"We are having a sale in the shop downstairs, just by the entrance," he replied. A normal reply in rather un-normal circumstances.

For on this day, this chilly Wednesday, the British Library was humming. Not audibly, but because it had suddenly filled up with young people. Instead of the ageing population I was used to, it seemed to have been invaded by people of roughly twenty years of age, sitting in all the seats I usually liked. The queue to collect pre-ordered books was longer than I had ever seen it.

I cursed myself for my needless levity, and double cursed the way I had so artfully hidden it. I suppose I was a bit surprised and a bit annoyed, in roughly equal measures.

"It's the students," he continued. "They allowed them in a couple of years ago. It'll be like this till the end of May now." Not good news for me, I thought, not getting desk no. 2332 (easy to remember) and having to wait twenty precious minutes to pick up the obscure stuff I needed to read. I had even had to queue to get in to the front entrance that morning. I considered asking him if he wouldn't mind magicking a few of the intruders away with his hidden ring of power, but I reckoned I was in enough trouble already. My only comfort was that none of these students, surely, would be able to afford Leith's prices in the canteen and I wouldn't be queueing there.

Right, in that I didn't have to queue. Wrong, in hoping that I would get a seat, because the academic youth of today were draped all over every chair, table, window sill and horizontal surface, giving the whole place the look of an airport in a snowstorm.

I'm obviously in the grip of middle-aged crabbiness, as I have never resented students before. I was used to people in the BL looking like hippies, and the whole thing was a bit of a shock. Perhaps it was just an aversion to crowds, brought on by far too long sitting at a computer keyboard. What is to become of me?

We are about to go and look at the London Marathon, to have a laugh at the expense of a slow lane's worth of eccentric people.

I hope there aren't any crowds.

I am deeply bogged down in some stuff at the moment and can't really write the sort of thing I would like any new visitor to read. It is 3 p.m. and I am still in my dressing gown, flicking through books and dodging all over the on-line Dictionary of National Biography. What larks!

My daughter is in Italy on a classics trip. My son has gone out to play with a friend, my wife has gone to buy something. I am on-line. Lizzie the cat is staring at the step into the bathroom, or as Jake prefers, she is on her Mice Space site.

Tales to tell? Well, yes, in a moment. For now, just hello.

It's nothing to do with this blog. It won't be published in the UK. (At first.) There will be no jokes.

Paperback and hardback. (Yay!) About history. (Boo.)

Less than a year after getting my British Library reader's ticket I shall be in print.

Phew.

Spending hours a day typing but suffering from a puritanical aversion to the pleasures of blogging. You see, in the minutes it takes to scrawl a blog entry I might instead be sorting out some idea about something else. The tyranny of Opportunity Costs is inescapable. Warning: never ever be a freelance, not if you want to be able to switch off your obsessions at will.

So what have we been up to? Plenty. Highlights include attending the Chinese New Year parade last Sunday. We stood outside the National Portrait Gallery in - yes - burning sunshine to watch a panoply of silk clad people, some possibly Chinese, walk past banging drums and waving brightly coloured swatches of diaphanous material. Bish bash, drummity drum. All very jolly, and we even managed to find a table for SIX in a restaurant afterwards. In the interests of further cultural education we checked out the fireworks in Leicester Square. I was unsure what to expect, having never seem a firework display in bright sunshine before. Possible damp squib? Nope. Simply the loudest thing I have heard in many a long year. Louder even, I think, than The Who at Charlton in '76. Glad my stomach was full of absorbent Chinese Ho Fun or I might have shaken myself to pieces with a large resonant space inside me.

I also attended a jolly football match between Chelsea and Reading. So, so different from my formative years standing on banked cinders watching Carlisle United. Previous visits to Premiership clubs had demonstrated that the stink of urine has been banished. Now also the whiff of cigarettes. Funny, I can't stand the things but when I smell them in the open air it makes me feel nostalgic for those former sepia Brunton Park days. But one last bastion remains - the scent of meat pies. Glad the Abramovitches of this world have yet to crush all the old ways out of existence.

Meanwhile the waste paper recycling is getting out of hand again. I turn my back for five minutes and somebody sends me a pile of mail about three feet high. I had to spend a recent Saturday afternoon opening all the stupid letters I have been ignoring, tearing out the little windows from the empty envelopes and then... Well we have been shredding our waste for the last year or so, especially all the stuff with our financial details written all over it, but guess what - the shredder is knackered, recently deceased. It is now more of a toothless paper sucker, returning any inputs at original size with polite lines pressed into them. It has had to be replaced. Question, what do you do with a de-fanged shredder? How do you put it back into the Peckham ecosystem? The Salvation Army won't want it, even though it is a working model of Christian forgiveness and an uplifting mechanical sermon on the possibilities of resurrection. Is there such a thing as a shredder shredder?

The music computer has lain dormant since Xmas. I am mute. Perhaps one last beautiful song will emerge.

Two separate people have rung me in the last ten days to ask me why I haven't advertised my website on Google. The hundreds of good reasons that immediately sprang to mind seemed an embarrassment of riches, a windfall, an accidental delivery of eels in my swimming pool. I pursed my lips and decided to keep it short the first time. I kept it even shorter the next. I expect a third call within a week as they clearly aren't listening and my business is so obviously worth having. Perhaps then I will unburden myself. I hope my reply will be being recorded for training purposes.

A man came to the door and made me change our energy supplier. Cheaper, apparently, and not a moment too soon. For we are pioneering a non-destructive cat-flap. I shall explain. (If you've got this far - well done!) One of the previous occupants of this house was either a military engineer or a registered paranoid. Example: the back door has a piece of old dreadnought drilled onto it with burglar proof screws. Now, we need a cat-flap these days because of our ownership of a cat, and the fact that the door stands between the cat and her preferred toilet. But - installation of any kind of cat-flap would be a job for a skilled diver with limpet mine. Or possibly Stingray. Neither in Yellow Pages. Ad hoc solution has been to leave the door open a little with the curtain drawn across. Sort of works, from cat point of view. Sort of doesn't from a heating point of view. Roll on summer.

Been here. And there a bit. And ill. And also cut off from the internet. That was what banjaxed my Happy Xmas message. Free gift from Pipex. So after all the dust has settled I have decided to recognise Twelfth Night this year.

I got lovely presents, including pyjama trousers that have saved my life. Well, they mean I can walk around downstairs without freezing to death. Why? Because we have to leave the back door open so that the cat can go in and out because someone (a previous owner here) put neutron bomb shielding on the outside of the garden door, to stop burglars kicking in the wooden patch covering an older cat flap. So we inherited a door designed to repel alien invasion, and one that would be comfortable seeing off any power tools Peckham could muster. So it was a toss up for my present really - soopah doopah drill - or pyjama trousers. I'm sure you can follow the reasoning.

We were also given some special 'Christmas' coffee, which sat in the cupboard till yesterday. Now it is no longer in the cupboard but is in the garden with a stake through its heart.

I caught some sort of cold on the way back from seeing The Golden Compass on the Sunday before Christmas. Could have been someone on the bus, or it could have been the result of assault by a cast of wacky characters for more than two hours. One new one every twenty seconds, roughly. That sort of thing can lower even the strongest man's immunity, you know.

Tried to see the Terra Cotta Warriors at the British Museum but they wouldn't let us in. Guess it'll have to be the Chelmsford Warriors then. I'm sure they would be glad of our attentions.

So, it's a long cold January ahead, with only the remnants of a shop bought Xmas pud to cheer us up.

Happy New Years to all.

First up, I had to wrestle with an ink cartridge that said it was compatible with our printer. Well, when I say it said it was compatible, it was actually the box it came in that said it. And what a lying little box it was. For the Ryman 3039 is not actually compatible with a HP 2575 Photosmart. Take it from me. Next time anyone asks, tell them to steer clear.

So, off to WH Smiths for supplies. Huge displays behind the counter saying 'Ink-jet Cartridges' all over them. Five minute wait while the assistant goes to get a bigger bag for the lady in front of me, buying loads of Xmas themed 'necessities'. My turn at last, after elaborate sighing routine appears eventually to have worked. "I would like to buy an ink-jet cartridge". Nope. Can't. They don't sell Hewlett Packard. Nor, it seems, after a long puzzled wander round dodging the shoplifters, does the crappy Curry's a few doors along. So, it had to be the ultimate horror, the worst way to pass a long hour spending £13. Yes, that's right, Argos.

Moses in the wilderness could not have been more patient, and he at least had manna from heaven to pass the time. I, unluckily, only had tinny 80s soul funk hits to sustain me. With heavy heart I embarked on the long routine to buy one low value item. Located code for intended purchase after ten minute search in enormous catalogue with teeeeeeeny writing and pages missing. Then 2 mins to find little blue biro - that worked. Placed order after 25 minutes of queuing. And sighing. Got ticket. Joy in 5 mins, I was assured. Joined jostling crowd of pram-waving, expectant consumers to wait for appearance. Er, actually it was twenty plus. An irate man next to me was shouting "How long does it take you to find a [-edit-] Christmas tree?"

I am clearly not cut out for this kind of urban living. I have banned everyone from using the printer. Or only if they promise to get the [-edit-] cartridges themselves next time.

Scene 2: Evening. Interior. Exasperated member of consuming public is sitting by a dinner table. Table is empty. Consumer is I, and is now consuming wine, exhibiting versatility unsuspected by Argos, by talking. And pointing. At lots of things which are probably moving. But invisible. Dish approaches table. It is carried by wife. It contains lentils and is an improvised, Indian-style daal.

Wife: "The hard lumpy bits are coriander seeds. I thought they might take away the taste of the lentils."

Husband (pointing): "Aagh."

Cut.

All this on top of Jake's first attempt to play the cornet in months. He doesn't like his new teacher. Pa-a-r-p went the cornet. Br-r-r-r went my spine, too saddened to shiver. I stayed in my office, sheltering from the assault. My daughter was sent in by her mother. "Mummy says: can you hear Jake practice?" "Yes," I replied. "I can. That is why I am in here."

So you see the supper was the last straw. Perhaps I can file for divorce on grounds of lentil cruelty.

Just run off my little paws, writing and writing like there was no tomorrow. And yet I know that there is. No rest while there are poisonous narcissists still to be fought.

Will find time over this weekend to tell tales of south east London. There is a small gap in my schedule before I launch off on Indian railways, Buddhism, Mughal land policy and the Partition of 1947. What an exciting life.

Lots of events round here, several incidents and interactions every day. But not much to report of blogworthy significance. I have been writing a lot but not here.

It is now autumn and the lawn has died so there is no further need to mow it. (Muffled, decorous delight - I don't like to gloat but I WIN.) Less good news is that the large tree in our garden seems to be dying. We noticed an outpouring of something like sap from one of the branch stubs earlier this summer. It looked as if the tree had been out for a beery evening and then had been sick down its front. Apparently not. Elms don't do that, said the tree surgeon man. In fact it's worse than that, it's probably about to be dead, with heartwood rot. That would be a shame. We have to scrape up the sick and send it off to a tree vomit specialist. Thirty quid then several hundred to chop it down before it becomes a spiky, Gormenghast ent. Sadness approaches.

Meanwhile on the streetward side of the house the painters have just finished. Our lower two storeys are now a dazzling white. Indeed, a whiteness we never dreamed possible. It looks like we are the first in the street to wash our house in Daz. Slight snag is the fine white dust all over the path, which makes it look like we are trying to get to Christmas first and are about to put up two tons of coloured lights and electric Santas. Second snag is the blokes that did it wouldn't accept payment in cups of tea. They wanted money, so I had to walk back from the bank through Peckham with a pocket full of cash, scowling at innocent passers by as if to say "Hands off - don't even think about it - my best friend is a drunken tree". Got home safely, and after trying for one last tea-based discount I coughed up the lot. Sadness two.

Zoe-daughter has covered up one side of her bedroom with pictures of angsty-looking boys wearing eyeliner. This she calls her "wall of darkness" and it has now spread to the outside of her bedroom door. Perhaps it is our own cultural heartwood rot, spreading, spreading... I have considered pointing out to her that the Darkness (remember them, squeaks, satins and sequins?) are not actually included but I have refrained, being aware that in heavy metal terms discretion is the better part of velour.

Heard Jools Holland reading his auto-namechuck-ography on Radio 4. I think everybody should get their money back, in advance, on that one. He didn't even mention the incident when he got banned from broadcasting for two months for swearing live on national telly. Perhaps it's in the book and was deemed unsuitable for radio. Yeah, right. If he'd been swearing at Stevie Wonder or Bob Dylan it would have been in.

This week I wondered whether 'Sell Fridges' wouldn't have been a better name for Comet.

I am off to a lunchtime jazz experience. The rest of the family are going to the Dulwich Picture Gallery for a last chance to see "The Changing Face of Childhood". I've already seen enough of those for one day because Jake treated us to a pretty good selection of faces when he realised he had to go too.

Best of all - I mean really best - is that I received a royalty cheque this morning for stuff I did ages ago. Woo hoo! We shall, in proper Railway Children fashion, be having buns for tea! Except it won't be for tea it will be for supper, and it will be a bottle of burgundy.

The long holidays are over and the summer, as the Incredible String Band once put it, has spent its fortune. Normal life seems to be reconstituting itself after the desiccated months and that seems to include blogging. So over the next week or so I intend to record my impressions of our summer wanderings.

Cultural update. I seem to have read a fantastic amount of books recently and I could review them but they are all about history and probably don't deserve it, having rubbish predictable plots and a lot of characters who seem to have appeared in other books.

I liked the Simpsons Movie.

I no longer recognise anyone in the posters on my daughter's bedroom wall.

Health Update. I have had mild heartburn since we came back from our holiday in Cyprus. I put it down either to a week's worth of eating meat, or airline meals. I wrenched my shoulder in a water park. The morning before we went I was viciously tackled, while bare legged, by an IKEA mini step-ladder and I still bear the scars. It was lucky to stay on the pitch after that. All I am asking for is some consistency. In fact it was lucky we don't have bonfires and only a small fake coal effect gas fire because I was in sufficient pain afterwards to have had a full-on proper Mary Tudor moment and little Steppy could have been the first of the IKEA martyrs. Must find a catalogue and find out a) its religion and b) whether it's called Haak or Trypp or Chøppå or something, something that might have warned me.

Hmm. Perhaps supper is a liiiitle too long to wait for my 'buns'. Will end here.

The post below has received about 150 spam comments. So. The rest of the blog world may continue to feel complete without me, but for purveyors of spam I am unmissable, a veritable A-lister.

No news about anything much. Summer is y-cummin in and I am y-stayin in reading about Indian history. Four more pieces to write. And then we shall have sugar buns like in The Railway Children.

The last holiday/break was very nice except that it rained all the time. Jake got good at fishing and caught us a couple of suppers. He even gutted one fish himself. Handy with a knife, that boy. Perhaps I will stop winding him up. We attended our annual football match while up there and watched the mighty Carlisle United thrash Newcastle 1-1.

Our next entertainment is a week in Cyprus starting in about ten minutes. We have equipped ourselves with exotic new sun defences including UV resistant shirts. Whatever next? T-shirts in a tube? Zoë's spectral emo style, in particular her penchant for lacy half gloves and black eyeliner, will come under harsh examination in the oven heat of the Levant.

Anyway we expect it to be sunny and so my long established pigeon chest will be on regular display, rivalled only by the jutting of my new pigeon stomach.

Highlight of the week or possibly the month was a small blogmeet last Thursday. Pints were consumed but I feel a veil should be drawn over much of the evening. It was my first trip out since they banned smoking in pubs and I have to say what a good thing I think that is. Not a smoker meself, not for twenty eight years anyway, and I rather liked not having my eyes sting after an hour and my clothes smelling like an ashtray the next morning. And as for all that twaddle about pubs smelling terrible - well they don't. They don't smell any worse than the rest of London, and maybe a good deal better. They don't smell of kebabs or diesel or McDonald's chip oil or urine. All we need now is to get rid of the bloody music.

We're away on a trip as of this morning and won't be back for a few days. Behave while I'm gone, please.

That means, in feline terms, that she is now a cat. Lizzie the cat. Who woulda thunk it? The new member of our family already an adult.

We invited her into our lives for many reasons but one of them was to fight the mice who live under our fridge, who party till late in its warm glow, defiantly ignoring the list of our children's achievements stuck on the front with magnets bought from museums. Lizzie takes no interest in mice, defiantly ignoring our hopes and dreams for her.

What she likes, what floats her little furry boat, is buzzers. She can actually catch bluebottles, playing with them, patting them, pushing them around on the carpet in front of her. We have also seen her eat them, so they aren't just dollies for her. End result - the mice run the lower ground floor, but flies round here have to look out. She's not good on her natural science though, and seems as interested in other buzzy things. Considering that wasps are a lot easier to catch than flies I think she might get a sharp lesson soon and a bit of a hurty paw into the bargain. Been a bit of a lack of wasps so far this year, which we put down to the current global cooling, but a hot snap might bring unwelcome developments.

In other news I have been writing stuff for a site which has offered to pay me. Not for this sort of nonsense but for academic style pieces about Indian history. Well, whooda thunk that either? Very time consuming, and a bit brain eating as well. Lots of hilarious stories to tell about trying to trace Indian history through Google though. Bet you can't wait.

I haven't dared post recently because I thought that if I did post then it wouldn't be worth reading.

Um.

..

Yup. Reckon I was right.

Or at least you three.

I ache. Which is not because my underused blogging muscles are cramping up but because I had a fight with the garden yesterday. I won, but only at a cost. A cost in grumbling flesh and odd back pains. But more of that later.

I have been skipping around the country - well Somerset anyway - and have much enjoyed England's green and pleasantness as it slid expensively by, accompanied by the conversations of eccentric English people and some very weak railway tea.

I was, you see, called away to do a long day's playing out of town. This involved spending a night in a quiet, timeless market town in the middle of Somerset. When I say 'quiet' I refer to the perceived lifestyle of the place, not its actual volume. And when I say timeless...

I have not worn a watch for over six months but that night I was granted the use of a large church to keep me right, and in a punctilious and generous way it kept me informed of the time throughout the dark hours. Loudly. Every fifteen minutes. Ah, the peaceful countryside. (I am not making this up.)

But that was last week. I was reunited with my family after just the one night. Good thing really, the nearest church round here is about half a mile away and only audible in a stiff breeze. A peaceful, sleep-filled week ensued of which the highlight was undoubtedly this Saturday's Doctor Who, featuring the scariest baddies I have seen in a long while, who were sufficiently evil for me to forget to take the rosé out of the freezer. Lumpy rosé is the hallmark of a proper scary baddie round here.

Privately I feel that the Who has been glitzy this series without truly rising to the heights we have been led to expect recently. Perhaps ideas are running low. In a fit of wine-driven creativity I decided that new blood/ideas could be injected into the Who franchise with the creation of a prequel series, a bit like Tom and Jerry Kids or the Muppet Babies. Suggested title "Medical Student Who", it would feature scenes from the Doctor's earlier life.

That said, this Saturday's offering was the best for ages. Enough plot holes to fill a Swiss cheese, but these only became apparent on reflection - in the 'vie en rosé' as it were - because we were swept along by the most terrifying villains for a long time, a bunch of marauding Victorian funerary monuments. (IANMTU, either.)

So scary and yet they NEVER MOVED! Brilliant. The idea that they turned to stone when anyone looked at them (quantum locked, did you say Doctor?) was a touch of genius that I'm sure less well-funded special effects departments will take full note of.

It was certainly a tip our garden had taken to heart by Sunday lunch. Every time I looked at it, while preparing to drive in an exploratory crowbar, it turned to heartless stone in pure 'Weeping Angel' stylee. The previous residents had left a pond in the garden, which we felt compelled to remove. But what had become apparent recently is that the pond we inherited was not the entirety of the pond, but only a half ration of it. The original outlines were much larger and had become visible through recent erosion. Most unsightly half way down our cricket pitch.

I thought I was up against a couple of feisty bricks, but no. Flawed intelligence. Bricks be dashed, I was up against a secret U-Boat pen. It was one of those nasty moments when one knows one has bitten off more than one can chew. A bit like other moments, remembered from one's younger days, when one found oneself inexplicably walking out of a kebab shop realising one has gone and queued up and bought more than one is prepared to chew.

About three hours later my back was in spasm and my hands were scratched and gouged by the brutal chunks of concrete I had torn from the ungreen and unpleasant earth of our garden, our other Eden, our own private Idunno.

So as we speak there is a large and unsightly hole sitting out there, awaiting some earth moving skillz.

And the back hurts and the pads of the fingers retain a mild burning sensation. Can't complain about the variety round here, though.

Went out to see Joe Jackson this week in a smallish venue in Islington. Very packed and at times the air conditioning was louder than Joe, which summed up a fairly middle aged experience all round. Lots of middle aged white couples - not yer average rock n roll night out all told. But when I say packed I mean it. There was a very large bloke standing in front of me, who would have needed planning permission if he'd been standing in front of a house.

Joe Jackson, for those who don't know, is an English musical serial eccentric who has never settled to anything much, except writing remarkable and mould-breaking songs. (Mine are more in the tradition of mould-gathering ones.) He played a lot of material I didn't know but which astonished with its rhyme schemes alone. Never a pretty man, he sings over a very wide range with a voice which cannot be described as pretty either. And like many veteran performers he could rely on his audience to sing his better known songs for him. Sweaty but mind expanding, as evenings go.

Did another song for fun. I started out wanting it to be something like the Carter Family, then decided I was heading more towards Bryan Adams. In the end I got the mixture about right and it came out something like the Addams Family.

(* For the many googlers coming here for "oh yeah, life goes on" the answer is John 'Cougar' Mellencamp, Jack and Diane - 1982, and a bit overblown. Hope that's helpful.)