and the whole house was shaking. It lasted about 1.5 seconds.

I'm sure Mrs Smye-Rumsby will be thrilled. In front of the nation, her husband has compared her movement in bed to a minor earthquake!

See - every time there's an earthquake, the British react in predictably bizarre fashion. This time around the worst quake for 25 years, so we're told, elicits the following "urgent" message snapped across the news wires on the BBC's internal systems:

URGENT: QUAKE DAMAGE AERIALS Reaching Mediaport: Newscopter aerial shots of slightly damaged roof in Hull

For God's sake, is that the best we can do? The UK suffers its worst earthquake in a quarter of a century and the most damning video evidence of the catastrophe, the carnage, the unimaginable horror, is a slightly damaged roof in Hull!

Naturally it's good news that nothing worse than a minor ceiling mishap has happened overnight. But does this not suggest we may want to start getting British earthquakes into something bordering on perspective?

So far this morning I've had one person describe how they were "shaken" out of bed at 1am in the middle of Shepherd's Bush (hundreds of miles from the epicentre), and another telling the tale of their grandmother who lives in a bungalow a mere mile from the heart of the quake. She is fine, the bungalow is fine, everyone is fine. "They'll be talking about this up there for years," I am told. It's tragic.

Save 31% on "Dallas - Season 8" on DVD , or so says my email from Amazon.

Now, pardon me for being slightly confused? Dallas? Why on earth are they suggesting I purchase Dallas?

Usually Amazon offer discounts on similar items to those you've previously purchased. For example, if you purchased the BBC adaptation of Pride & Prejudice then it's highly likely that they suggested you purchase the latest production of Sense & Sensibility. I've bought many law books, trashy novels and period dramas in the past, so usually they inform me about the latest chick lit or company law handbook. W-woo, but at least it follows my spending pattern.

Well, Pearmain, I hold you indirectly responsible for this one. By virtue of a birthday present I purchased for your other half, probably around three years ago (it was during Oxford days, anyway), it seems Amazon now think I'd be interested in Dallas.

The email continues.

We've noticed that customers who have purchased or rated Neighbours - Defining Moments [1986] or other films in the Television > Soaps category have also purchased Dallas - Season 8 on DVD. For this reason, you might like to know that Dallas - Season 8 will be released on 18 February 2008. You can pre-order yours for just £28.98 (31% off the RRP) by following the link below.

Well, that's just great then, isn't it?

I think Amazon could work on the accuracy of their suggestions and offer some rather more appealing offers instead of latching on to the most random purchase I've made.

It's slightly similar to the time when, for DofE purposes, I had to buy 10 packs of sanitary towels and 5 packets of blister plasters from Tesco (one of those unforgettable moments at the check-out). The next time my clubcard rewards came around, they gave me a 30p off voucher for a jumbo box of tampax.

In other news, I return to Blighty on Friday morning. I've really come to love HK though and made some great friends, so it's going to be rather sad leaving. Also, I don't know why I'm bothering coming back. My darling father, who is currently building a conservatory and fussing over the bricks he's purchased (because they need to be approved by the planning dept since we live in a listed building), in an email earlier said that "two wonderful things happen on Friday (...) my bricks arrive and you come home". Great, my arrival is akin to a pile of old rubble. And someone else, who shall remain nameless but may well read this, said that since he knew there was only a week to go before I was returning, he'd begun to have nightmares. Are these comments affectionate or should I really just stay away?! Please don't answer that one. :)

Uncannily enough, I read Ollie's post here, titled Grand Plan, an hour or so after returning from a meal at Nobu with work colleagues. Occasionally a partner will take his / her "team" our for a celebratory dinner. A thank-you for the hard work, long hours and invasion of one's personal life. It's always a carrot when working insane hours and - cornily enough - makes up for the stick. And so that was yesterday evening. Edit: It wasn't yesterday, it was Wednesday evening. But I began this post on Thursday and have only just got around to finishing it.

Whilst sitting around the dinner table drinking *incredibly* good Sake (four men, two women; three hetrosexual, two gays, one lesbian; two English, two Asian; one Aussie, one American; three between 30-40yrs, two +40yrs and one sub 30yrs) we began to discuss "what you would do if you weren't a lawyer". It's not quite Ollie's Grand Plan, but it's close enough to realising people's dreams and ambitions.

Here's what we all said:

1. First up was the person who said "he'd always wanted to be a lawyer". Groan. Is there anything worse than a lawyer who has always wanted to be a lawyer? And how do you know anyway. He redeemed himself, however, by pointing out that his father was a lawyer and thus he'd always grown up knowing this was what he wanted to do. He just now happens to be the partner of a large American corporate law firm and not the head of a small practice in New Jersey. However, if he changed his livelihood tomorrow, then he'd like to import exotic cars - Ferraris, Lamborghinis etc. Who was it again who said there were similarities between lawyers and used car sales men… ?. But will he ever realise his Grand Plan? Sadly enough, probably not - though I'd bet my bottom dollar he'd be capable of doing so should he wish.

2. Second was the male, hetrosexual believe it or not, who made reference to the fact that his parents own a tea shop in Wiltshire. He quite liked this idea. I don't think (or at least I hope) that it was so much the tea shop, but the idea of running his own small business. Being able to shut-up-shop, so to speak, when he wanted to. Not having to answer calls to the client all the time and, importantly, being in control of his own success. There's so much about being a layer that you can't shape yourself. At least running your own business, whilst tough, enables you to set - and hopefully achieve - your own goals.

3. Next was another male who said he'd always wanted to be a lawyer from the age of around 6 years. I'm not sure I really rate this. I mean, come on? And he couldn't think of anything he'd rather be.

4. Then the fourth said he'd often toyed with being a doctor. Apparently he comes from a family of medics and therefore if he wasn't a lawyer, could see himself as a general practitioner or on the operating table slicing people up. Sometimes he still felt like throwing it all in, going back to College and studying. But he has a daughter, and with that comes responsibility, so the ability to throw in the towel decreases.

5. Then my friend said she'd be a teacher - probably world history. She could see herself giving something back to the community, teaching, educating etc. But at the same time, she was firmly set on being a lawyer.

6. And then last but not least, I said that I'd rather be yomping up and down hills, taking young people into the countryside and generally be involved in some form of outdoor activity. Alternatively I'd teach (though, probably commercial law) and my other option would be to write a book. I know there's a novel in me somewhere. Or I think I'd quite easily cope with the tea shop. Perhaps that would be the balance... tea shop, a bit of outdoor stuff with young people and then a novel on the side?

It was quite an interesting spread of alternative "Grand Plans". Perhaps if I won the lottery tomorrow, I'd realise my dream and do something different. At the same time, I really enjoy being a lawyer - well, most days and not today since I'm actually in the office on a Sunday afternoon. But I think it's important that we keep these alternative goals. Ollie asks whether we all need a Reeve moment? Will opportunities just materialise. For me, no. Not until I've either had enough or have sufficient funds to be able to stop working in the City (not going to happen any time soon). How strong do you have to be to get up and walk out of the office door? Amazingly so. You have to take one large risk and also have the self confidence in your own ability to see it through, come thick or thin. I don't think I'll be following my Grand Plan any time soon, but I think it's important we all have dreams and aspirations - but at the same time don't live for them - because if we do this, then we'll never be satisfied with our current lot. And, as with many things, it's rare that the grass really is greener on the other side. It's just a different shade of brown.

Well my last week in Hong Kong has finally arrived. It’s incredibly strange to think I only have six days left. Right now, I’ve just returned from an enjoyable (and long) day out with my friend Jo, who is over here for a week or so, and yet next week I’ll probably be curled up on a sofa in London.

I’m too tired to post properly now but I’ve never got around to including a photo of the incense burners outside the various monasteries and temples. The one below, captured earlier, is pretty typical – and authenticity is increased by the little Chinese lady removing the used sticks.

And then a photo of us both consuming custard tarts (a self-taken photo, hence the slightly dodgy shot!).

That was clearly the opinion of the individual who decided that what the BBC News website's top stories needed was not relevant photography, but pictures of cats to accompany the headlines.

Visit the website here. The premise is simple: take a feed of the latest headlines from the BBC site, and use a clever little widget to automatically type those headlines on top of photos of cats. The site thereby combines the phenomenon known as "lolcats" (a phenomenon you may well have no chance of understanding, but try by going to this helpful page) with the values of BBC News.

The result is often a fairly dull headline accompanied by a fairly dull cat, the danger of an automatic process with no quality control. But the law of averages dictates that now and then, headline and cat will react to produce the substance we like to call "comedy gold".

I have yet to see a five-star cat and caption combo, so keep your eyes peeled and feel free to forward any gems to me.

Some brief other news, and a little advance warning that I'm going to spend the next paragraph crowing about myself.

The Berkshire flood map from last year was part of the BBC's entry that won an RTS award for our multimedia coverage of the July floods at this week's awards ceremony. I only found out when I switched my PC on this morning to find a flood (sorry) of emails. That one is going on the CV, pronto! It's the journalistic equivalent of being one of the graphics production team when a Hollywood film wins the Oscar for visual effects. Not a headline grabbing award and you're not about to have your name read out, but it's the best award you're going to be getting in your line of work. Happy days.

And tomorrow, on a slightly different tack, I'm off to Brighton to watch their football team take on Oldham. Radio Manchester needed someone to cover the game, and who am I to turn down the offer to watch a match on a Saturday? I'm quite excited - Manchester being the adopted hometown and all that, it'll be a bit of a privilege to weasel my way onto the local BBC station. Come on the Latics.

A couple of colleagues attended "diversity" training at work yesterday. Another useless government initiative, you may scream. Why should we bother. Well, perhaps. But apparently it was actually quite interesting and provoked some lively theoretical debate. One discussion, for example, centered around the appropriateness of extreme Christmas celebrations in a seemingly multi-cultural society. Is it right? Do members of other cultural backgrounds get offended by Christmas celebrations? So what if they do? Should we care? Should we support their festivals? Where does it stop? Considering the outrage that the Archbishop of Canterbury created when he spoke out recently over the acceptance of Sharia law into the English legal system, I've no doubt these sorts of debates shall only increase in future. Now isn't the time to discuss this (though believe me, I could) but I want to turn to another aspect of this so-called "diversity" training, namely how different cultural backgrounds can affect dealings with clients and colleagues. Obvious, right? And something I've certainly experienced whilst being in HK. The need for me to wear a suit for work (well, I never quite manage it) and the extreme hierarchical nature of many Asian companies are just two, very superficial examples, of how cultural differences affect my daily work. There may be no difference in my work product, but whilst sitting in the London office in jeans and writing an email with "Hi Ollie, Please could you send me document Dayorama. Cheers, Amy" is acceptable, over in HK I need to be wearing heals and a shirt and writing, "Dear Mr. Williams. I should be grateful if you could send across document Dayorma in connection with the weblog of the same name. With best regards, Amy". OK, totally simplistic and not necessarily true to life, but you get the picture, right?

But I'd like to think that, given the nature of my job, I just accept and move along. I don't think twice. Living out in HK I've obviously been exposed to things that are beyond my own cultural comfort-zone (if you can call it that), but that's part of the experience, right? Out in Beijing we saw rather a lot of so-named "oh no!" food e.g. the food that you take a photograph of and friends and relatives say "oh no!" when they see the pictures. Surprisingly enough, pupae, sparrows and scorpions on sticks just don't appeal, but it's a learning process and it's not for me to pass judgment.

And yet despite all of that, every now and again an article catches my eye that really brings cultural differences home.

I often flick through the local rag here, the South China Morning Post. It's usually pretty interesting, covering, amazingly enough, the news across South China as well as a spattering of International news. Unsurprisingly my eyes bulked at the below caption:

Wanted: forty Shanghai women to put their best faces forward for China during the Beijing Olympics. Must be 18 to 24 years old, 1.68 to 1.78 meters tall and meet at least 15 requirements for body type.

It seems that the organisers of the Beijing Olympics 2008 need to find willing female volunteers to help present medals at the Games. The thing is, they need to be perfect. Or, perfect in the organisers' eyes, anyway. Given the need for measurements, maths is probably a pretty important requirement too. So what are these rules? If this was in the UK you'd probably looking at tall, blond and a size 8? Consider this...

"The distance from the forehead to the base of the nose, from base to tip of the nose, and from tip of nose to chin should be equal"

"The length of the eyes should be three-tenths the length of the face"

It almost sounds like one of those post-war ration books. You know, where they included helpful tips. Or perhaps a Mrs. Beaton cookery book... "whisk the cream until it stands in stiff peaks..." "make sure you chose an apple which fits neatly in the palm of your hand..."

As the article states, these requirements clearly illustrate what the Chinese government defines as ideal beauty. The list continues... bones in every part of the body well proportioned and symmetrical; muscles elastic enough to display a healthy, beautiful body – full-figured, not fat and cumbersome; rosy skin with luster; long and slender limbs, thighs soft and smooth, calves high and slightly protruding; shoulders symmetrical, full and even, not drooping or shrugging; and my favourite... the whole body should not be clumsy, too fat or slender, unbalanced or an abnormal shape.

Could you imagine this in England? Or the States? There'd be a fit. And rightly so, in my opinion. Even though as a Nation we bounce between preferring size zero and "plus size" models and, of course, fashion magazines dictate on a daily basis a form of "ideal beauty", that's nothing compared to the above. A skinny catwalk model plastered over the cover of a magazine is hardly the same as Gordon Brown preaching from his soap box. Do you think British government would get away with stipulating such criteria for the London 2012 Olympics? I hope not. Attractiveness should come through diversity. At least, that's what I tell myself. People presenting the medals at the 2012 Games should be short, tall, black, white, blond, brunette, fat, slim. And yet this is going away from the point. It shouldn't be up to the government – in this day of free speech and expression – to stipulate an ideal beauty. It's just a timely reminder that something that may be considered vehemently sexist and overly state controlled in one country, is readily accepted in another.

For two, maybe three days each week I work alongside a man with an incredible, rather well hidden depth of character. A man who, every now and again, stops me in my tracks and then, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, addresses me with something profound. He is an oxymoron: a restrained loose cannon.

For example, at around 2pm on Monday afternoon, he beckoned me over. The fact that I sit three feet away from him and he still felt the need to beckon me should give you some idea. He stood up, and said: "I need you to stand up for a minute."

Fairly cautiously, I stood up.

"Look around this room," he said. And I did. To my left, a team of designers with their heads down, working away. To my right, a team who deal with international television feeds and rights, also hard at it.

"Do you ever feel that everyone in here is just wasting their lives away?"

I'd only just had lunch and hadn't really bargained on this, so I took a moment to formulate my stance on what is a rather fundamental pillar in human existence: the concept of a working life.

"In what way?"
"Just heads down, spending every day doing something that deep down, they don't really want to be doing."

It's difficult to argue with that. I realise, and am grateful, that I have what many people consider to be quite an interesting, enjoyable job. But even that has plenty of moments where there is nothing but relatively monotonous, dull stuff to do. (You only get to hear about the good bits - you get a Greatest Hits of my days at work.) Certainly, I could furnish you with a long list of things I'd rather be doing than working in that office.

My colleague continued.

"See, we're only on this earth for what, an average of 83 years? And we spend so much of it just doing this kind of thing, but everyone has a grand plan. What's your grand plan?"

Jesus. What is my grand plan? I can't multi-task and I've only just started to digest my crisps, so a proper answer will have to wait, I tell myself. But then I remember what the grand plan is.

"The grand plan," I slowly and deliberately enunciate between bits of crisp, "is to become a nature cameraman."

And it is, as well. If you told me tomorrow that I could either become a nature cameraman or present all the BBC's sports coverage for the next ten years, I would choose the first option in an instant. I can think of nothing better than spending my life in the most amazing natural environments around the world, filming the full, glorious capacity of this planet to produce the spectacular.

It's funny, though, because for all that instinct, I don't like travelling to places for no reason. You won't catch me going to Africa unless I think I have a very good reason. I have spent the last few months at home feeling rather jealous of the likes of my friend Becky in New Zealand, and indeed Amy in Hong Kong and Beijing, but something in me means I wouldn't go to those places unless I felt my trip had a purpose. I can't quite explain why that is - maybe it's me being a big scaredy-cat, maybe it's laziness, maybe it's not wanting to be just another tourist - but filming the world around me would give me a reason.

Sure, I could go as a tourist and do that, but I want a mandate from somebody. I want to be told to go and find something, then find it. That's pretty much how I best operate in any situation, come to think of it, even in a sporting environment. Give me a headline, give me a title, give me a line of enquiry, and let me come back with something. I want to do that within the natural world.

Simon Reeve, a man who sends my jealousy level soaring up through the Home Counties night sky, has that purpose. For years now, he has been taking himself off on intrepid filming mission to countries united by unlikely themes. Meet The Stans took him through central Asia; Equator followed him around the world at its widest circumference; now, Tropic of Capricorn is repeating the trick along a similar imaginary line.

And it's such a bloody brilliant programme. I've only seen two thirds of the opening programme in the Capricorn series, but Reeve is a superb presenter. The pictures are stunning and the subjects especially well chosen, but Reeve's personality turns a documentary into a voyage, a segment into an insight, a meeting into a moment. That is such a special quality to have and it's one so often lacking.

Attenborough has that quality in spades, the entire Top Gear team stake their reputation on it each week, and Reeve exudes it as he meets the French cheetah expert dubbed "Catman", above right with Reeve (presumably pictured alongside "Catdog", centre, and "Catcat", left).

One imagines Reeve is precious close to having realised his grand plan, whatever that was. In 2001 he had rather a stroke of luck along the way to this plan: his book about Osama bin Laden and "the new terrorism", published in 1998, suddenly became immensely and "painfully" relevant, to quote one review in the aftermath of 9/11. For three years nobody bought it - then, overnight, it was practically the single tome on an issue of immediate and global importance. Reeve had been 21 when he started researching the book. That was a very good move.

Do all grand plans need a Reeve moment? If I carry on wanting to travel the world filming all its amazing intricacies for long enough, will that opportunity materialise? Or is it only a fated few who ever realise that grand plan? And as I asked my friend in the office, if you can stand up in the middle of the room and recognise the raw stupidity of the human predicament, why are you still in the room? How strong do you have to be to walk out of the office door and follow that grand plan, wherever it takes you?

All incredibly good questions, possibly answered by the crushing reality that a Sony Z1 professional video camera, with full bells and whistles, costs about £7,000. Consider the savings account re-activated. In the mean time if you happen to have stood up in your office, realised the situation, and followed your grand plan, I - and my colleague - would love to know more.

Well I'm having a rather hectic week so thankfully you are spared a long missive about Beijing. But I did promise a couple of photos so here's proof that I have been to the Great Wall of China (albeit looking rather cold) and one magnificent view from said wall.

There's a reason it's one of the wonders of the world. Often you go to so-called "tourist attractions" and they're disappointing. They're smaller than you expected, or less colouful, or perhaps there are just too many crowds swarming around in order to appreciate it properly. That's certainly not the case with the Wall. It certainly exceeds all expectations, and then some.

You don't know what a knocking point is, do you?

Ah, well you would if you watched our brand new archery guide. Click here.

This is what we were doing when I posted a photo from Lilleshall back in December.

In fact, the two months which have elapsed between then and now is an interesting guide to the way things change going from regional to national broadcasting.

Previously I think the longest anything I've filmed has gone idle - between being filmed and being edited, then transmitted either on air or online - is about a day, maximum. Possibly two days if it was left over a weekend ready for Monday.

But it's taken those two months, alongside goodness only knows how many other projects, for our team to piece everything together in order that we get something meaningful from our archery rushes (remember, rushes is just the fancy telly word for "stuff we've filmed", and must always be in the plural, even if you only filmed one thing for half a second before you dropped your camera).

Everything done here is on a sort of slow-burn. That doesn't mean the attitude is lazy, or the department is chaotic - almost the opposite in fact. It's fully expected that projects will take weeks or months to complete, so things like filming are booked incredibly far in advance, since everyone knows we will need weeks to work with the raw materials afterwards.

It's all to do with timing as well. Working on Olympic stories means you're competing for time and space with the likes of football, cricket and rugby - and with half a year to go til the Games begin, that's a battle you're currently more likely to lose than win.

This means launching new articles or video content at the weekend, or on a Monday, is a non-starter if you want it to get any attention. I once heard our website's homepage referred to by a colleague as our "shop window", and that means anything we particularly value needs to get a homepage slot for a few hours if it's going to be noticed. But things like live football are always (rightly) a priority.

So it's Tuesdays and Thursdays that usually get the Olympic nod. When I wrote a couple of pieces probing the sailing conditions for this summer's Games at Qingdao, they were specifically held back until a Tuesday so that we could make use of the proverbial calmer waters on the site homepage. The articles duly received almost a whole day's front page exposure.

In other words, even once you've spent weeks chipping away at an in-depth piece of video or text, you have to be prepared to bide your time until you're guaranteed the largest audience. Which can initially seem odd when you're trained - and indeed grow up somewhat naively believing - that journalists just sit there and report things as soon as they happen. Til far too recently, I'd have been inclined to assume newspapers were written from cover to cover in the 18 or so hours before the first editions appear.

The reality, of course is that many of the articles you read on a daily basis are the print equivalents of a pre-recorded programme - they were signed off days, weeks ago, and have been kept back til the precise moment when they can do a job and fill space to the best of their potential.

Look out for a couple of articles on a young diver taking the GB team by storm later this week. Everything is in the can and ready to go, but Thursday is the day before he starts diving at a qualifying competition in Beijing - and it's a Thursday, so even allowing for European football, the major British sports won't be taking up too much of your time. It's the journalistic equivalent of a knocking point (go and watch the video).

Just remember, when you have your lunch on Thursday, to check the BBC Sport homepage. If you can't find a diving feature on it, I will buy you a beer. Let me know.

Vast. Bustling. Imposing. Those are the words I chose to sum up Beijing. In utter contrast to Hong Kong the streets are broad and the buildings low-rise. Nothing is discreet or hidden. Opulence, size and space. The roads are crammed with cars, rickshaws and bikes. There is a powerful buzz about the city. It's alive, colourful and modern, yet at the same time it is drenched with tradition and culture.

I shall endeavour to upload some photographs when I return to Hong Kong but after only 48hrs in Beijing I've been able to climb the Great Wall at Badaling, wander around Tiananmen Square, amble around the lakes and Beihai Park, have a wonderful Chinese full-body massage and experience some lovely food. Tomorrow is reserved for the Summer Palace, Temple of Heaven and the Forbidden City.

We've been fortunate with the weather. Yes it's crisp, with the temperature bouncing around three or four degrees Celcius, but the sky is clear and the sun is streaming down, making it rather warm. Think of an anti-cyclone during the winter in England. Absolutely beautiful. It also means the lakes are frozen, which adds to the romance of the city, the views from the Great Wall were incredible and each building stands out sharply against the strong blue of the sky.

So praise indeed for my first impressions of Beijing. My expectations have certainly been exceeded. At the same time, there are elements of the city that are less pleasant. From time to time there's a distinct smell of sewage and general pollution. If this is what it's like in the depths of winter, then I dread to think what it's like in the summer. Communication in English can sometimes be rather hit and miss. There are also people everywhere - and we're visiting in low season - so heaven knows how crowded, noisy and cramped it gets during peak season e.g. the summer. Combine crippling heat with raging pollution and smog - not forgetting some of the less desirable toileting facilities - and I can see why people are worried how the city will fare this summer when Beijing hosts the Olympics. All I can say is, I'm pleased I'm here now and not in six months' time.

Photos to follow...

When OJ asked if I fancied seeing National Treasure 2: Book Of Secrets at the cinema down the road from work, I didn't really have to think about it. I'd not seen a film in ages and could remember quite enjoying the first National Treasure a few years back, so I signed up for it. He'd called that one of the best films of all time, and I'd ridiculed him.

Turns out I was right, because the sequel is the best film of all time.

Now if you have watched the trailer above, you may have questions about, say, kidnapping the President, or why the Queen is involved, and what this book is all about. Read on.

You may also tell me my love for this film lies at odds with all the reviews, which give it a flat reception to say the least.

That is because this film was reviewed by film critics, who almost certainly went to see this film with the wrong head on.

If you go to watch National Treasure - the first, the second or the inevitable third one - you have a choice as to how you choose to watch it.

If you are a film critic, you probably opt to watch it with a set of traditional film values in mind. How well was it directed? What was the script like? Did the plot ring true? Were the graphics overdone? Did the actors pull off any elements of comedy, tragedy or romance?

And having taken that head into the cinema, you would sit there and say to yourself: "This film is truly awful."

If you happen, however, to be able to leave all sense of reality at the door; if you happen to have turned up at the cinema simply hoping to enjoy a couple of hours; or if you happen to be a couple of history graduates, one of whom spends their entire life fantasizing about being an American, preferably an eighteenth century one - then you will sit there and say to yourself: "He's going to kidnap the President!"

For that is exactly what he does. He is Nicolas Cage, and for the purposes of the film he is Ben Gates, a sort of archaeological sleuth from a family of archaeological sleuths, whose existence appears devoted to madcap missions deciphering complex puzzles left by previous generations of top politicians, royalty and the like. And these puzzles all involve national treasures.

The entire storyline, from beginning to end, is about as believable as if I told you I was actually Lorraine Kelly. You have never seen the two of us in the same place, so you cannot be one hundred per cent certain that when you watch morning television, you are not watching me in a Lorraine Kelly outfit. But if we are honest, I am demonstrably not Lorraine Kelly. (Please be aware that there are spoilers other than that one in the text that follows.)

These national treasures are demonstrably not adorned with hidden mechanisms, clues in Latin etched into their sides, and secret tunnels built by conniving ancient stonemasons. But what if they were, eh? And that's what this film is all about.

Early in proceedings we arrive in Paris, after a cypher on the back of a piece of paper hundreds of years old implies there is a secret message on the smaller version of the Statue of Liberty which sits in the French capital. And there is indeed a secret message - printed on the exterior of the statue, in full daylight, accessed by our heroes using a toy helicopter with a camera strapped to it.

The cryptic clue it contains suggests that some "twins stand resolute" and naturally, the protagonists conclude this refers to a pair of desks built from the wood of a ship named Resolute. One of these desks is in Buckingham Palace, the other is in the Oval Office of the White House.

So they break into Buckingham Palace, fooling security guards by staging a mock argument in the middle of the visitors' area, getting locked up in the bowels of the palace, then breaking out. The mock argument, and Cage's this-is-how-we-see-the-English impression, is incredibly funny on at least three different levels. Sadly if you watch the clips below you don't get the argument (you'll have to go and see it for that), but here they are in the palace:

More on those bad guys you've just seen shortly (and how typical that these Americans clearly have no intention of paying their congestion charge after that car chase nonsense). With that piece of the puzzle in their possession, there's only one thing left to do. They need to get to the Oval Office and, for that, they need to... kidnap the President.

At this point you will understand why it is wise not to approach this film hoping for serious scholarly values or anything bordering on a proper plot. A historian with a slightly technologically gifted friend sits in his dad's living room and says, "I'm going to kidnap the President." And there he is, convincing the President to accompany him on a short walk through a hidden tunnel at a function, then slamming the door and demanding the President tell him if there really is a secret Presidents' book, accessible only to the men in charge of America. And yes, as the title would have it, there is indeed a book of secrets.

Cut to the Library of Congress. The police are closing in to arrest our hero for kidnapping the Prez, but he's already found the opening in the bookcase where a small combination lock houses the book in question. The book is supposedly the home of all kinds of national secrets, held in entries from every US President, but this is perhaps the flimsiest plot point of them all, since we know George W. Bush would never find it in a million years if faced with a library and a combination code.

Cage, however, has the book in his paws and is able to cling to the boot of a 4x4 as his accomplices pile through a police blockade and away. With the help of his mother, who conveniently is one of a handful of people across the globe who can translate a particularly ancient set of Native American Indian glyphs, our clan arrive underneath Mount Rushmore. As did these people, who saw them filming the Rushmore scenes!

By this time they have been joined by Mitch, who is the resident bad guy, although his entire motivation appears to be "to find stuff and improve the family name", which is one of the weaker bad guy back-stories you will find in Hollywood folklore. One almost feels as though an executive somewhere said, "But there's no bad guy!", so the scriptwriters went back and surgically grafted one in. He ends up having the usual Road to Damascus moment and saves the rest of the troops while dying, which was good of him, particularly as he'd spent the rest of the film trying to shoot or stab them all.

The gang (for this is a glorified episode of Scooby Doo, with better graphics and no ghosts) enter a labyrinth which leads to a fabled City of Gold, survive a brush with death when it begins to flood, and emerge out the other side into the media spotlight and national honour. The President apologises for that little skirmish with the cops and bestows all kinds of tributes on Cage, who then goes home, and the film ends.

And breathe.

Listen, you won't understand if you haven't watched it. I doubt you'll understand once you have watched it. But for a couple of guys who spent their university days in a world of archaeology, an entire film devoted to archaeologists racing around famous landmarks, with some guns, explosions and car chases thrown in, is going to be a winner. OJ is already writing to the producers to demand a third film, and cryptic references in this one to "page 47" of the Presidents' secret book imply a plot already exists in the minds of the crazy individuals who thought the first two up.

As ever, the finest tribute I can pay to a film is that if the end credits roll before you've even thought, "I wonder what time it is?", then something good must have happened. This is a two hour beast of a production but if they'd doubled the length I'd still have been sat there happily taking in the sights. If historical intrigue is your bag then get yourself down there to see it as soon as possible but please - leave your common sense at the door. As OJ wrote after the first film (see below) it doesn't take itself seriously, so neither should you.

YesterDayorama
OJ, 19 Jan 2005: National Treasure - A Review

Just thought I'd upload another HK photo - off to Beijing on Wdnesday... just think of all the photos... anyway - so, there have been many processions as a consequence of Chinese New Year. It was fabulous to actually watch dragon dances (as above) and the lion dances.

Both lion and dragon dances are traditional in Chinese culture and the animals dance to the beating of gongs, drums and firecrackers. It's definitely loud and the real sound of a carnival. Certainly not the sort of thing you'd want to listen to if you had a hangover. The supreme energy displayed by the danceers - particulaly those in the lion constumes - is incredible. The dancer springs around, bounces in the air and at the same time will be operating the head of the creature to open and close it's mouth. Fascinating to watch.

Today I was witness to the lion dancers visiting the front of each restaurant along the promenade in Stanley. This ritual is known as choi chang - literally, picking the greens. The owner of the business / restaurant ties a red envelope filled with money to the head of a lettuce and hangs it above the door. The lion dancers perform an elaborate sequence - almost like a mating ritual - suggesting curiosity over this lettuce package. The lion then consumes the lettuce, spits out the leaves and retains the money. The dance is supposed to bring good luck and fortune to the business. Well, I suppose anything is possible.

Well it would be wrong not to mention that today is Chinese New Year. This means that Hong Kong has been transformed into a colourful mass of red and gold lanterns, trees decorated with "red packets" - red packets are, as the name suggests, red packets that are traditionally filled with money and hung on trees and then given as gifts (almost like edible Christmas decorations, but not), flowers, dragons, you name it - anything red, gold and glittery.

This year is the year of the Rat. Apparently the year of the Rat is symbolic of opportunity and good prospects. It is said that business in general is forecast as being good although it is possible that bleak years will follow. However anything that began in the year of the Rat should in theory be successful. That's an OK lookout for 2008. 1984, the year of one's good birth, was also the year of the Rat. See below for the general summary of the rat. Yeah, I can cope with that:

People born under the year of the Rat tend to be forthright, generous and easy going to all of those that they love and care for. They generally have happy, lively personalities and are very outgoing, although they can get very edgy when upset. On the whole they are successful in what they choose to do and are full of imagination and possess very good memories. During a crisis rats come into their own because they are level headed and intuitive, but often their energies can be scattered by their over ambitious tendencies. If their over ambitious enthusiasm can be avoided there is no reason why Rats should not do well. The Rat is a lover of money and a hater of waste and idleness.

There was also an incredible firework display this evening, again in HK harbour, which lasted around 25mins. The fireworks were amazing, especially those that spell out "2008" in the sky. There's something truly fascinating and childlike about them.

The whole child thing is aided by the fact my parents are over in HK at the moment. Lots of sight seeing and general tourist stuff. This also marks the downhill run to my return to Blighty. The Parentals are over for the next couple of weeks, including a trip to Beijing in the middle, followed by my friend Jo for a week. And that's it. 3 weeks and counting. It's really lovely to share HK with them though. It makes me appreciate how much I've got to know and, dare I say it, really like the place.

And, not that they shall appreciate it, see below for the delightful people who brought me into this world. As of this week, they've been together (married for 39, together for 40) for 40 years. Incredible.

The human being, when suffering through a little lack of sleep, possesses an immense capability to humiliate itself given only the barest tools for the job.

Having surfaced at around 5am for a couple of days on the run - I know, quel hardship - I hit something of a brick wall at around 11am yesterday.

By 2pm I had sunk through the brick wall and was now buried somewhere in the foundations of my own psyche, eyes affixed to screen, hands fumbling across keyboard, jaw lying slackened a good foot and a half from upper lip.

I thought a spot of lunch might cure this malaise so I nipped - okay, staggered - down a few floors to the watering hole just outside the main newsroom, named The Filling Station.

The Filling Station is a byword for overpriced, grotty food, somewhat unfairly so since on the whole the food is perfectly palatable and, for a glorified cupboard, they provide quite an extensive range of products. Its 'Killing Station' moniker, recited by any BBC journalist who's been in the corporation too long to avoid an obvious pun, is undeserved.

I returned to my desk with an oblong, polystyrene container, within which lurked the "hot sandwich special" - some chicken, in a bun, with a couple of roast potatoes in gravy. Not the most appetising meal in the world, I grant you, but coupled with a banana and a glass of water, it would almost approach well-rounded status. Potatoes definitely count as one of the five a day. Two potatoes thus count twice.

With the polystyrene vessel of gastronomic adequacy open in front of me, I began to absent-mindedly force my glazed eyes through the little series of websites that have become the daily lunchtime ritual of distraction. And that is when disaster struck. At this stage in the post, raise your voice in tone and anguish just a fraction, in exactly the same way David Attenborough does when something beautiful is about to suffer at the hands of something more intelligent (why doesn't the human race work like that, for God's sake?).

Forgetting quite how precariously my box of nosh was poised on the edge of the desk, I leaned forward a little to reach the mouse. My remaining hand, cupped over one corner of the box like the paw of a fox guarding a piece of roadkill, proved too much for this fragile equilibrium, and over went the box. Into my lap.

The potatoes, sensing the (literal) gravity of the situation and keen not to disrupt my attempt at five a day, clung admirably to the sides of the box. The chicken sandwich, er, sandwiched itself between the potatoes, avoiding certain death.

The gravy, on the other hand, simply drained out of the box, into my lap.

I took a second or two longer to notice this complete and utter catastrophe than might normally be the case, what with being tired and all. By the time I had realised what was going on, the box was dry as a bone, and my lap looked like norovirus had struck with the fiercest of passions.

A thin, gruesome brown liquid dripped menacingly from my crotch to the floor, where an off-beige pool began to gather. My bright orange chair found itself discoloured by the foulest-looking of substances. My jeans began to absorb far more than my mind had done all day.

It is at this point that you think: now what? If I get up, my groin will ejaculate the remaining gravy over the floor with a noticeable splash. Nobody has yet noticed this quiet calamity playing out in the middle of the newsroom. Perhaps if I just sit still for a very long time, the gravy will somehow go away and this entire episode will pass without notice. But should anyone turn round and see me sat doing nothing, with brown stuff dripping from my undercarriage, the consequences for my reputation, ego, psychological well-being and future interaction with the rest of humanity will be dire.

I did what any 10-year-old schoolboy would, and moved my rucksack to cover the wet patch on the floor. Result. They'll never spot that and the rucksack only has my rather nice laptop in it, so a little seepage can't hurt, can it? Now all I have to do is try to make it look less as though I have messed myself.

Realising that my black jeans afforded a certain camouflage for the damp patches, I made a break for the loo. Only on reaching them did I remember they are out of order for repair. Shit. Off to the other loos, then, down three corridors and past the management office.

I remain, technically, a local radio journalist. I am a sports journalist. I was about 10 yards from the door of the gents when the man who is in charge of all local radio sports journalism strode past me, stopped me, and engaged me in conversation at length. He is a lovely man and on a day when my trousers were not slowly dripping gravy onto the carpet I would have been delighted to see him. As it was, I spent ten minutes trying to snatch a surreptitious glance between my own legs. Can he see that? No, it's barely a patch now, look. But that's from this angle. Maybe if I crane a little more... no, sorry, I am listening...

By the time we had parted company, the gravy had found its rightful home either on the floor or in my boxers. One trip to the toilet later, something bordering on normality had been restored - though I would hate you to infer from this that I consider it normal to store beef stock in my pants.

The real miracle in all of this is that nobody noticed what had happened. A little clandestine cleaning back in the office had the remaining gravy mopped up in no time, and when I left the building I was able to stride boldly out of the building with my jeans underneath my long, black coat.

And the ultimate credit for this escape must lie with the catering staff at the Filling Station. It is with the kind of gratitude words will not describe that I thank them for making the gravy so weak, so watery, that it has left no lasting stain or stench. Had it been even vaguely redolent of actual meat, I would have been stuffed. Their triumph is my triumph.

Apparently in order to interpret "teenagers" are saying, we should use our mobile phone. It is reported here that teenagers are inventing a "whole new verbal language" based on the predictive text function on their mobiles.

We've all done it, right? You want to send a raging text message but somehow it's impact is negated when "oh f*ck" comes out as "oh duck" or better still you use the phrase "ducking hell". In Four Weddings and a Funeral, Hugh Grant would now be saying "oh duck a duck". Loses it's appeal, doesn't it? And I'm sure we've all said "I'm on my way good" when you meant to say "I'm on my way home".

So now this has progressed from the written to the verbal. If you say something is "book", then it means "cool", because book is the first word which comes up when you type in the corresponding numbers for "cool". If you exclaim "zonino" then it means "woohoo". These are, apparently, txtonyms. Or, more appropriately, t9onyms. Pronounced, so it seems, tynonyms. Confused yet?

But, whatever. A new meaning to text speak? A new phenomena? Not really. My Mum and I have, for years, used the expression "Holdy Foldy". Why? Because if you put "Okey Dokey" into your mobile, that's what you get. And it's stuck. (thankfully though I'm still called Amy... rather than Bow or Boy or Box or Cow, all of which fall before Amy in the predictive text cycle). Will this expression make it into the OED? Apparently they're thinking of including the meaning of "book" as a synonym for "cool"... All of a sudden, "doing a Delia" seems rather old hat.

Just think of the possibilities for the z in scrabble now though... zonino...!

So it seems from this article that the Bishop of London and the Bishop of Liverpool want us to go on a "carbon fast" for Lent, rather than giving up chocolate, alcohol or other such indulgences.

Do I agree with this? Well, let's see. Traditionally Lent is meant to be a period of fasting (and prayer). Of course today is Shrove Tuesday where in the West we should use up all our glutinous produces, often combined into pancakes, in preparation for the fast which begins on Ash Wednesday and then ends, now with an abundance of chocolate eggs, on Easter Sunday. The idea being that the period of Lent is a form of liturgical fasting, during which only the most basic / plain food may be eaten. Rich, indulgent foodstuffs such as eggs, milk and sugar (typically the ingredients of a pancake) are disposed of prior to the fasting period. I've given up alcohol in the past and also chocolate (though I admit I've never succeeded in giving them both up at once). The idea, at least in my mind, is that there should be some degree of "suffering". I could easily give up doughnuts, crisps and sweets. Wow, you might say. Well, no. Because these may be "bad" foods, but I rarely eat them. It would be utterly painless for me to give these foodstuffs up. Nor is it worth me giving up caffeine. The last drink of coke / diet coke I had was on New Year’s Eve with Ollie and the last coffee was in the morning, sometime shortly after New Year. And I don’t think the caffeine levels in green or white tea really count. So, caffeine is definitely pointless too. Chocolate, red wine and cheese on the other hand... ouch... therein lie my three vices (and possibly a premature heart attack waiting to happen, depending on which medical journal you decide to read and the reason for my hour-glass / large wine glass figure…).

I suppose I could say I’ll cut out the aforementioned vices (well, two of the three, anyway) and then put money into a charity pot (rather like a swear box) every time I breached my fasting. But, this doesn't really work, does it? OK, so Christian Aid, the Samaritans or MSF (one of the three charities I regularly give money to) may benefit. But I haven't achieved anything "mentally" have I? My sense of achievement will be zilch. By around day 25 I’ll have totally given up and just give a lump sum to charity. What other options? Well, perhaps I could give up chocolate full stop and alcohol every day except Friday and Saturday...? Or is this being too easy? And doesn't it go against the forty day of fasting if you indulge yourself in between?

I think the fasting principle can also work in reverse too. You can inflict suffering and self discipline (not to say these are in any way mutually exclusive) by going, let’s say, to the gym 4 days out of 7 during Lent. Imagine you’re usually pretty lame when it comes to physically activity (myself included here), well perhaps the gym during Lent is the answer.

But what about this “carbon fast”. The concept appeals. It certainly encourages awareness about climate change / the planet / our carbon footprint. But is it right to suggest it takes place during Lent? Perhaps since only a small percentage of the population bother to give something up for Lent anyway, it seems pretty immaterial whether this idea is publicized as a “fast” or not. It’s as good an excuse as any to encourage people to watch their carbon footprint I suppose. But shouldn’t this be a longer-term lifestyle choice? The Bishops suggest the “fast” involves a simple energy saving action each day e.g. avoiding plastic bags, insulating the hot water tap and checking the house for drafts. It doesn’t suggest you “fast” by turning off your heating and reading your newspaper (made from environmentally friendly paper) and drink your cup of coffee (Fairtrade, of course) via candlelight.

I suppose it can’t hurt. Although perhaps a wider initiative for the population to energy save – beyond the remit of Lent – is required. There are calls today for a Minister for Climate Change. And given today’s current climate (sorry), it seems necessary. I can’t knock the determination of the Church to become involved in climate change initiatives, or indeed to raise the profile of Lent, and I don’t doubt that the “moral imperative for us to act [on climate change] is unquestionable and inescapable”, but something inside me doesn’t like the principle behind the Lent fast being meddled with. I’m just some traditionalist.

And you may well ask what I shall do for Lent. Well, I’ve the choice of chocolate, alcohol or cheese. And in the course of writing this post I’ve decided that this year it shall be chocolate. I’ll also continue to aim to only drink alcohol on a Friday or Saturday evening, rather than during the week – but that’s more of a health thing, rather than a Lent “fast”. It won't be easy since I usually have a piece of chocolate, at least, every day when I get in from work...To that end I purchased a couple of Godiva chocolates on the way home. The chocolate form of a pancake. And the next chocolate / chocolate drink / chocolate product shall be on Easter Sunday. And no, I don't intend to substitue the chocolate for sweets or digestive biscuits, either.

Incidentally, Ollie, how is your year-long bread fast going? Have you ditched the packeted sandwiches for salads or pies? And do you feel any healthier for it… ?!

This article here is ridiculous. The tag line reads "High heels improve sex life" and the article goes on to explain how women who wear higher heals may improve their pelvic floor muscles and in doing so boost their sex life.

Oh for goodness sake. Yes, wearing heels probably does improve your sex life. But only because men are likely to fancy you more if i) you're calves are stretched / legs look thinner; ii) the whole high heel / secretary / Joan Collins thing; and iii) high heels naturally improve posture. Your sex life is not, I'm afraid to say, suddenly going to be improved because a man, or woman come to that, thinks "gosh, that person is wearing moderately high heels and thus they must have great pelvic floor muscles and thus must be great in bed". It might improve the retrospective experience, but you have to get to that point in the fist place. So it's only going to boost it if you have a sex life in the first place. The article describes the "Italian urologist" as a "self-professed lover of the sexy shoe" - exactly - it's nothing to do with the damn pelvic floor, it's to do with the sexiness of the high heel (but apparently not stiletto, whatever)

And for the record, Pilates is more effective for improving your pelvic floor muscles anyway.

As you might expect, a large part of my job as a sports journalist is ringing press officers at various governing bodies, requesting accreditation for some event or other.

One such event is coming up on Friday. Having made contact with the relevant association, I got this email back earlier this morning:

Hi Ollie

This is fine. Can you let me have an address for your pass to be sent to please? I haven’t had the final squad for the game yet, so can’t say who will or won’t be there.

Cheers

[Name of press officer removed for their own benefit, given what's coming up]

This warranted a very simple email back, like so: (Don't worry, this is going somewhere.)

Hi,

Can you send the pass to:
(Television Centre blah blah blah)

Many thanks,

Ollie

No, I did not actually write "Television Centre blah blah blah" in the email. I have simply removed the address on the grounds that an incredibly thick terrorist may be trying to bomb me, and given his or her incapability to work out the address of Television Centre, they may have been waiting for me to spell it out. I could just have saved my own life.

Anyway, I digress. About an hour ticked by, during which I heard nothing more from this press officer - who, I hasten to add, I've never met or spoken to properl