MONDAY

THE coldest day of the century so far. From my window on the world I note that the links are over-coated in frost and the dog walkers, accompanying their beasts on a comfort break, are breathing steamily. On the paps of Fife there is a thick layer of snow and the Forth looks so icy you could probably skate over it to Pittenweem. It is a day to huddle over the coals, turning one's torso now and then like a hog on a spit to ensure all parts are evenly toasted. Alas, this is not possible because my dear friend Denis, who is employed in the same trade as Michelangelo, ie painting and decorating, has decided that the conditions are fine for painting our outside windows. When he is done for the day, the windows must be left open for a few hours to allow the paint to dry. However, it being so cold this takes longer than expected and the Home Secretary and I are reduced to cowering and shivering in a bathroom - the one room where there are no open windows - covered in layers of synthetic fibre and welded to a radiator. Such is our glamorous existence.

TUESDA

TO Prestonpans. As a lad, the very name made my bones turn to jelly, such was the reputation of the Panners. These days the Pans, as it is fondly known, is expanding exponentially and may soon connect with our own ever-expanding burgh. Think Russia and the Ukraine and you may have some idea what that entails. In the Co-op, which is to the Pans what Harrods is to Belgravia, I discover to my chagrin that it is soon to close and be taken over by Asda. At first I thought the assistant said "Asbo", which would an interesting place to purchase one's victuals. At the checkout another assistant was chuckling to herself at what she had believed was the put-on posh accent of a customer. In fact, to her amusement, it was not assumed but real. Brimming with mirth, she told of another customer whom she'd spotted wearing pyjamas decorated with Christmas motifs. When she pointed him out to a female customer, she was told: "He's my husband. I don't know why you're laughing at him. He's just had a hernia operation." Be that as it may, it does not explain why he was wearing PJs in the middle of a Baltic day in the Pans.

WEDNESDAY

SOMEWHAT belatedly I have discovered that my old chum, John Bayley, is no longer with us. Not only was he Iris Murdoch's consort, he was no mean writer himself. In 1994, he was chairman of the Booker Prize, of which I was one of the judges. Ancient readers may recall that was the year it was won by James Kelman for How Late It Was, How Late, the only time One of Us has been awarded the palm. One of our judging sessions was held in the Savile Club where, during the course of lunch, I spied Mr Bayley stuffing a handful of boiled potatoes into his jacket pocket. Naturally, I had to enquire what he was up to. He said that often, on the long journey home from London to Oxford, he was overcome by hunger and found that having a few potatoes in reserve was enough to kill it. Wise fellow.

THURSDAY

MY lookalike Vladimir Putin - has anyone ever seen us at the same dacha together? - has decided to cheer up his fellow Russians, who're suffering from Western sanctions, by offering them free vodka. You may think this a cynical ploy but is it any more so than our own politicians who, as the General Election nears, make one "promise" after another, be it to ring-fence the NHS or put barbed wire round education? I vaguely recall that when my dear amigo, Alexei Salmonella, was in primary school he won a debate by insisting that he would give a free ice cream to all who voted for him. Might this, perchance, be a Linlithgow myth? Is there anyone out there who was witness to this event and who, having cast his/her vote for Master Salmonella, feels his/her life has been blighted by the absence of a cone?

FRIDAY

THE start of the Six Nations when hope suddenly turns to to despair. On its eve, our captain, Greig Laidlaw, was pictured alongside the captains of the other nations. Mr Laidlaw was at least two heads shorter than these fellows. Is this not the crux of our problem? We are runts competing against giants, Lilliputians against Brobdingnagians. If we are to have any success it seems we must start hot-housing hulks in order to out-brawn the opposition. Having said which, when I once played rugger, we won by darting through our opponents' legs. Though this was a tactic which impressed our coach we were told that it was unlikely to be successful in the long term because other teams would soon cotton on and we'd end up crashing into limbs which were glued shut.

SATURDAY

ASKED on Newsnight to name a business wallah who supports Laybore, Ed Baloney could only muster, "Bill Somebody". This was even more embarrassing because Mr B had dined earlier with Mr Somebody who, it transpires, is actually called Thomas. The shadow chancellor explained his gaffe by suggesting it was an "age thing". For the record, he is just 47. Uncharitable souls have suggested that it is a sign of steep mental decline and that perhaps Mr Baloney should step aside and allow a Mr or Ms Someone to take his place. This, of course, is plain silly. Were all of us who forget names to be instantly replaced, the country would grind to a halt. I myself have been known to allow names of people with whom I am familiar to slip into the ether. My recourse is simply to invent one for them. While this may be fine in print, it doesn't work quite so well when face to

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QUOTE of the week: "How dare you create a world in which there is such misery that's not our fault?" Stephen Fry goes toe-to-toe with God at the Pearly Gates.