Am I surprised to have a headache this morning? Ian, sleepless after the last night-shift of the week, made sandwiches and we got away only an hour late. Walk to Cambridge station, train to Whittlesford, then a pleasant - if hot - walk to Duxford, to the Imperial War Museum, which now runs the World War II airfield. It was 'Spitfire Day', and we were promised - according to the brochure - to "get up close" to Spitfires on the ground and "watch these wonderful aeroplanes in flight" at the place which is "home to more airworthy Spitfires than anywhere else in the world." In other words, we were expecting a veritable cornucopia of Spits. So we were a little disappointed to discover just two planes parked on the airfield, behind a rope, plus one fibregalass mock-up, and one more in the huge - and admittedly impressive - giant hangar housing many of the RAF's past warbirds. Another one flew in later, there were two un-announced take-offs, and two actual aerial displays. By the time of the second display we were walking back to the station, a little weary after a day of traipsing, and enjoyed the slightly more authentic view of the beautiful plane and the sound of the throaty Merlin wheeling over the Cambridgeshire fields. We did take full advantage while we were there of looking around Airspace, the giant hangar, walking through the Concorde prototype, and marvelling at a Lancaster, Harrier, Jaguar, Vulcan, and many, many other past British aircraft; and then round the American equivalent - which to my mind was better because you could get close enough to touch the B-52 , the Liberator, the B-17, and you could peer through the front windscreen of the strangely futuristic, slightly scary, round-nosed B-29. Both collections were like an Airfix-obsessed kid's bedroom writ very, very large. We enjoyed sandwiches and beer in the shade, and later had an ice cream from a proper ice cream van! It was also really nice to spend the day with my bruv. There was a huge display of Triumph Spitfires outside as well, so we figured maybe that was what they meant.

It's rare that I agree with anything Clarkson says, but since I was awoken in my hotel this morning by noisy people pulling their little trolleys of golf bats along a path outside my window, I admit he may have something. On holiday recently I read Jonathan Glancey's Spitfire: The Biography, which was fascinating and told me all sorts of things I hadn't realised, such as the fact that what is now the Jaguar (car) factory at Castle Bromwich assembled Spitfires during the war. I sometimes pass near it (it's just off the M6), as I did today to go to a nearby B&Q, and suddenly the wonderfully energetic sculpture in the middle of the roundabout outside made sense. I had thought it was just a celebration of Midlands manufacturing and metal-working, but in fact the three planes apparently soaring into the sky leaving trails behind them are, of course I can see know, Spitfires. I went and took a couple of pictures (not easy because the area is most definitely not designed for pedestrinas) and also found out the roundabout is called Spitfire Island, so that confirms it! Leaving Castle Bromwich and wanting to head towards Mancheter initially, I did my absolute best to avoid getting on the M6 Toll. I can claim the charge back, but I wasn't in a pressing hurry, so there was no need to use the toll road. I had the sat-nav routing me to a point well north of the Birmingham conurbation 'avoiding motorways', and all was going well along the A5 and A38 until I saw a sign at a roundabout indicating 'M6 North'. So I thought I may as well take that - after all it wasn't the M6 Toll, and even if there was a bit of traffic, by this time I'd be clear of the main congestion, and it would probably be quicker. So off I went, diverting from the sat-nav route. And found myself, after some driving, at another roundabout which now indicated '(M6 North)' in brackets, and a sliproad onto the M6 Toll. I could have turned around and retraced my steps, but possibly the shock and upset took over. I mean, I ended up joining the bloody road one junction before the toll booths, so paid £4 for a few short - and completely avoidable - miles on the toll road. Gutted. In Manchester called in briefly for a cup of coffee with a friend resting from work for a couple of days following 'the snip' - if you know what I mean. Cor... it's a painful thing to even think about, never mind go through! An eye-watering description of procedures didn't help. Yowsa.

So the Home Secretary, and another senior minister in the Home Office, have admitted to smoking dope* while at university. And the great and the good and the mighty are shouting about how terrible this is. I say: three cheers to them for admitting it, in a real world where we can't possibly expect a cabinet of saints. Travelling down the M6 this afternoon I was shadowing for a period of time an 07 reg Ford Focus estate, very similar to the one I'll be getting soon. It was a 'Titanium' whereas mine will be a 'Ghia', although the differences are only, I believe, my cruise control against his sports seats and 'privacy glass'. But it was actually the exact same colour, which I haven't really had a chance to observe properly yet - I had to choose it from the brochure, not the best way of making the decision. But it did look really good on the Focus. Despite the fact that, as I've said before, it is a box on wheels, perhaps it doesn't look too bad, and I'll probably enjoy driving it. After all, Ford, while generally dull, are never a bad drive. And I'm looking forward to being able to listen to my MP3s and podcasts from my iRiver via a dedicated connection to the stereo, rather than as at present through a noisy and unreliable cassette adaptor. The psychology of motorway services credit card girls. I haven't fully worked out yet exactly who they try and waylay, but I have noticed that they don't try and accost me if I'm wearing my filthy work jeans, tatty trainers and dirty t-shirt, but sometimes they do when, as today, I'm wearing smarter attire. But I do know the best way to politely avoid them: just smile broadly but don't say a word in reply. Today's conversation opener, as I walked out with a cup of Coffee Nation coffee and a bottle of Evian, was, "You can't drink and drive sir. Why don't you come and talk to me for a few minutes while you drink that?", which was eight out of ten for originality and wit. *Let us not forget the leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition who has done nothing to refute the rumours about his own alleged University 'experiences'.

New car ordered today, and despite various misgivings, on paper it looks generally better than what I'm driving now. It's got higher torque (important for me), an even smaller turning circle (and the Golf's is pretty good already), alloys and front fog lights, and I'm getting Xenon headlights as an optional extra. It's also generally more powerful and faster, but with lower emissions (how?)

	2003 model VW Golf estate	2006 model Ford Focus estate
Trim	SE	Ghia
Engine	1.9 TDI	1.8 TDCi
Engine capacity	1896 cc	1753 cc
Power	74 kw at 4000 rpm	85 kw at 3700 rpm
Max torque	240 Nm at 1800 rpm	280 Nm at 1900 rpm
0-62 mph	12.7 seconds	10.9 seconds
Max speed	117 mph	119 mph
Fuel tank capacity	55 litres	52.7 litres
Combined cycle fuel consumption	52.3 mpg	53.3 mpg
CO2	146 g/km	139 g/km
Turning circle	10.9 metres	10.4 metres
Luggage capacity ('boot')	460 litres	482 litres
Luggage capacity (with rear seats down)	1470 litres	1525 litres
Front / rear fog lights	no / yes	yes / yes
Heated front windscreen	no	yes
Cruise control	yes	yes
Air conditioning	yes	yes
Lumbar support	yes (optional extra)	yes (standard)
Heated door mirrors	yes	yes (integrated indicators)
Alloy wheels	no	yes
Length	4397 mm	4472 mm
Width (inc mirrors)	2003 mm	1991 mm
Height	1473 mm	1501 mm

My birthday present to Steve was tickets to see 'Boeing Boeing' tonight. Despite a stellar cast, and some rave reviews, we were both somewhat disappointed. Adrian Dunbar was like an over-the-top am dram actor; Rhea Perlman was mis-cast, effectively just playing Carla; Neil Stuke's performance was too subtle for anyone unfamiliar with 'Game On', though he certainly got the biggest laughs; Amy Nuttall was fine though bland; Elena Roger's accent was as impenetrable as it had been when we watched her in 'Evita'; and only Doon Mackichan struck the right note of farcical surrealism which anyone who has seen here in 'Smack The Pony' and 'Green Wing' will know. Having said all that, most of the audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy the whole thing, so it must just have been us. I'm sure we would have found it funnier the first time around, in the seventies, in a more innocent age. Afterwards, standing outside a nearby pub to smoke (fortunately it was a gorgeous evening) we watched car after taxi after mini-van turn through the No Entry signs opposite to escape the gridlock the 'legitimate' way.

Let me tell you a story about contact lenses. Some time ago I had my eyes tested, and had new glasses, but it was much later that I went back to Vision Express to ask if I was suitable for daily disposable contact lenses. My prescription is quite strong, and only recently has technology allowed the manufacture of my strength (plus I have astigmatism). Anyway, the long and the short of it was that I passed on Vision Express's offer to supply me with lenses on a Direct Debit basis, because I felt they were misleading me, and weren't flexible enough for what I wanted. So I have been looking elsewhere, and had decided to buy some online, in fact from Sainsbury's. So I made certain, and double-checked, that I had the all the right figures in all the right places on the screen, I put my credit card details in, pressed 'proceed'... and then was told I had to send, fax or e-mail my prescription to them before they could send me my lenses. I didn't actually have a copy of my prescription, but I did have an order form from Vision Express with my prescription clearly shown on it, so I scanned it and sent it off, only to have Sainsbury's phone me up later to tell me they now needed my authorisation to contact Vision Express to obtain my prescription. Well, now they have that information, but it seems cannot guarantee I'm going to get my lenses before we go on holiday. If I'd gone with Vision Express, I'd have had them ages ago. Ho hum. Left home today, and whilst sitting in solid traffic on the M25 somewhere near Chertsey I had a sudden stomach-knot-tying thought: had I closed the kitchen window? I went over and over the sequence of events as I left the flat, but I just couldn't be sure. So I had to go back, which made me very, very late for where I was going. Fortunately the person I was going to see, and my boss, were very understanding. Which may have explained how I was able to resist saying something about the completely ridiculous BMW 4x4 monstrosity which the chap turned up in. What may have thrown me was the paradox of him being such a nice guy, yet driving such a hateful vehicle. I don't know. When he drove off in it later, it seriously sounded like a lorry. How can people justify these things?

How to separate someone you like from their actions which you don't? If Chris Langham is found guilty, how does someone who admires his talent deal with his excellent 'body of work', such as 'People Like Us' and 'In The Thick Of It'? In the post today, news that Volkswagen are going to bring out a new Golf estate in August. As it happens this time around, thanks to my company's latest car policy, I have very little choice about what I can get anyway, but at least I did have the consolation that VW seemed to have stopped making the Golf estate.

With the motorway congested this afternoon (more than usual, that is) I took a detour along the country lanes of a particularly moneyed part of South Buckinghamshire, catching occasional glimpses of houses flashing past through high hedges. These, though, were the sort of houses with detached garages, the sort of houses you can't see from the road, the sort of houses with gatehouses. I imagine these houses cost several millions each. The village had a cricket match taking place on the green late on a Tuesday afternoon, and a sign "SLOW: Ducks In Road". I'm not trying to sound jealous or envious, and remember I used to live in a small village, not as rich as this one (though I'm sure property prices have gone skywards since I left about nine years ago), and they have their advantages and disadvantages. And I do appreciate the countryside more because of it, the work and pursuits of those who live there. For example the idea that huntin', shootin' and fishin' are elite pursuits is simply untrue, and a great many people depend on them for their living; they are expected to be unpaid custodians of the countryside so that townies can go and enjoy it for a day. Sorry, got a bit off the point there; these were just disgustingly wealthy people's houses. The car (now at 155,000 miles) has turned into one continuous creak: the suspension, despite its recent repair, is shot; the air-con when repaired last time lasted a day before it stopped working again; one of the headlights is out, but I've not made time to get it sorted. Besides which I'm almost at the point now of having given up on this car, knowing it's going soon and a new one will be coming. I seem to care about it less and less. I mean I like it still, or rather I remember liking it... there are certainly things about it I'll miss. Actually I'm not so much looking forward to getting rid of it as I am looking forward to getting the new one. Our little trip to Paris at the end of summer has been booked. It'll be Geoff's first visit there, and I'm hoping he likes the place as much as Roxana, Steve and I do. Some really positive news: there are some companies able to produce great, non-discriminatory advertising, and awards have been announced. Check the link.

Lewis 'only' managed third at Silverstone today, but that's nine top-three positions (including two wins), and seventy points, in nine races in his first year in Formula 1. And he's only twenty-two. Not bad, I'd say. They announced these so-called 'new seven wonders' of the world today, based on an (unrepresentative) internet vote. Many of the choices I agree with, such as China's Great Wall, and the Colosseum in Rome. But how can the 1931 statue of Christ the Redeemer towering over Rio be classed a 'wonder', when Stonehenge and the Acropolis are left off? I mean if the Brazilian concrete statue fell down, they could make another one, not something you could say about those piles of stones in Wiltshire and Athens. It's been a weekend of website maintenance. Click on pics, go on...

Watched a bit of it, and thought it rather uninspired, plus the TV production was awful, and the midday on-stage swearing was clearly a bit problematic for the Beeb. Anyway, I wanted to use that headline, OK? With Steve away overnight, I had pizza and beer. Fab, although I'd rather have had Steve here and something sensible to eat!

We left at some silly hour of the morning and Steve drove (I slept) down to Salisbury, where we'd promised Roxana we'd help her move some furniture, although when we got there we had to go out and buy the belated birthday present she chose: a new Dyson. No luck at Comet (closest), but Currys obliged. While Roxana went to work, and Steve and Geoff went into town, I did a bit of furniture removal and hoovering (Dysoning?) and so on (so much easier without other people around), and everyone seemed pleased with the result... which was nice.. After the Doctor Who series finale had been watched we disappeared to the Haunch, for those last few puffs before the bastard ban at 6am tomorrow. One of what I presumed to be Geoff's work t-shirts, advertising a sale, was hanging upside down in the bathroom, and every time I went to the loo I marvelled at it. I know I'm odd, but that's what makes me me. 1 day to go.

Driving out of Croydon this afternoon I passed a chalkboard by the side of the road with the intriguing message: "Warning - purple distraction ahead". And indeed just around the next bend was a purple field, and a trestle table set up in the entrance: "Fresh cut lavender available here". They were right, it was distracting. Did you know that for around half an hour today we had no Prime Minister? Cherie called out, as the Blairs left Downing Street for the last time, "We won't miss you" but I can't help thinking that rather than addressing the assembled reporters and TV crews, perhaps she was actually talking through them to the rest of us... but would they dare report that? 4 days to go.

Before breakfast I went and put some more money in the meter, and afterwards we checked out and took the car up the long, steep hill towards Combe Down. Some time ago when we first discussed this trip, I'd suggested we both got to Bath by train, and we could walk up to school. I mean, I used to run up this hill most mornings in the Upper Sixth (during my 'fit' phase), I've cycled up it many times, and walked up it countless times. But sense prevailed and I brought the car. First we turned left, past the school and along the route of many a cross-country, past Longwood where I played rugby in the 'scraps' (the leftovers from the first and second teams) and towards the University. Then we turned and drove in the other direction, forgetting quite how far we used to walk to the newsagent - where I remembered I once had a subscription to the Eagle comic. Anyway, after that we were still way too early for Mass, so we drove back down to Widcombe, the village at the bottom of the hill, and parked and had a coffee in a rather charming little organic/fair trade café called Kindling. We drove back up Ralph Allen Drive again, this time turning through 'those' gates and into Prior Park. We parked outside the Mansion, and encountered a teacher from those twenty-two years ago, Mr (Gerald) Davies, and his wife, and we walked to the Chapel with them. Mr Davies had been a housemaster, although not ours, and Head of Rugby. He was greyer, and seemed somehow smaller, but - to me at least - instantly recognisable. I don't 'do' Mass these days, and my reasons for wanting to attend this weekend were purely nostalgic, so I was disappointed when the Headmaster made an announcement (at the wrong time and length, in my opinion, but that's by the by) at the beginning to say that most of the pupils were away on CCF or D of E activities. The choir was very good though, and the sound of that organ in that space was as awesome as ever. Mass was given for the late John Aloysius Ward, Archbishop of Cardiff, an old boy, although - unsurprisingly - no mention was made of the stain on his reputation caused by his ill-advised and controversial redeployment and non-reporting of a paedophile priest. Afterwards we took pictures in the Chapel, then walked to the Mansion where coffee was served. There, too, we met the only other person we knew, Sister McPeake, the Matron in our time. Both the Davieses and Sister recognised me although struggled to remember the name, but both looked vacantly at Vic even when he had told them who he was, which led him to conclude, and confirm, that his time at PPC had mostly passed below the radar. Walking out onto the Mansion steps, and taking in the valley and the view of Bath beyond, brought a lump to my throat. I marvelled at that vista, in autumn as the woods were golden-orange, in the snow, in the fog, in the rain, indeed in every conceivable type of weather, for six of the most formative years of my life, and I hadn't seen it for around twenty, so it was bound to be emotional. I took a couple of pictures, but concluded that I had taken much better ones a long time ago, so what was the point? With the Mansion Hall filling up with old chaps we made our escape, and drove out to the George in Norton St Philip, a very fine and very ancient coaching inn, with countless little bars, which Ian introduced me to many years ago, and ate a good lunch. The school has at some point since we left carved a new driveway from what we referred to as the middle drive up through what had been the all-weather hockey pitch to the playing fields. The 'slaughterhouse' (an old and somewhat dangerous ruin, out-of-bounds but nevertheless played in) has been repaired, there are extensions on most of the classroom buildings, the shooting range has vanished and been replaced by... another block of some sort, but most of the place was fairly recognisable, I'm glad to say. Proportions are important, and Prior, centred as it is on three glorious stone buildings at the top of an artificially-landscaped valley, has to keep its sense of proportion in the modern age, and I believe it still does. It had been raining to a greater or lesser degree all day, and it became quite clear when we had driven up to the pitches that the cricket wasn't going to be on. We sat in the car by the pavilion for a few minutes, debating whether or not to get out, but there were no new faces since Mass, and so we concluded that we'd come and done what we'd set out to do, we'd dwelt enough in the past, and it was time to go. We did agree though that if there was a Class of '85 reunion, we'd go. So I took Vic back to Cheltenham, had a coffee with him there, and came home. 7 days to go.

Holiday booked today: a week in Puerto de Sóller, soon. We don't normally do beach/pool holidays, but this resort (where I went with my parents when I was ickle) is not, despite being in Mallorca, typical. And boy do we need the escape. Can't wait. Word has arrived today that I may, finally, be allowed to order my new company car. Looks like it has to be a Ford Focus, but I guess that won't be too bad. Into london this afternoon to meet Steve, have a quick drink with him and Matt, and then we're both off to the London Studios to watch a recording of the final (bizarrely Christmas-themed) episode of the new series of QI. Very interesting and entertaining. On the panel tonight... Jo Brand, Bill Bailey, Sean Lock and, of course, Alan Davies. I just love - always have - hanging around television studios. We sort of crashed the rap party afterwards. Actually we were officially guests of the production, through one of Steve's engineers who works for the production company. Bumping into Mr Fry (literally in the case of Steve) and the others is a bit odd, but we feel suitable privileged. Afterwards to Thai Silk for a reassuringly expensive meal. 16 days to go.

The Vatican has told members of its bizarre cult... sorry, that's Catholics to you and me... to stop forthwith any support for Amnesty International. What!? NO! Why? Because AI has dared to suggest that some poor African woman who has been gang-raped by renegade soldiers might want to have an abortion - or rather should herself have the choice - they are beyond the pale and all the amazing work they do in the cause of human rights must lose Catholic support. Holy Mary Mother of God, what is going on? It's almost as bad as the fact that they - the Vatican that is - will still not countenance the use of condoms to stop the spread of AIDS. And what about the woman who bit off that chap's testicle? Ow........ Made some bread today for the first time in ages - but I may have put a bit too much yeast in. What do you think? It kind of exploded inside the breadmaker, and I had to slap it down, you know, knock the wind out of it a bit, show it who's boss. 17 days to go.

The driver of a silver Range Rover is going to get a speeding ticket in the post, providing his vehicle is displaying the correct registration plate. He was driving through the roadworks on the M25 at 70-80mph in the 50mph average speed check section. He deserves the ticket because he can't read the big red, white and black "50mph" speed limit signs, combined with the large and frequent "Average speed check" signs, combined with the yellow vulture cameras, but I want him get the ticket because he arrogantly drove six inches from my back bumper until I moved to another lane, then immediately jumped on his accelerator and zoomed past me at up to 80mph. I want him to be done because he's an arrogant tosser, but he deserves to because he's stupid. I've been thinking. You know those stupid, illegal and sometimes downright illegible number plates you sometimes see? Usually on ridiculous customised cars, or Range Rovers (again) with blacked-out windows (also illegal). They are owned by people who, when at school, did their ties up in a stupid way, or wore black trainers instead of black shoes because they thought they could get away with it, they could buck the system, be individual. But a uniform is a uniform and society needs to conform to its uniform codes, whether that's school uniform, army uniform, some sort of workplace uniform or a car number plate uniform. Having said all that, I have nothing against 'personal plates' in the sense of people legally transferring historical number plates. The history of British number plates is fascinating, and I have included a link to an article which goes some way to exploring it, although sadly it doesn't touch on the Northern Ireland or Isle of Man systems. When I lived up in Buckinghamshire a chap in the next village had 'R1' on a succession of expensive cars, including (if I recall) an Aston Martin, a Jaguar and - in the days when I still liked them - a Range Rover. Chris Evans famously had CHR1S, Paul "not a lot" Daniels had MAG1C, and the Spanish Ambassador had, and may still have for all I know, SPA1N. I myself once saw DAN15H, and one day, when I'm very, very rich, I shall buy HAM15H. As an aside... possibly the cleverest number plate for the owner of a photographic mini-lab (and possibly also only comprehensible to someone in that trade)... C41NEG - another one I've seen in real life. Actually, E6POS would be a good one too. 18 days to go.

Contact lens appointment followed by trip into London to a trade exhibition. Afterwards with the unusual situation of time on my hands for the rest of the day, I took the tube to Charing Cross, and spent a couple of hours in the National Portrait Gallery, mainly looking at twentieth century stuff. Nick Danziger's black-and-white behind-the-scenes photographs of Tony Blair at Downing Street and Camp David in the build-up to the invasion of Iraq were pretty spectacular, although hard to find. I wandered from Trafalgar Square down Whitehall to Parliament Square, then into St James's Park where I sat and watched the world go past, and read a little. Then asked a policeman at the back of Horse Guards why exactly there were so many of his ilk about, putting up barriers, running around with sniffer dogs, installing CCTV and generally being A Bit Menacing (something to do with a rehearsal for some martial music event at the weekend). I then made my way under Admiralty Arch (Horse Guards was closed) back to a tourist-infested Trafalgar Square, where I found a corner to sit and read until Steve turned up. We went for a drink at a pub he knows in Leicester Square, then found an Asian restaurant nearby, and had a very pleasant meal before coming home. It's nice to spend the day in London once in a while. 24 days to go.