Take your partners...

At the start of another season of Strictly Come Dancing, I should mention that I am once again thankful that it's no longer scheduled against The X Factor. What a wonderful world we live in that fans of manipulative reality TV formats can enjoy a bumper Saturday night of carefully orchestrated plastic emotion with no awkward clashes. And I no longer have to feel like I'm choosing Cliff Richard over Elvis as I tell TV hipsters that I watched Strictly Come Dancing and haven't yet managed to catch up with X Factor. All this is a weight off my mind, I don't mind telling you. Now I can get on with ironing out the finer details of world peace.

So this is me reflecting on the Strictly Come Dancing pair-up show, where the celebrities discover which professional dancer's body odour will soon be as familiar to them as their favourite song. This episode is the essence of showbusiness perfectly distilled, as people mask the crushing disappointment at the identity of their new partner by showing the world the effectiveness of their teeth whitening programme; glowing through the despair, praying for the time when they can go back to their dressing room and drink fake tan and sequin glue until they lose consciousness and the pain is over.

I'm here to run down this year's contestants, but I can't really begin without saying this: Tess Daly used to be a model. She is in great shape. So why she is apparently so hard to dress? A daffodil coloured jumpsuit is a friend to no one, not even the member of Pan's People who last wore Tess's get-up in the 1970s – and whose cupsize was apparently quite different. Top marks for thrift, the Beeb.

The first contestant to meet their new partner is lion-haired Robbie Savage. He lines up opposite the seven female pros, who are all wearing variations on the same dress. It's Seven Brides For Seven Brothers in sequins. I say that. I've never seen Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. Anyway, he lucks out by getting Ola. Join me, readers, over the coming weeks as we embark on a quest for Robbie Savage's redeeming features. I'm excited.

Last series, US pro Katya was tasked with animating Gavin Henson. This year, her experiments in human galvanisation continue with a new specimen, Daybreak's Dan Lobb. Tall and Next-catalogue handsome, can she transform him from lurching, late-thirties Ken doll into rubber-hipped dancefloor dynamo? Will he be Mark Foster or will he be Gethin Jones, is what I'm saying. Judging by the first group dance, it could be Foster, but I like Dan, and he has the grace to look a little sheepish about this whole matchmaking hoopla. I suspect Katya will have called in the acting coach by week 6, if they get that far.

Harry from McFly gets flame-haired choreographic delusionist Aliona. I'm not saying she lost the title for Matt Baker last year but I've heard that Kara Tointon still sends her flowers once a week. Harry won a one-dance Strictly special for Children In Need last year with Ola, and I must assume the BBC have paired him with Aliona to avoid accusations that he has an unfair advantage. Harry seems lukewarm. 'She's such a great dancer,' Bruce says to Harry encouragingly. 'Sure,' says Harry. 'They're all amazing. ESPECIALLY OLA. WHY AREN'T I WITH OLA? SHOW ME MY CONTRACT. I WANT OLA.' He communicates the last bit by telepathy. I am psychically very gifted.

Anita Dobson is possibly the most excited celebrity on the show. She and new partner Robin look so pleased to see each other, for a moment I feel like I'm watching Surprise Surprise. Robin was ever so nice to Patsy Kensit last year, so I'm pleased for Anita. An anxious-looking Brian May is in the audience, one seat for him, one either side for his hair. I hope that Brian is now taking this extremely seriously, and wiping over videos of Queen on Live Aid with tonight's first celebrity group dance, in order to pick apart Anita's competition. Anita is the kind of older lady I can imagine being friends with. Maybe we'd meet at work or at a book group, and then I'd end up going round to the Dobson-Mays' house for home-cooked lasagne and a lengthy explanation of Brian's guitar collection.

Chelsee Healey, from Waterloo Road, is single, although you'd never know as she hardly mentions it at all. From her VT we can surmise that she is A RIGHT LAUGH and A BIT MAD. Also, BUBBLY. She gets new dancer Pasha, who I believe we are meant to get all kinds of excited about, but for me, so far, he is two parts Jeremy Edwards and three parts Chico from The X Factor. At this stage, we applaud the BBC's policy of investing young trainees with genuine responsibility on high-profile shows. The director of photography is clearly a 14-year-old boy who's positioned a camera at precisely the right point on the stairs to capture maximum chest jigglage from the female contestants.

Lulu looks terrified to be paired with Brendan. Well, I think that's what her face is saying. He reacts to this by putting her over his shoulder and carrying her up the stairs. That's the way to win her over, Brendan. Women of a certain age love to be held upside down on television with their underwear exposed to the nation. Luckily, Lulu has the presence of mind to yank her skirt down to cover her modesty. These are the kind of smarts you learn during 40 years in showbiz.

I'm concerned about Jason Donovan. I want him to do well, but when he earnestly reveals one of his mantras - 'Fail to prepare, prepare to fail' - my heart sinks. Please don't let him be 2011's Craig Kelly - which is to say, 'I'm trying so hard to be awesome. Why aren't I awesome?' He's paired with Kristina, who looks ecstatic at drawing someone who a) can move at a greater speed than 'gentle amble' and b) is genuinely held in affection by the GBP. Although, saying that, I tried to persuade some of my oldest friends to join me in a karaoke take on Especially For You recently, and the response was not purely enthusiastic.

Rory Bremner gets Erin Boag – no surprise there. You would reasonably expect Rory to be pulling out impressions of the judges at every opportunity, but when it comes to ludicrous caricatured versions of Len and Bruno, it would be hard to beat their own performance in the last series. Ooh! A little bit of Strictly politics! At this point, I think I would like Rory to do well, but I am fickle.

Having won an Olympic gold medal, Audley Harrison probably thought he knew quite a lot about the will to win – until he met his professional partner Natalie Lowe, who makes Sally Pearson looks like she lacks a little focus. They are paired together on account of their enormo height, so if 6ft 6in Audley fails to find his inner Fred Astaire and is ejected early, perhaps they could fill their days playing basketball together, provided, of course, that Audley lets Natalie win.

Flavia is paired with Russell Grant. If she ends up dating this partner too, I think we can say that her feminine wiles are so phenomenally powerful we should be harnessing them as a natural energy source. Russell is being painted as the loser of the bunch, and also being made to wear a lot of velvet. Inhumanity upon inhumanity. I hope he turns out to be amazing. Come on, Russell!

Alex Jones gets James Jordan. I think I like Alex. She seems like a laugh. Also, she is a Jones, which is awesome, whichever way you slice it.

In a baffling tease that achieves nothing other than to make everyone feel massively uncomfortable, we are led to believe that Edwina Currie might be paired with Artem. Edwina is practically drooling. I'm not sure it's right that Strictly is scheduled before Doctor Who, because some children could be watching this and it's pretty icky.

He actually ends up with Holly Valance, which is all about their physical compatibility for dancing, of course, and not at all some clumsy attempt to create a love triangle between Holly, Artem and Kara Tointon. For Holly, a lot is at stake in this series. By Christmas, if she plays her cards right (ha!), she could be playing a sexy Australian doctor who arrives to shake up the staff of Holby City. Or even Casualty! In the meantime, she should watch out for Edwina haunting the corridors and dressing rooms like Sylvester Sneekley. 'Remember, Valance, Artem was my partner first. I TOUCHED HIM FIRST.'

Nancy Dell'Olio, meanwhile, thinks she's the most famous Italian in the UK, apart from Sophia Loren. Somewhere, over a large plate of pasta, Pavarotti is having a right laugh about that. She gets Anton, but clearly would much prefer Vincent. It's business as usual for Strictly warhorse Anton. New haircut, same old jokes and, I suspect, another early exit.

That leaves my beloved Vincent to dance with Edwina. There are no words. Apart from it looks like he and Flavia may have a tour booked in for November and December.

Strictly returns! Exciting reader interaction returns! Majority of regular readers experience profound sense of dread!

Hello September

How have you been? You bring me some miserable memories these days, but you also bring Strictly Come Dancing and legitimise the wearing of tights, so I suppose I'll let you stick around. It's a little known fact that I have full control of the months of the year. Depending on how I do with those, They're going to try me out on the seasons next.

I know what you're thinking as we contemplate the passage of the year. Some of you will be brooding on what has become of your life and all the wide-eyed, wonder-struck dreams of your youth. But realistically most of you are thinking, 'There hasn't been a lame reader-interactive Why Miss Jones competition for a while. When, oh when, will I get the chance to compete for some cack-handed homemade prizes?'

Well, my friends, that particular boat has well and truly come in. RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.

The all-new WMJ competition relates to Strictly Come Dancing, which I know is of little interest to a significant proportion of the hardcore WMJ readership, but is of MASSIVE OBSESSIVE interest to a large amount of seasonal WMJ traffic.

The contest is a skilfull deconstruct of Strictly host Sir Bruce Forsyth's Play Your Cards Right, in that you most definitely do get something for a pair in this game. You must predict which recently announced celebrity contestant will be paired with which pro dancer before the 'big reveal' show on Saturday evening. You may want to consider things like compatibility of height, build, whether the pro deserves a better/worse partner than the donkey/super-dancer they had last year and the pair's showmance potential. Or you may just want to guess.

Using the 'Contact me' link on the left, you need to email me your 14 predicted partnerships. The winner will be the person who correctly guesses the most pairs – I'm essentially a traditionalist, so it's a pretty classic contest in that respect. But that's not all. As a bonus question, and possible tie-breaker (and here I'm making a colossal assumption that more than one person will enter), you must predict which celebrity will be the first to say they are going to give it 'x' per cent, where 'x' is a figure in excess of 100, during Saturday's launch show. You must also guess the value of 'x'.

Now don't bore us, get to the chorus. And by 'chorus', I mean 'prizes'. It/they is/are [a] unique, bespoke, highly collectable piece[s] of Strictly merchandise, lovingly crafted by me. Money literally can't buy these prizes, not least because they don't exist yet. I might get my friend Miss L to help me. She doesn't know this yet. But we'd all be in safer hands that way because she made this.

Let's recap. Send me:
*14 pairs.
*The name of the first percentage overstater, and the percentage.
*Your favourite Strictly professional dancer (this information will relate to your bespoke prize, should you win).

Your entry must reach my inbox by 5pm on Saturday 10 September. You can find a useful list of all the pros and celebs at the bottom of this post.

You may suggest that BBC employees have an unfair advantage. They probably do. But a) I think it's unlikely that any of them are reading this, and b) I know what the prizes are and, with that in mind, I'm not sure an advantage is actually, like, an advantage in this case.

Following the launch show on Saturday, I will post some ill-formed and prematurely judgmental thoughts on the contestants. The hardcore WMJ Strictly non-tolerators will particularly look forward to this, I know. One of my initial impressions is that there are no EastEnders involved. Probably because last year they witnessed Scott Maslen reduced to a walking cadaver by the demands of the show – or the demands of Natalie – and vowed never to be that hollow-eyed bag of bones. Some people have no sense of adventure.

Helpful list:
CELEBRITIES Men: Harry Judd, Russell Grant, Robbie Savage, Audley Harrison, Rory Bremner, Dan Lobb, Jason Donovan
Women: Lulu, Holly Valance, Nancy Dell'Olio, Edwina Currie, Chelsee Healey, Alex Jones,
Anita Dobson

PROFESSIONALS Men: Brendan Cole, Anton du Beke, James Jordan, Vincent Simone, Robin Windsor, Artem Chigvintsev, Pasha Kovalev (new dancer referred to by Len Goodman on The One Show as 'Pasha the Siberian tiger')
Women: Katya Virshilas, Flavia Cacace, Ola Jordan, Erin Boag, Aliona Vilani, Kristina Rihanoff, Natalie Lowe

Inanimate-objects-with-faces news (also contains flags)

If this post by Mr John Finnemore doesn't make you smile, you are presumably a robot. A robot whose damaged creator has quite deliberately denied it any capacity to express happiness, a fate his own father had wrought upon him by beating him repeatedly and locking him in a tiny cellar, where he was forced to eat dust and sing nursery rhymes to an audience of earwigs in a bid to remind himself what it is to be alive.

I am basically stealing paying homage to John's post by drawing attention to something that's caught my eye during the TV coverage of the World Athletics Championships. This little fella, right by the finish line (or the start line, depending on where you're starting):


I think he's a speaker of some kind, enabling the athletes to hear both starter and pistol clearly, ensuring a clean, resolutely non-controversial start to each race.

How's that working out for you, Daegu?

I also think that, in this case, the face is there quite deliberately, although I don't know if the Koreans really go in for kawaii. It does have quite the perfect expression of OMG, and in these championships, there has been a lot to OMG about.

The first attempt to take a picture of it on my telly resulted in this:


You may think it doesn't show Dai Greene in a particularly flattering pose. To that I say suck it up, Greene. You're world champion now, you need to keep your feet on the ground. Contrary to how it may appear, he was actually scratching his nose – of course he was, that's what they all say. It was done in such an apparently nonchalant fashion, totally at odds with the tension of the moment (I can quite truthfully say I felt sick with nerves all morning) that I think it was entirely put on as part of his psych-out strategy. 'Yeah, I'm just hanging out, scratching my nose a bit. What, me? Nervous? Pfffft. NO.' That is the mark of a champion. He wasn't even itchy!

If you are a Why Miss Jones early adopter, you may remember the short-lived 'Jones Of The Week' award I once bestowed on Ryan Jones, the Welsh rugby player. I almost feel moved to confer the second only JOTW title upon Greene, in an honorary capacity. This would, however, involve some kind of gross Welsh-based generalisation, so it's probably best that I'm feeling too lazy to fire up the Photoshop and draw one of history's all-time great crowns upon his head with a shaky brush tool.

Both Greene and sweet, sunshiny Hannah England (OK, Iwan Thomas, you've called her 'a lovely girl'enough now, it's getting creepy) found a British flag from the crowd and did the appropriate champion-like things with it. Do you automatically understand what to do in that respect the moment you achieve the status of medallist?

I wondered today if it ever feels a bit weird. Like, 'OK, I've got the flag. Now what? I feel a bit embarrassed. I know, I'll hold it up in the air. Oh no, it's blowing in my face. Eurgh, it tastes funny. Actually, that guy that threw it to me looked weird. Maybe he infused it with steroids so I'll fail my drug test. Maybe I'll just hold it in front of me, but not in my face. Right, I've done that. Now what? Shall I go over there and hold it a bit more? Yes. I'll do that. I'm totally doing that. OK, now I'll run over to this bit. Run over to that other bit. Oh. Actually, no one seems that interested any more. They're all watching the big screen, which is showing two pigeons fighting in the water jump. Should I ditch the flag? I'm a bit bored of holding it now. Seems rude though. Can't just toss it back into the crowd, the Daily Mail will go mental. I'll wrap it around myself like a towel. I've definitely seen people do that. Except... oh, my shoulders are all sweaty and it's sticking to them and making me feel ick.'

I've thought about this quite a lot.

I guess when you're on the kind of high that comes with achieving one of your major life ambitions – I WOULDN'T KNOW – you assume a higher state of consciousness. You've beaten the world's best. What are flags? Nothing.

Somebody loves me… I wonder who

Good news, everyone. Particularly for those of you who worry that I will be spending my old age all alone, trapped in spinsterhood and/or a first-floor terraced flat in south-east London, talking to jigsaws in various stages of completion as though they were real, living children. 'Oh, haven't you grown!?' 'Come on, I've baked you this cake, you may as well eat it.'

Because now I know for sure: He is out there. He. The One. Mr Right. Jeff. Whatever you want to call him.

How do I know? Because of this:


I noticed this sticker on a piece of plastic next to my seat during a recent bus journey to Forest Hill. As great bus journeys of the world go, it's not exactly Route 66 by Greyhound, iconically speaking, but you do get to go past the Horniman Museum, and that's not nothing.

I'm particularly alive to the possibility of random bus communications. Once, several years ago, I found the entire lyrics to Bob Dylan's You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go written out on a sheet of paper that was folded up and wedged down the side of my seat. By the time I got off the bus, I was convinced that this was a message meant only for me that had been planted there by a fellow passenger. The copper-bottomed clincher was the line 'Purple heather, Queen Anne lace', which was QUITE CLEARLY a reference to the fact I was wearing a purple cardigan. It remains a mystery to me that I got home that day unkissed.

Anyway. Back to the sticker on the bus, which I think we can all agree was a similar act of direct communication. The literate among you will notice that, tantalisingly, the name of my intended has been partially obscured. I guess you have to work for these things. Anything that's worth having, as Cheryl Cole once declared, is sure enough worth fighting for. Obviously, it didn't work out massively well for Cheryl on that occasion, but you've got to be in it to win it, as someone else more or less definitely must have said at one time or another.

As you might imagine, I have given an awful lot of thought as to the identity of this mystery man (allow me to make this assumption) whose name ends with a penultimate letter of a particular shape, followed by an 's'. Who could it be?

Here is my shortlist:

Oscar Pistorius
Pros: has magic legs; will almost certainly be able to get me tickets for the Olympics and the Paralympics.
Cons: really, really loves exercise – this suggests an issue of quite fundamental incompatibility.

Norman Reedus
Pros: Was in The Walking Dead, so may be able to introduce me to Andrew Lincoln.
Cons: My clear preference for his colleague Andrew Lincoln may prove problematic; has previously had to resort to dating the likes of Helena Christensen, so may understandably feel I am somewhat out of his league, looks-wise.

Andrew Sachs
Pros: Struggling here. Mild-mannered? Can perform amusing if politically fraught foreign accents?
Cons: Considerable age gap; feel that I would have little to say to his daughter.

Inspector Rebus
Pros: I love a Scottish man.
Cons: Feel very strongly that I already have far too many intimate relationships with fictional characters. These include, but are not limited to, Josh Lyman from The West Wing; 'Beast' from the Disney film Beauty & The Beast; Will Ladislaw; Kenny from Press Gang; Carver from The Wire (later series only); Kermit.

Bruce Willis
Pros: Fictionally brave.
Cons: Strongly dislike men in vests.

Mumford & Sons
Pros: You wait years for a man to come along, then four appear at once, playing folk-lite festival anthems. Not entirely convinced this constitutes a 'pro'.
Cons: Think I would feel more comfortable in a conventional one-on-one relationship; strongly dislike men in waistcoats.

Keith Harris
Pros: Seems sensitive.
Cons: Feel I'm not ready to be a stepmother to a child, let alone a family of manually animated puppets. Suspect their presence in the relationship would be unhealthy, especially in the bedroom. I am old-fashioned that way.

I am hoping very much that this is not a definitive list.

Page 1, Step 1

At some point, in a future that may be closer than we think, a popular high-street sandwich chain will write their secret manifesto on mass mind control.

They will reflect on a gradual but concerted process of manipulation and suggestion, which in its earlier days saw them handing out napkins so conscientiously that all citizens became convinced it was essential to carry 20 of them around at any time. Later chapters celebrate their rise to become the UK's only legal lunch provider and eventually the country's ruling political party, with a radical array of new laws, including a ban on conventional medicine, instead asserting that all illnesses could be cured by consuming substantial quantities of their Vitamin Volcano berry smoothie [I already believe this].

Every journey begins with a small step, naturellement, and the manifesto reveals the very first stage in the process of making Anyone think Anything – a tiny germ of confusion, planted deep inside the brain, almost too subtle to notice, and affectionately referred to by the nostalgic writers as the Red Fruit Switcheroo.

In Which I Initially Think I Am A Great Creator Of Comics, But Subsequently Realise I Am Missing The Requisite Skills In At Least One Key Area

It's only taken me about five years, but I've finally got round to playing with the make-a-comic-strip application on my computer. Life may never be the same again. I can describe the moment I realised its capabilities thus:


It brings an extra frisson to a lame-ass Friday-night post about coming out of London Bridge station one morning and realising I am walking behind a woman with hypnotic eye tattoos on her back.

(Click to enlarge, people. Click to enlarge.)

Unfortunately I only took one photo, and seeing as I have no illustration skills whatsoever – THANKS, GOD – I can take the adventure no further. However, I like the idea that the woman – let's call her Maureen – has absolutely no clue that the Mad Controlling Eyes Of Power have been tattooed on her back. She only went in for the word 'Barry' in Chinese symbols. Yet suddenly Maureen is controlling a city of innocent humans, literally with her back turned, her Mad Eyes propelling the masses towards acts of extraordinary evil. The question is, who is controlling her?

And how will she react when she opens her front door one day to put the recycling out and finds a large armed response team waiting for her in the front garden, size-12 boots playing havoc with the rockery?

Can Maureen help them to save the world she has almost destroyed?

In Which I Am A Bitch, or The Luxury Chocolate Payback

You know who makes me sick?

Me.

I'm all, like, 'Say thank you to bus drivers!' and 'Let's all just get temporary jobs and watch the world as it goes past and take photos of lost mittens on the pavement!'

But as it turns out, I'm actually an angry, unreasonable commuter bitch, just like everyone else.

Still, I've been punished for it and I've been reading lots of improving articles in women's magazines in an attempt to move forward, spiritually speaking. As an unexpected bonus, I've also found a recipe for a surpringly versatile savoury tart, which is brilliant for picnics and lunchboxes.

But I'm starting at the end, and if you ask me, that's no way to begin a story, even if you're at the chapter in your creative writing course entitled 'Breaking the rules'.

It's 6.30pm. I'm emerging from the hot squeeze of the tube, subconsciously racing my fellow commuters to get as far away from the tunnels as possible. It's a Monday. The most psychologically gruelling of all the days, apart from Tuesday and most of the other ones. It had been a tough day at the fashion magazine sub-editing coalface. Maybe you don't believe that such days exist, but let me tell you, names like Ermanno Scervino don't spell themselves.

I'm hot. I'm tired. I've spent the last 20 minutes in a kind of battery farm of germs, sweat and freaky breath smells. At this point, Jesus does not want me, or anyone using the underground network, as a sunbeam. Among the extremely important and difficult things on my mind are: I must buy a birthday gift for a friend. I'm a gift-giving kind of a girl. But in this instance, I'm an embarrassingly late kind of gift-giving girl. On my way to the mainline, overland station, the portal to the suburbs and their purer strains of air, I walk past an upmarket chocolate concession. OK, I think. I will stop here. I will decompress by browsing their upmarket delicacies, I will buy the present and maybe they will have some samples for me to eat. The proximity of praline and caramel will soothe me and then, who knows, maybe even feed me on the journey home. (Buy a present for someone, buy one for yourself – everyone knows that's how it works.)

(Incidentally, in train-food news: this evening, the woman next to me on the train ate a Marks & Spencer prawn salad, four mallow/chocolate 'teacakes', two foil-wrapped all-over-chocolate digestives and two chocolate/caramel wafer bars between London Bridge and Forest Hill, which is the point at which I got off the train. What is the largest amount of food you have seen anyone eat on a 13-minute train journey, readers?)

I turn into the concession. Peace. Let the chocolate meditation begin. But before I have so much as a single sandal over the threshold (it's an open-wall kind of an establishment, so the notion of threshold is purely a theoretical one but it is the PRINCIPLE OF THE THING), an over-officious assistant bellows in my ear, 'CAN I HELP YOU?', a terrifying mask of make-up looming towards me like a clown who has been crying over the demise of the circus arts on a really hot day.

'No, thank you. I'm just looking.' And also, BACK OFF. I'VE HARDLY WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR (again, 'door' purely a linguistic construct in this instance). Don't you know I want to be furtive and sullen and isolated until the point when I actually need some help, and then I want to be righteously incensed at the lack of customer service available? Where do you think this is, America?

I walk to a different part of the concession. It doesn't take long. It's pretty small.

I browse in untroubled bliss for about one second, until a shadow falls across me, and a voice says, 'Can I..'

'I'M

JUST.

LOOKING.'

I say this in a manner which I must, with an accuracy that pains me, describe as really bloody rude.

My second assailant whispers an apology and scurries away. I turn around to see that it is a meek, paunchy bespectacled man who looks about 14 rungs below Timothy Lumsden from Sorry! on the ladder of downtrodden. I feel terrible – so ashamed of my behaviour, in fact, that I leave the shop immediately. There is no reason why I should feel more remorse about Timothy Lumsden than I do about Melted Clown Face. Perhaps it was the startled-faun style of his retreat. Perhaps it is an unsettling matter of gender politics. Whatever. In a characteristic act of stereotyping, I imagined him in a back room somewhere, weeping over the staff basin while bingeing uncontrollably on an unfit-for-sale box of damaged violet creams.

So the next day, I resolve to go back and be unflinchingly pleasant and cheery. I would win him round with the Miss Jones who makes jokes with the binmen and says bless you when people sneeze. Yes, you're right, she is kind of annoying, but she gets on much better with shop assistants. I would buy the present. Maybe Timothy Lumsden is on commission, in which case I'll buy even more of his luxury chocolates and eat the extra myself, in an act of selfless reparation. Although, let's be honest, he probably won't even remember me. A fast and wide river of people runs past his shop every day. What's a single one to him?

I think he remembered me.

I return to the shop. He is there. No sign of Clown Face. My browsing is fresh and concerted. The shadow falls. Here he comes. Be nice, Jones. Be. Nice

'Can I help you at all?' he says.

'Oh no thanks. I'm just having a look at the moment,' I say, beaming. 'Thanks very much, though.'

'Oh, just having a look?' he says, with his sitcom nerviness. 'OK then. You're just having a look.' And off he goes.

Phew. I think it went OK.

But then, I hear his voice behind me as he approaches another browser. 'Would you like to try some chocolates?'

That is a remarkably direct way to get my attention. I turn around. Strip lighting bounces of a silver platter he's carrying, which is loaded up with FREE CHOCOLATE TO OFFER PEOPLE LOOKING AROUND THE SHOP.

I am looking around the shop. Offer me a chocolate. Go on. Offer me a chocolate.

Naturally, I can't say this. I am proud, and also on shaky terms vis-a-vis demanding free stuff from a man I was incredibly rude to the previous evening. I turn my back and aim hard for nonchalance.

'Would you like to try some chocolate?' he says to another drifter. They take some.

Offer me a chocolate, Lumsden. I am the only other person here. Seriously, offer me a bastard chocolate.

He does not.

I make my selection from the shelves. I think to myself that he's probably left the tray of chocolates out on the counter for people to help themselves. That's what they do in the Bromley branch. I'll get my free chocolate when I pay.

As I stand at the till brandishing my credit card, the silver tray is nowhere to be seen.

Like I said, I think he remembered me.

I hope he told Clown Face the next day and she put an extra sugar in his tea as a treat.

That reminds me of this: