IT is my misfortune always to be early. Bidden to an event that was scheduled to take place last weekend at the Poetry Library, I turned up a week ahead of time. Once, I arrived two days before an interview was due to take place. Fortunately, it was in Italy. Unfortunately, my then editor was not best pleased when the knowledge was brought to his attention.

On another occasion I travelled to Balloch Library only to find it in darkness. Yet again I'd got ahead of myself by a week.

A dear friend, who is unlikely to be on time for his own wake, diagnoses my problem as ­"psychological". And how would he define his? "Horological."

TUESDAY

PASSING through Edinburgh's Waverley station, I am suddenly struck by the need for an injection of caffeine. At an outlet which must remain nameless, lest I set legal bells ringing, I order the smallest coffee on offer and a croissant. The assistant, a pleasant young woman, asks if I would like a double shot, as if it's gratis.

The coffee arrives in a container into which Tom Daley could dive from a great height without fear of touching the bottom. "Is this the smallest coffee?" I say. The young woman confirms it is and takes my proffered fiver, from which I receive 40p change. I believe the technical term for this is "daylight robbery".

WEDNESDAY

I trust readers of this throbbing organ are tuning in to Life Is Toff, the Beeb's documentary series about the Devon-based Fulford family. For those who have yet to see it, here's what you need to know. The head of the clan is Francis Fulford, who swears so frequently he must surely have Tourette's. In one episode, in which a group of disaffected teenagers were introduced to the upper crusts, Mr Francis took a cleaver to a rabbit, prior to skinning it. This resulted in one of the teenagers describing him as "a f****** nutter". Few viewers would disagree.

There are four Fulford children, all of whom have what might be called "issues". In general, they do what they like, encouraged by Mr Francis, whose basic philosophy is "don't give a f*** about what anyone thinks of you".

His youngest child is called Edward and is in no doubt about where he stands in the household's pecking order. First come the dogs, Bertie and Sir Timothy, who is so old he has lost control of his bowels. Then comes Arthur, the eldest son, who will inherit the estate; Humphrey, who may go off to fight for queen and country; the aforementioned Edward, who isn't good with letters or numbers; and Matilda, Arthur's twin, who doesn't count because she's the wrong gender. Finally, there are a few horses and a duck. Where the absent Mrs Fulford stands is unclear.

For his 12th birthday, Edward was given a small flock of sheep, one of which, he recalls, went missing and which he eventually found in the freezer.

THURSDAY

APPARENTLY, Mrs Fulford wisely declined to be on camera, having been chastened by previous experience. It seems that "the F****** Fulfords", as they're affectionately known, are regulars on TV, happy as they are to be filmed if it is well-recompensed. In the latest episode they attended the local village's annual show.

The input of the FF clan was to declare it open and to host a stall which included a metal tub filled with baked beans. Into these were thrown a few cheap sweets which, for a fee, weans were given the opportunity to dook for.

As an attraction it proved rather popular and realised a few bob. Thereafter the beans were tipped into a hedge and everyone concerned seemed pleased with the way things had gone, including the locals who were remarkably sanguine at the antics of the landed gentry. Now there is talk of Francis Fulford appearing in I'm A F****** Celebrity.

Don't say you weren't warned.

FRIDAY

ANENT - onward Christian soldiers! - baked beans, a topic of endless fascination, I read in a new book - Bradwell's Eclectica Glasgow - a recipe for mince and tatties which its author, Kathryn Buchanan, insists is her family's own.

Instead of pure tatties, Ms Buchanan adulterates them with neeps, thus making clapshot which, my historical consultant tells me, was fired at the English army at the Battle of Culloden in the mistaken belief that it would prove lethal. I think she may mean grapeshot.

If that is not bad enough, Ms Buchanan goes on to relate how, as the mince is cooking, she adds a tin of baked beans ("low-sugar ­variety"). Is there nothing into which beans cannot now be poured? Is nowt sacred?

PS: Anent Preservation Society update: Following the example of the Labour Party, to which many decent folk contribute ­unbeknownst to them through union affiliation, the APS has agreed to admit to its ­membership anyone and everyone who is a member of the Gnats.

This means that the APS now has nearly 100,000 members and is growing at virtually the same rate that the Kirk - which has it in for "anent" - is declining. If things go on like this, we anenters may in the foreseeable future be in a ­position to mount a takeover bid for the established church.

Needless to say, we take no ­pleasure in this prospect but would simply say - pace Doris Day - que sera sera.

SATURDAY

KARL Stefanovic, an Australian newsreader, has revealed that he wore the same suit on the box for a year in order to highlight the sexism suffered by the likes of his co-presenter, Lisa Wilkinson, who is often criticised for her frocks. In the main, as Mr Stefanovic acknowledged, Ms Wilkinson's critics are women, which is not very nice.

Stefanovic has further revealed that he had his suit ­dry-cleaned twice, possibly because it had got to the point where you could smell him before you could see him.

Recently I went through my wardrobe and identified a suit that was bought many moons ago in Hong Kong and which I had not worn this millennium.

With regret, I decided it had to go. Like my long-lamented Harris Tweed jacket, it was buried with full honours and to the sound of The Last Post.