Five hours on the phone to a helpful android and I wore my fist out banging on the desk, handfuls of hair on the floor and there’s not enough coffee in the world. Struck by how easy it is to spend money on the modern High Street, you put one tentative foot outside and there’s a vacuum cleaner in your pocket. New career considerations: road sweeper, funeral parlour attendant, historical guide for a northern quarter, I can read blue plaques mate. Saw Rick who told me about the Gypsy Moth and how it was fenced in the factory now, no chance of flying the machine back home, the wings unscrew, but, well … these things are never straightforward eh? The TV in the next room is telling me about the dead Russian guy, my pal the Accidental Diplomat worked on that one back in the day, why do these kind of inquests take so long? I may write mine now to save the doctor’s precious time – he pegged it due to excess modernity and industrial strength bacca, plus fingers worn down to stubs from hammering out this drivel. The bells of the old town were playing Bambury Cross this afternoon, and tonight I will be scrutinising tactics on artificial grass under artificial light. Is it too late to become the new Don Howe?