Once again, I owe people shitloads of e-mails, but have had very little time to devote to them. As I've said several times before: I can only access personal e-mails four evenings a week, or else through cripplingly slow dial-up webmail at weekends.

So please don't think I'm being snooty and remote; I'm just a bit bogged down, that's all.

Your e-mail IS important to us. Please hold.

Thursday 27th.

Installed our super-duper new cordless digital phone (Panasonic, John Lewis), which we bought to replace the crap so-called "digital" phone with the constant buzzing noise and the hopeless sound quality (BT, Dixons, half an hour of wrangling to get a refund).

(Hmm, maybe we don't need to go to quite this level of detail. Otherwise we'll be here all week. They've got all my mother's stuff to wade through as well, remember?)

Met an old friend for a meal at the Kean's Head pub in the Lace Market. Catering to a polite, well-heeled older crowd (as evidenced by the music: The Stranglers' greatest hits at a discreet volume level, oh how times change), the Kean's Head was Nottingham's first ever non-smoking pub.

For the benefit of certain establishments on St James' Street who are currently making grandiose claims to the contrary (blackboards on the street, the full works), I'll repeat that: the Kean's Head was Nottingham's first ever non-smoking pub. (And just round the corner on High Pavement, the Cock & Hoop was the second.)

Until last night, we hadn't seen our old friend for nearly two years. We're seeing her again this evening (early evening pint at The Gate in Brassington), and again on Sunday (picturesque autumnal hike twixt the mellowing and ripening hues of the Peak District National Language, hem-hem descriptive language that should go down well at the la-di-da "writers' conference" next Thursday I'll have that book deal now please). With us, it's famine or feast. 'Twas ever thus.

Wednesday 26th.

Woo, political comedy! To the Nottingham Playhouse, to see Rob Newman and Mark Thomas.

Now, I'm OK with political comedy so long as a) it reflects my own particular prejudices back at me and b) it actually remembers to be, you know, funny. The first is easily achieved, as there are in fact no successful right wing (or even Blair-ite) comedians that I can think of this side of Jim Davidson (or even Ben Elton), thus PROVING that MY LOT ARE BETTER CHEERS CHEERS HOORAY THE ANGELS ARE ON OUR SIDE. The second can be more of a hurdle, as evidenced by the dreary box-ticking orthodoxy of your Mark Steels and (sorry to say this) your Jeremy Hardys.

(We saw Hardy perform a particularly hang-dog, lugubrious set last year, which mostly consisted of him moping on about how depressed he was about the war in Iraq. Fine, but YOU'RE A COMEDIAN, that's what it SAYS ON THE TIN, and we've come out to HAVE A GOOD LAUGH AND CHEER OURSELVES UP, blinkered dupes of the system that we are.)

Thomas and Newman succeeded on both scores, with Thomas (despite his best efforts) only managing to offend me twice: by making a cheap crack about the size of Charlotte Church's arse, and by DARING to slag off, for NO VALID REASON WHATSOEVER, the daytime television GODDESS that is Auntie Lorraine "Hooray for Eurovision! I love The Gays!" Kelly. Scratch his right-on surface, and you'll find that he's really quite the unreconstructed Geezah underneath.

(My much-valued readers from overseas, are you following all of this OK? I'd provide explanatory links, but time is tight.)

Newman, on the other hand, was impeccable. Having chosen a diametrically opposite career path from his erstwhile comedy partner David Baddiel, he has turned his back on stadium-filling mega-stardom, and is now to be found delivering eloquent, erudite, well researched, factually rich salvos of brain-spinning polemic, as filtered through an arch, dandified, deceptively insouciant persona which charms as it impresses as it provokes. (Precis: European foreign policy towards the Middle East has consistently been all about controlling the oil supply, ever since the start of the First World War; but when the oil runs out, we're all going to be seriously f**ked. Boom! Boom!)

Tuesday 25th.

Our fifth anniversary of moving into the cottage (and thus also of my last ever wild night down at Trade). Five years ago, I could never have predicted that what was intended merely as a weekend bolt-hole would eventually come to feel more like home than our place in central Nottingham. This is a massively welcome development, and all credit to the village itself for facilitating it; for there's no doubt that we live in a special place. If this is middle age, then God knows what I was worrying about, as I careered recklessly (and frequently shirtlessly) through the extended mid-life crisis that chewed up most of my thirties.

To the cinema, to watch Wallace & Gromit: The Curse Of The Were-Rabbit. Wholly delightful, but you don't need me to tell you that. So disarmingly charming and inventive, that not even the distinctly ragged, under-developed plot denouement could shift the big grins off our faces.

Monday 24th.

Absolutely sod all of interest happened on Monday. Work, telly, bed. Yes, let's stop there.

(Oh, but I did call up my mother, in order to read her all of your lovely kind comments, which both stunned and delighted her. So thank you for that.)

OK, full disclosure. As mentioned in a recent comments box, I am a living (still!) breathing (just!) example of that great oxymoron, the "social smoker".

On average - and obviously this varies considerably, in both directions - I get through about 20 cigarettes a week. Most days, I don't smoke at all. Roughly once a week, on a Wednesday or a Thursday evening, I'll meet up with my going-out buddies in a city centre pub. As almost all of them are smokers (funny how we all stick together), and as K almost never joins us (we've always maintained slightly separate social lives, even if there is a large overlap), I will invariably join in and light up.

During these evenings, I will generally chuff my way through about one fag every 20-25 minutes. The later I stay out, the more frequent this gets. So we're talking around 10-12 fags in a single night. I think of this as getting in touch with my inner laboratory beagle.

Other than that, I usually smoke three or four in the cottage on Friday nights: late on, after K has gone to bed, and before I've started to feel tired. It's my little weekly treat. The cottage is well ventilated, so there's virtually no residual stink on Saturday mornings.

I also smoke at gigs; we're talking maybe four or five in the course of the evening. Well, one has to maintain one's Rock and Roll credibility somehow. Goes with the territory, doesn't it?

I never smoke during the daytime, and never feel the slightest urge; the thought of having to carry the residual taste in my mouth for the rest of the day is enough to put me right off the idea.

I never smoke without alcohol in front of me, except for a single cig when I'm walking down to the pub on my own.

If the majority of people I'm with are non-smokers, then I won't smoke (unless I'm very drunk). I don't smoke inside people's houses, or in restaurants.

In summary, I bend with the wind. If the opportunity presents itself, and if there's no-one around to express disapproval, then I'll succumb to temptation. If I'm going to piss people off, then I'll refrain.

Am I addicted? The word feels too extreme.

Do I have a habit? Yes, I do.

Do I enjoy smoking? Yes and no. There are conflicting feelings.

I like reaching into the packet, putting the fag in my mouth, lighting it, and taking the first drag. That's the best bit.

I hate the effect that the first fag of the day has on my body: dizzy head, fractured brain, heartbeat up, clenched butt, sweaty feet. That's the worst bit. But it goes away if you smoke a couple more.

I enjoy the feeling of participating in a shared ritual with other happy, smiling, carefree smokers. That's when I like smoking most of all.

I also like the "private late night treat" feeling which I get on Fridays; but this is invariably accompanied by a little shudder of guilt and shame, which I can't quite shrug off.

I hate climbing into bed next to K, and knowing that I haven't got rid of the smell (even if I've just taken a shower), and having to turn away from him so as not to envelop him with my fumes. That's when I feel the most ashamed.

I hate the stink on my fingers and clothes, and the taste in my mouth the next day.

Would I like to stop? I have stopped, several times. But as I've never been a daily smoker, I've never felt a particular danger in starting again. I always like to feel that I can take them or leave them. After all, I'm not a Smoker with a Capital S. Am I?

I'm avoiding the question. Would I like to stop? Yes, eventually. But it never feels like a matter of urgency. I only started smoking ten years ago, and there have been extended periods during that time when I've smoked less, or none at all. I've certainly never smoked more. Therefore, when considering the health risks, I like to think that I'm still inside the safety zone. If there's a fixed lifetime quota for the number of fags that one can ingest without incurring any significant danger, then surely I'm well within it. Aren't I?

So, what is this mystical lifetime quota? I have no idea.

Has anyone close to me ever suffered through a smoking-related disease? Not so far as I am aware.

Besides, I'm invincible.

OK, I'd like to stop. But, you see, I was rather counting on the government to force my hand for me. By removing the opportunity, they would have removed the temptation. They've done it in Ireland. They're doing it in Scotland. I simply assumed that England and Wales wouldn't be far behind. After all, this hasn't exactly been the most liberal of governments in recent years, has it? Nanny state? Bring it on!

And so, even though I'm a "social smoker", I feel thoroughly let down and proper pissed off. My Tony, my Tony, why hast thou forsaken me?

As to the reasons for the fudge, my inner conspiracy theorist is juggling three possibilities.

1. New Labour is still in hock to the tobacco industry. Unlikely, in this day and age - Big Tobacco must surely have accepted its pariah status by now. Besides, it still has other, larger, less informed markets to conquer.

2. New Labour are scared of losing the tax revenue. Quite plausible. How else will they be able to balance the books, without the billions pouring in from the nation's chuffers? When the Naional Lottery was introduced, lofty metropolitan commentators were quick to deem it a "tax on stupidity". Wrong target, fellows.

3. New Labour are scared of alienating its lower income constituency. Christ, they've got to do something popular with the working classes, right? Plausible but silly, as the vast majority of middle class floating voters would appear to be passionately in favour of an outright ban in all enclosed public spaces.

And that's the other bit that rankles with me. Have you noticed the sheer venom with which smokers are being denounced nowadays? Sure, they (OK OK, we) don't have an even halfway plausible argument to call our own. Sure, we're selfish, and we stink, and we make your clothes smell awful in the morning. But nevertheless, there's a creeping edge to a lot of the recent debate which disturbs me. Self-righteousness is never a good look - and don't give me that "it's for your own good" claptrap, either. Society likes its easy scapegoats. Thin end of the wedge. There are worse crimes: alcohol-related violence, exhaust fumes... oh, but I'm not even going to go down that route.

Somewhere in the last decade - maybe even in the last five years - we've reached a tipping point. Thirty or forty years ago, the whole country smelt of cigarette smoke - so much so, that we barely even noticed it. (Besides, with the comparative levels of polluted air and questionable personal hygiene, perhaps the fag fug smokescreen was doing us all a favour, shielding us from even nastier smells.) Now, the air is clearing. As we lift our noses to the fresher, cleaner atmosphere, those few lingering traces of fag smoke suddenly strike us anew. What we barely used to notice, we now find intolerable.

And so, the hour has come.

But not just yet, it would seem.

Bugger. That only leaves me with will power and personal responsibility.

Basically, I'm f**ked, aren't I?

I don't think he meant it quite like this, though.

Mmm, cuddle. Doh, he's getting up. Shit, it's late. Erm, have I already brushed my teeth? Oo-er, going senile. Groan, last weekend's suitcase needs emptying before the cleaner gets here. Bah, why do we always leave this till Wednesdays? Bollocks, he's left the wet laundry to hang up. Grr, that's the next ten minutes gone. OK OK, fair division of labour. Yeah, but it still feels good to whinge. Ho hum, can't be arsed with the paper. Well, just a look at the cartoons then. Christ, I'm shallow. Eyup, cleaner's at the door. Harumph, that was a cheeky remark. What, does she think we're alcoholics? Yikes, it's late. Ugh, can't be bothered to take the stairs. Boo, lift's full. Sigh, how many more floors? Yeesh, getting on at Floor 9 to travel to Floor 10? Wow, lazy or what? Oops, there might be something wrong with his legs. Ouch, I feel a bit guilty. Now, quick surf before I log on? No, stop! Ah, go on then. Eek, someone coming. Quick, alt tab! Right, workity workity work. Woo, personal e-mail! Hooray, remembered my dental appointment. (God, remember last time? Oh, the embarrassment.) Good, there's the taxi. Poo, stinks a bit in here. Blimey, that was a quick journey. Um, should I tip? Nah, what is this, London? Hee hee, what a squeaky voice that receptionist has. Goodness, they're actually running to schedule. Hah, that must be a first. Yay, clean bill of health! Whoops, bus ahead of me. Aargh, I'd better run. Damn, he's shut the doors. Erm, if I flash him a watery smile? Yes, result! Right, better send that nagging text to K. Huh, what does he mean by that? Phew, Pret A Manger haven't run out of sushi. Hey, I was here first! Mmm, great John Peel feature in Word magazine. F**k, it's really late. Look, I always take the stairs after lunch. So, I deserve to take the lift for once. Boy, this is a tedious piece of work. Ooh, new Scott Adams blog! Ta, BW! Eureka, just thought of something to blog about. Bugger, that took longer than expected. Aaaaaand, hit Publish.

Moral: beware of assigning "automatic writing" exercises to online diarists.
What's that new buzzword? Tumblelog?

A quick bit of techy admin: if you have been trying (and failing) to subscribe to my site feed using Bloglines, then please try again, as they have finally fixed the problem that was preventing you from doing so.

(And if you're not already using Bloglines to keep up with your favourite blogs, then I can once again recommend them without reservation. You'll save, ooh, several minutes a week in fruitless speculative clicking.)

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Well, that was boring. Here, let me throw you a few compensatory links.

1. In the wake of Saturday night's 50th anniversary gala celebrations WHICH WEREN'T EVEN SHOWN ON BRITISH TELEVISION CURSES CURSES HANG YOUR HEADS IN SHAME BBC WHAT DO WE PAY OUR LICENCE FEES FOR COULDN'T YOU HAVE BUNGED IT OUT AT FOUR IN THE MORNING ON BBC THREE OR SOMETHING I MEAN WE'VE ALL GOT VIDEO RECORDERS (and exhale), The Guardian's Culture Vulture blog is asking for your top five Eurovision songs of all time. (I know, I know, impossible task.)

2. The Times reveals the contents of the late John Peel's "special" record box, containing the 142 singles which meant the most to him. This would have made a much more interesting compilation than the one which was released last Monday.

3. Nottingham City Council, first with all the latest news! (Last sentence, last paragraph.) The results were actually announced over seven months ago, but it would be churlish to quibble. Have you noticed that every time this blog gets a bit of publicity, I manage to turn it round into some sort of semi-veiled sneer? I don't deserve nice things, really I don't.