To my annoyance, Toby Salt spent most of this time trying to chat up Liz, bragging of his Twitter following (he has now duped nearly three thousand people), whipping out a proof copy of his forthcoming book and offering her a ticket to his reading at Saffron Walden.

It wasn’t until the end of the evening that I had the chance to ask her whether she was free to meet up on Friday.

‘I suppose so,’ she snapped. ‘Assuming your GP hasn’t warned you off me, that is,’ and headed out the door.

Wednesday June 6th

Odium Chloride

I think my body needs rebooting;

it’s sick from all the crap I eat.

I salute it with three fingers,

then press CTRL+SALT+DELETE.

For some companionship of the non-feline variety, I listened to Radio 4. The molecules from its background murmurings seeped through my semi-permeable membrane and by early evening, I’d osmotically absorbed the entirety of its daytime output, including programmes on the naturalism of Pliny the Elder, the ethics of marmalade, life in a Bulgarian shoe factory, a consumer affairs show entitled Ombudsman and a potted history of houseplants.

But I was particularly interested in a documentary on the harmful effects of salt. Salt is very bad for you. It causes hypertension and increases the chance of heart disease and stroke.

I kept thinking about it all evening. Salt is an utter disgrace! The world would be better off without it.

Thursday June 7th

I’ve just finished my submission for the next quarterly Well Versed poem competition. The theme we’ve been given is that of ‘Rebellion’. I have called my poem ‘As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle’ and, by my own standards, it’s something of an angry affair:

As I grow old I will not shuffle

to the beat of self-interest

and make that slow retreat t o       t   h   e        r   i   g   h   t.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist

marching with the kids. I shall sing

‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing

homemade placards that proclaim

‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,

and build unscalable barricades

from bottles of flat lemonade,

tartan blankets and chicken wire.

I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,

armed with a ballpoint pen

and a hand that shakes with rage not age

at politicians’ latest crimes,

in strongly worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion

and allow injustice no admittance.

I will stage longstanding sit-ins.

My mobility scooter and I

will move for no one.

And when I die

I will be the scattered ashes

that attach themselves to the lashes

and blind the eyes

of racists and fascists.