Oh dear...

Today, some generous commuter had left me the whole of the Times, spread all over one of the few free seats on the (delayed, of course) train I caught at Oxford.

I couldn't face reading any more about Cherie Blair, so went straight to the crosswords. Couldn't quite finish the quick one, and had only got two words in the cryptic one by the time I got to Reading. Now that I don't have Felix ringing me up all hours of the day, asking me about the clues he's stuck on, I seem to have quite lost the ability to do crosswords.

The bus to work, at the Reading end, was afflicted with a very piercing "Something's Wrong" alarm. It was sufficiently inspecific that the driver had to walk round for about five minutes, checking assorted fire exits, doors, and mysterious things that went clunk before he identified the cause. ( Can anyone who understands how hearing works explain something to me? )

On the plus side, opposite me on the bus was a Sikh gentleman with the most fantastic moustache, waxed into enormous curls.