This morning out to the supermarket early. At the fish counter I congratulate the 'poissonnier' on his fine display. He's obviously flattered - and perhaps a little surprised that anyone would make such a comment. (Perhaps it's just my clumsy French). I buy a thick fillet of cod and a good handful of prawns. Turning to push the trolley on around the aisles the muzak track changes - a Christmas carol (O Come All Ye Faithful?) almost unrecognisable with heavily souped-up strings. And it's as though something breaks inside me - a little warmth spreads - a sense of possibility again, after all these stale and miserable weeks. Uncanny. By the time I'm in the soft drinks section there's Abba's I Have A Dream playing (original version) and I find I'm singing along under my breath. Then, at the check out some ten minutes later, I notice that the woman scanning the items through is humming the chorus over and over. She picks up the articles and passes them on in time with the song.

It's something I remember reading in a Jack Trevor Storey article: that it's not the masterpieces that move us most or get under our skin. More often than not it's the cheesy tune, the sentimental, the banal. As, indeed, it seems to be today.

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This afternoon I resume Hampton Armpit after a three month lay off. Chapter Two by Christmas? Watch this space!