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Buses confound me – I understand entirely how you get none for ages and then three at once (it was explained on Notes & Queries once), but I can’t for the life of me figure out how you can get none for ages and then just one come along. Where have the other ones gone? Perhaps buses travel at relativistic speeds, meaning that although the time between them is always fifteen minutes from their point of view, more than half an hour elapses for those of us hanging around in the cold for the next one?

Of course if that were the case then you’d expect to get home really, really quickly – at least as far as your house was concerned. But my house agreed completely with me when I finally got back this evening that the time was: far, far too late.

So I reckon someone’s stealing Cambridge’s buses. If found, please return, etc., there’s a good chap.

Last night it was The Friday Project’s Christmas drinks, and having just about recovered from their last party I went along to throw myself into the yuletide fun. And also to try and persuade them to publish more of my stuff.

Never a good idea. As their launch party proved, although at the height of a party Paul Carr will agree to publish my whole life, the next day he won’t have any recollection of our verbal contract.

This time round I was in the exciting position of having an opera to go to, so I was able to pop in for a few glasses of champagne with various assorted writers, then pop back after three hours of Puccini to view the carnage through relatively sober eyes.

But even watching Madame Butterfly stabbing herself to death hadn’t prepared me for what I beheld. Some people were conscious, few of them standing. Paul Carr stared at me with a glazed expression, then recognised me, threw his arms around me with a cry of “Lark!” and threw my scarf over the bar. The barman was not impressed.

Paul then told me I needed a drink, grabbed from the bar a glass of what looked like vodka and coke (neatly lined up with two others) and thrust it into my hand. I asked him who it belonged to. He said he wasn’t sure, then gestured in the direction of three huge, tough, suited men who were almost certainly in the mafia and said “I think they ordered them”.

I put the drink back.

I decided to escape in the direction of Clare Christian, who I felt was less likely to throw my scarf over a bar because she is, in fairness, less of a pisshead than Paul Carr.

Clare greeted me like Mary Magdalene greeting Jesus – I’m sure she was seconds away from breaking an expensive jar of oil over my head – and continued to cling to me while she struggled to explain to another writer who I was. Having essentially attributed me to every book in their output, she went on to ask me if I would accept £10,000 from a different publisher if they offered to publish a book I’d written.

She seemed genuinely distressed by my predictable response, and somehow I couldn’t make her understand that, like most other people, I’m essentially a mercenary man and wouldn’t even turn down £10,000 from Paul Daniels if he wanted me to appear on his magic show. (Except that he doesn’t have one any more – ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha)

Having achieved all that, I left. A grand evening, all in all.

The opera was nice, too.

Can anybody spot what’s amiss in the Borders music section?

An entertaining incident in the House of Commons today when Labour MP Dennis Skinner was thrown out for talking about the 1980s in the following terms: “The only thing that was growing then was the lines of coke in front of Boy George over there…”

When speaker Michael Martin asked Skinner to withdraw his comment, Skinner declared “I won’t withdraw it, it was in the News of the World.”

I can’t help wondering if he could possibly have found a less convincing justification for his comment. Even “I won’t withdraw it, I’m a bit senile so I’m allowed to say what I like” might have earned him a little support, or a simple “I won’t withdraw it, it sounded better in my head”. Or “I won’t withdraw it, this is an opportunity to get chucked out of the House of Commons again and spend the rest of the day in the pub.”

After all, the people of Bolsover were already aware that their MP is slightly senile, talks without thinking and probably spends a lot of his time in the pub. They now have to live with the fact that their MP gets his opinions from the News of the World, which is rather less palatable.

Somebody should at least have been generous enough to point out that the person he was gesturing to was not Boy George at all, but David Cameron. I see very little resemblance between the two, but Dennis Skinner is an old man and was seated far enough away from the new Tory leader for such a mistake to at least be understandable. Perhaps he’ll be terribly disappointed when he learns that the new Tory leader is not actually the androgynous singer from Culture Club – but in fairness, Boy George did indeed have growing lines of coke in front of him throughout the 1980s, so perhaps it was just a horrible misunderstanding.

When Michael Jackson was on trial there was a (rather crappy) televised dramatisation of the whole thing.

But Michael Jackson’s trial was boring. Even when he wasn’t too upset by it to put his face on and turn up, it was pretty tame entertainment – unless you get off on stories about grown men sharing beds with children, which you wouldn’t unless you were Michael Jackson, who I presume didn’t tune in to the dramatisation for personal reasons.

On the other hand, Saddam Hussein’s trial has been FANTASTIC. Great entertainment every day combining comedy and tragedy and a character we all know and love. (It surely can’t just be me who sort of loves Saddam? I mean, I know he’s an evil dictator and all that, but not in the league of Hitler or Stalin – let’s face it, Tony Blair’s killed a lot of people in Iraq as well, but we haven’t put him on trial yet – and now that he has a beard he looks like Santa Claus, which I think is rather endearing – Saddam that is, not Tony.)

All sorts of entertaining leaping up and shouting and people denouncing everybody else on a daily basis… So why oh why hasn’t somebody decided to dramatise this trial?

Why is it, that however little you use, however restrained you are, however much you remember the disasters of dinners past and hold back from putting in what looks like the right amount but instead use but a few grains that look insufficient to feed a fieldmouse, you still always end up with too much rice???

Praying out loud around the house is only really a good idea if you’re absolutely sure the house is empty.

A highlight from this morning’s breakfast show on Radio Cambs, during a traffic news bulletin…

Newsreader: Apparently a car’s hit a dyke at Langstoft.

Presenter: Is she alright?

I put on a couple of episodes of the 1966 Dr Who story The War Machines last night. I was thinking what a frankly ridiculous story it is when my housemate suddenly said “It’s very adult compared to the recent series, isn’t it?” I muttered something about it being a bit silly, and he replied “but it’s really building up the tension!”

I hadn’t even noticed. I’d spent most of it worrying because I couldn’t remember which story was the last one to feature companions Ben and Polly (I know, I know, it’s The Faceless Ones) and thinking how poorly structured the script was and how William Hartnell couldn’t remember any of it anyway.

It made me wonder if being a Doctor Who fan just takes all the enjoyment out of watching it.

I’ve just finished the dress rehearsal for Whistle Down the Wind, the rather wonderful musical I’m MDing in my local church. Tis but a local amateur production, so theoretically small stuff compared to some of the shows I’ve been involved in – but I can honestly say I feel humbled and privileged to be a part of it. It takes a certain type of community spirit to assemble a cast of twenty-five children and twenty-five adults in completely accurate 1950s costumes, not to mention to build a whacking great barn in a church. And burn it down.

And everyone – children especially, in fact – is doing justice to the difficult and uncompromising score, even though they’re spaced around the building in a way that isn’t in the least bit practical when it comes to hearing the orchestra, or indeed watching me struggle to conduct in more ridiculous time signatures than I’ve ever seen next to each other before.

Actually, having seen Harry Potter the other day, I would be so bold as to say that some of our kids are better than theirs.

On the other hand, Harry Potter was worth it for the moment when David Tennant was revealed as the villain and a little girl in the row behind me whispered in disbelief “That’s Doctor Who!”