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Friday 9 September 
Extreme weather. Nothing to do with global warming, which doesn't exist. A natural cycle. It's been a very hot late-summer. All week it's been blistering and dry. Today, as they karmically must, the rains came. Flash floods? Get used to them. We were doomed from the start, making the decision to drive into West London to pay a visit to Planet Organic, the organic supermarket chain that refuses to open a branch in the southern hemisphere of London ie. closer to where we live. So, occasionally, indulgently, as environmentally hostile as it may be, we drive to the branch in Westbourne Park. God - or Nature, who is more powerful than God, especially if you don't believe in God - punished us for that decision.

The clouds looked ominous, but kept their powder dry until the moment we turned into Queensway from the Bayswater Road, then whoosh . The heavens opened. A hard, vertical, percussive downpour, the sort that cuts through everything. Windscreen wipers on double speed. Street-level a blur of ricocheting water. Pedestrians caught unawares, dashing for doorways and awnings with plastic bags held pathetically over heads. We parked in Whiteleys car park, walking distance from Planet Organic on a clear day, and bought umbrellas on our way through the shopping mall (quite expensive ones, from Accessorize). But it was too violent, too wet, too extreme, too much of a "natural cycle" to even make a run for it. Reached the doorway of a bureau de change and turned back.

Lurked inside the lobby of Whiteleys with other sodden shoppers for a while. Then went for a peppermint tea in a soup bowl masquerading as a cup at Costa Coffee (which, the newspapers tell us this morning, is going to ban smoking from all its outlets - good for them). Outside we watched people who had no choice battling the elements, soaked to the skin, inconvenienced and shell-shocked, laughing at the madness of it all, thinking of New Orleans and how little we had to worry about in trendy, cosmopolitan Westbourne Park. After 20 minutes and a litre of tea we called it a day and agreed to drive home, at which everybody was evacuated from Costa Coffee because water had started pouring through from the kitchens. Had to step over a moving puddle of coffee-water on the way out. (Perhaps it wasn't a flood, perhaps they'd just spilt one of their massive cups of coffee.) Bad news for all the single people in there talking on their mobile phones. (Mobile phones are the new cigarettes - have I tried that theory out on you yet?)

The fun wasn't over. Opting to head back via Hammersmith - having driven an hour and a quarter into London to buy two umbrellas and two overpriced buckets of tea - it was quickly apparent that there was trouble in the West. Gridlock. Rain still hammering down, hampering visibility, causing benign chaos. Suspecting flooding at the Shepherd's Bush roundabout, I made like a black cab and wound through side roads, using my internal compass, until we finally made it onto Kensington High Street and from there, via a maze of more foreign arteries, to Sloane Square, then the road home.

The rain clouds parted at around Epsom. (This is back to front - usually it rains in the Surrey Hills and is fine in London. Not today. God or Nature's way of saying, "Stay at home!" Too late for that.) Taking in a stop-off at Waitrose for eggs and oat-milk, the round trip took four hours. Nature is more powerful than the need to browse organic vegetables on a day off. Nature is more powerful than governments. Nature is more powerful than civilisation. The Costa Coffee medio -sized tea is too big. You could fit a storm in one of their teacups.

Never watched an Inspector Wexford before, so gave one a go on ITV3, a feature-length special. Started at 9.10. By 9.25, it was clear that Inspector Wexford is not up to scratch. Slow, unengaging and hammily acted, especially by the supporting cast. Just goes to show that not every detective mystery is a good detective mystery. Threw on a classic Sherlock Holmes as a tonic, and what a tonic. The Solitary Cyclist, a satisfying yarn set in Farnham, with Jeremy Brett on high camp form ("The Imperial Theatre!"). The irony is that both the Wexford and the Holmes were adapted by Alan Plater, although I don't think the distinction was the writer's. Followed by Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky, first shown on BBC4, now promoted to BBC2, a grimy 1930s-set London melodrama with various stalwart faces (Phil Davis, Tony Haygarth) backing up a young principal cast. Very theatrical, although I suspect Londoners did speak like that in those days.

Saturday 10 September
I was re-reading some old blog entries (to find out when I gave up oranges and when I last had big asthma trouble - both in the first half of May) and I found this prediction on Thursday May 19: "My first even Sudoku. It was hugely entertaining, although I can't imagine wanting to do more than, say, 10 more in my lifetime." I am, at the current time, almost at the end of Sunday Times Book 1- the one I keep by my bedside - and well over halfway through Sunday Times Book 2, the one I keep in my rucksack for the train. I expect if I'd ever taken heroin I would have written, "Hugely entertaining, although I can't imagine wanting to inject myself more than, say, 10 more times in my lifetime." 
 
Rained. Boring chart today, in that there were only three new entries and the Arcade Fire were still number one. (Nothing wrong with the album, which in fact is very fine, but it's been in the chart for 30 weeks.) Sort of half-watched ITV's 50 Greatest Shows, a countdown, pointlessly presented like a showbiz extravaganza by Schofield and Deeley and apparently based on "your votes". (Nobody asked me for my vote.) I found it shall-we-say convenient that Ant & Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway came in at number two behind Coronation Street . That's handy for ITV, celebrating its past but not wishing to appear too backward-looking for its advertisers: its second most popular show is a current one and not Brideshead Revisited or World In Action.

Watched a preview tape of Brotherhood, a hard-faced new US drama starring Jason Isaacs as a reformed gangster in Providence, Rhode Island. It has an Irish-American theme, which gets a bit much, and it's way too violent, with someone beaten to death with a shovel in the first two minutes and part of a woman's ear pulled off in the first ten. I don't know which cable channel is showing it next month (not CBeebies), but it has merit and Isaacs is excellent. Look out for it. Caught a very good BBC4 documentary about the stirring song Jerusalem last thing. This is what BBC4 does best. Good contributors (including that nice Billy Bragg), good "through-line", as they say, and nicely paced. Made me think. (I could have done without the WI ladies, but they are part of the song's story.)

Sunday 11 September
Really enjoyed the Sunday show on 6, with Wayne Hussey talking about living on a estate in Brazil with five houses, a five-a-side football pitch, a team of dogs and his own ducks and chickens. I expect property prices are slightly lower outside Sao Paolo than they are here, but nevertheless, glad he's landed on his feet, even if he did blank me backstage in Dusseldorf in 1990.

One of the gents' toilets at 6 Music has been spectacularly blocked since yesterday. I suspect one of the security guards who pace Broadcasting House at weekends when it's quiet. A thankless job, you might think, but that's no excuse. I advise him, whoever he is, to go to the toilet more often, rather than just - say - once a week, which is what the evidence suggests. I made a reference to this misdemeanour on-air, towards the end of the show, and it made Leona laugh, if nobody else, so it was worth it.

Caught what can only be described as a "good" Top of the Pops when I got home, whose lineup included Franz Ferdinand, Arcade Fire (on fine form), Jem, Depeche Mode and the Foo Fighters, plus archive of Ian Dury and David Bowie. None of it processed crap. (The number one was processed crap, the Pussycat Dolls, and the Sugababes could not sing, but that's still not a bad ratio for half an hour, an on a show that must be watched by dozens in its new slot.)

A good night for documentaries on the digital channels: one on Paul Watson, filmmaker who created The Family, Sylvania Waters and The Fishing Party ("the godfather of reality TV", which of course he hates) on BBC4, followed by Forty Years of F--- on BBC3, a two-parter about the history of swearing on TV, on which I appeared - standing in a doorway and angled so that I look even thinner than I am - for pretty much the whole programme. It was quite distracting, being on so much (what am I, some kind of expert on f----ing swearing?), but I was still able to dispassionately conclude that it was a superb documentary. Great footage (including Felix Dennis on The Frost Programme in 1972 uttering the first c--- on telly, something I'd never seen), smart interviewees (and me) shot from odd angles, and excellent graphics. Taped Piers Morgan's The Death Of Celebrity on C4, to watch tomorrow.

Can I just concur with Richard Herring that the kiss-and-tell book about Charlotte Church by her first boyfriend Steven Johnson, which was filleted for a grubby, soft-porn "exclusive" in today's News of the World, should indeed be accurately retitled I Am A C--- . I note it didn't make the Man Booker shortlist.

Monday 12 September
Unfortunate start to the day, in that one of the cats (Chilli, it's always Chilli) caught a bird. A beautiful greenfinch who alighted in the wrong spot at the wrong time. In mitigation, this a very rare occurrence - especially considering how many birds call our garden their own and what a skilled predator she is. There's not much you can do except leave her to it. She took her spoils upstairs under the bed, plucked it and, with the precision of a surgeon, ate everything but the organs that cats don't eat. You can't stand in the way of nature, which is red in tooth and claw. Don't talk to me about bells.

Congratulations to all at the Guardian, whose much-talked-about (too-much-talked-about) Berliner redesign is a triumph. I like the feel, I like the dimensions and I like the look. G2 is a bit silly at that size (half- Berliner ) and I feel certain there are less words to a page, but as long as the quality of writing remains high, I will continue to treat it as "my newspaper". It makes the Independent look fat, bulky and dowdy.

As ever, treated Monday as a Saturday and did Saturday things: sat around, read the papers, watched a few DVD extras ( Kingdom Of Heaven ), went shopping (birthday present for Leona; plus DVD of Spooks series three, which we missed) and paid a visit to the Odeon in Kingston to catch up with The Island, which has been out for a few weeks and is I think officially a flop, but I was still keen to see it. Verdict: there's a much better film in here trying to get out. The premise is good (Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johanssen are clones being kept in a futuristic facility by the promise of going to "the Island", but break out and discover the truth), as are the reference points ( Logan's Run, Coma, Gattaca), but director Michael Bay allows it to turn into a noisy car-chase thriller in the middle, which drowns out the subtleties of the rest of the film. Full marks to Sean Bean for another evil Yorkshireman in a Hollywood movie. Not sure this is the best vehicle for Johanssen either; she was reduced to a pair of pouting lips and reminded me all to often of Victoria Beckham.

Because much of America's oil-refining capabilities are out due to that "natural cycle" on the Gulf coast, concern has gripped the nation that petrol prices will tip £1-a-litre and my favourite people in England, the "fuel protesters", are threatening to blockade refineries again with their big lorries because Gordon Brown won't make diesel free for farmers and hauliers. Also, the Mail ran with PETROL MISERY FOR MIDDLE CLASSES: PANIC NOW! today, or something similar, fanning the flames of public unease, as is their job. As a result, when we drove home from Kingston, queues had already formed at garage forecourts. What idiots we all are as a species. See a queue: join it. As it happens, we actually needed some petrol, but there was no way I was going to join a queue just because the Daily Mail told me to panic. Fortunately, we found an empty garage nearer to home and filled up. I predict a riot. It happened in 2000 and it's going to happen again. I think the media has a responsibility not to cause panic. You report panic-buying, panic-buying follows (it'll be bread next - remember the empty bread shelves in 2000?). Thankfully, our apparently surprising win at cricket pushed the story down the TV news. But it's not over yet.

Delighted to have Spooks back on BBC1 tonight in its fourth series (even though we didn't watch the third), and hats off to the BBC for not pulling it or postponing it, despite its potentially distressing storyline about bombs in London (it was filmed in November). This is Spooks, not Heartbeat: it's mostly about terrorists. They're bound to touch on actual events. I think the public are less offended when art imitates life than our public guardians imagine. Look at how The Siege (crap film about terrorist attack on New York) flew off the video rental shelves in America after September 11, 2001. It's weird to see Rupert Penry-Jones in the main role, where the formidable Matthew McFadden once trod before he got killed off (killing off major characters: a Spooks trademark). That's why we bought the DVD of series three, to fill in the hole. I might watch series three inbetween watching series four, just to toy with my own mind.

Tuesday 13 September
I needn't tell you that today was another book-writing day that went wrong. Always happens. I got about two paragraphs written in the end. I think they were alright paragraphs, but that's small consolation. Where do the days go? Granted, I allowed myself the luxury of watching yesterday's educational BBC2 reality show Art School (in which John Humphrys, Keith Allen, Ulrika Johnsson etc. study art at my alma mater, Chelsea, for two weeks) at lunchtime (it's on every day at 6pm for the next fortnight - that's too much of a commitment and I shan't bother).

Second part of Spooks - terrific. Even Martine McCutcheon was good as the plucky waitress. One thing: I know it's about the secret service, but where are the programme credits? It never says who wrote it, who directed it, or who the cast are. Ever noticed that? Spooky. The Death Of Celebrity turned out to be a worthwhile hour of telly; Piers Morgan is a very good presenter, honest, upfront and personable. He also has a good point, blaming both the media and the public for the emergence of this new strata of celebrity with no discernible talent. I loved the bit where the actor who used to be on Hollyoaks related his spat with Abi Titmuss over who was less famous on Celebrity Love Island- "Who are you?" "No, who are you?" "No, who are you?"
The deer are back! Stood at the window watching the entire family of three grazing in the garden. A sight to make everything right with the world and banish all thoughts of Jade Goody and Jodie Marsh.

Wednesday 14 September
I left the house too early for the weather this morning. I had to catch the commuter special, the 7.18, so it was still dark and cold. I actually put a hooded top over my t-shirt. (Well, I was walking out to winter.) By the time I'd arrived in London and begun my long walk to freedom - alright, to the BBC - the hoody was already feeling like a layer too far, and I tied it round my waist like a schoolchild (or myself at a festival in the early 90s). It turned out to be a lovely, blue-skied, sunny day. It will be a sad day when I have to hang them up my shorts at the end of the bare-calves season, but that day approaches now. It will, in fact, be a SAD day. (Who can honestly say they don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder when the nights draw in? I'm a sensitive flower. I do. I even get pre-seasonal affective disorder in preparation for the clocks going back, or forward, or whatever it is we unnaturally do with time.)

Anyway, the reason I was up with the lark (worse: up before the Guardian) is that I was expected at 6 Music for 9.00, albeit not on 6 Music business. The first of two TV appointments, I was being interviewed for a BBC4 documentary about the Central Office of Information and their Public Information Films, from austere, patronising black and white infomercials from the 1950s through Charley Says and Alvin Stardust helping kids across the road in the 1970s to Don't Die Of Ignorance in the 1980s. What a rich subject. I was filmed in the studio we call "Liam". (Guess what the studio next door to it is called?) It was sweaty and cramped in there, but we pulled through.

That put me in the 6 Music office by 11.00, with plenty of time to a) gossip with Leona, and b) quietly narrow down the entrants in the NUS Student Journalism Awards category I'm judging (Best Student Critic). It's an easy thing to say yes to, but judging students' work is not something you can toss off lightly. This is potentially their big break, and you hold their future media career in your hands. I've been ploughing doggedly for the past couple of days through about 100 entries, taking care not to dismiss anyone out of hand because of a misplaced apostrophe, or because of the tatty nature of their clippings (although it's tempting to exclusively use those criteria), and today I finally narrowed the field down to a shortlist of five. Tomorrow I meet with the other two judges - one of whom is the tremendous Boyd Hilton from Heat, the man who gave Coldplay's X&Y four stars - and we sit in final judgement. Too much responsibility.

Today is Leona's 31 st birthday. She made a huge, unashamed fuss last year, going to New York and making a feature of it on our then-weekday show and everything, so it was low-key today by comparison, with a modest meal round the corner at Sergio's, the BBC's favourite Italian. It was to have been a table for seven but three pulled out (cheers) and we were left with a doughty quorum of myself, Leona, Gideon and Mark. I let the school down by not drinking, as usual, but the other three compensated, with Gid assuming the position (ie. slumped and slurring before the dessert course). It being Sergio's they threw in a free liqueur after the bill had been paid, so I accepted my large amaretto kindly and let Leona and Gid add it to theirs, as they looked like they needed help reaching that woozy, mid-afternoon feeling of lethargy and melancholy. Which famous drinker was it who said that he felt sorry for the non-drinker, as when they woke up in the morning, that was as good as they were going to feel all day?

Stupidly but heroically imagined I could walk all the way from the BBC to a bar in Clerkenwell Road in half an hour for my next appointment. Wrong. It was too hot anyway under the blazing tropical sun (natural cycle), and at about 3.50 I conceded defeat and hailed a cab. It was a nice dream to be totally independent of fossil fuel-reliant transport at this most difficult time for oil, but I failed, and let the school down once again. This was another to-camera interview, for a documentary on Channel 4 about sitcoms. (I know, it's about time someone did a clips show about sitcoms.) My job was to be contextual and analytical, which I think I did.

Back to the BBC (I treat this place like a hotel) in order to meet Stuart at the end of his Drivetime shift. Had an all-too-brief couple of pints in a pub called The Ship (which I believe is a Lamacq haunt) as we both had trains to catch. It was great to see him, finally, even for an hour.

A packed day out. Tomorrow is no less packed.

Some good news: the fuel protests were a washout. Hardly any selfish, blinkered idiots with lorries turned out and panic buying has tailed off. I can't believe it's all over, as people are fundamentally greedy, but for now, a ceasefire in the war between common sense and bourgeois insanity.

Thursday 15 September
Another one of those days. In brief (ha!):

Midday: lunch at Pizza Express with Graham Kibble-White of TV Cream and Associated Press, and Jon Peake, editor of TV Quick and TV Choice. All too brief, as Graham had to get back to interview Bruce Forsyth, but it was nice to see them. (To see them, nice.) Ordered "mint tea", expecting a Twinings-style peppermint infusion, and instead got a long glass with real mint leaves in boiling water. It was very nice.

14.00: Covent Garden Hotel for final judging of Best Student Critic award with Boyd Hilton (who's taking his mum to New York tomorrow) and David Edwards, film reviewer from the Mirror. As luck would have it, we'd all independently chosen one critic, who became the winner, and the selection of the four runners-up was painless. Ordered "mint tea" and got a china pot with real mint leaves in boiling water. It was very nice, but must remember to order "peppermint tea" next time.

15.30: arrive, by Tube, at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea's ground for third talking head assignment in two days. They were filming at the Purple Bar, a close approximation of hell where I once filmed Britain's Best Bond for ITV. It's Chelsea's genteel-seeming nightclub beneath the South Stand, with bordello décor and the stickiest floor I've ever had the misfortune to stick to. Anyway, good, intelligent subject - race on TV (it's for Channel 4). Lots of Love Thy Neighbour and Curry And Chips and general talk of immigration and stereotypes.

17.00: cab to County Hall on the embankment of the Thames, where the GLC used to live before Mrs Thatcher cancelled it, nowadays a Marriott Hotel, the Saatchi Gallery, an aquarium, the BPI, the Princess Diana Memorial Fund and . . . the new headquarters of Yet Another TV Production Company staffed by eager young women with headsets. This was slightly different: they're piloting a daily late-nite discussion show, The Last Word, before More4 (Channel 4's own version of BBC4) launches in October. (Read the press release here: ) They haven't built a set yet, so we filmed it on really uncomfortable chairs, the kind you get on the terrace of a restaurant, but otherwise it was as-live. Host was Hardeep Singh Kohli (Glaswegian Sikh stand-up, currently showing in Meet The Magoons ), a charming individual who imperceptibly turned into Graham Norton during his links; the other three guests were Ekow Eshun (director of the ICA), Julia Morris (likeable Aussie stand-up) and Francis Fulford (cartoon toff made famous by The F---ing Fulfords and every inch his own caricature). The whole thing took about 90 minutes, with re-takes and ad-breaks and inserted filmed items, and if I'm brutally honest, not wishing to do myself out of a job, the format needs a bit of work. It's too bitty to really get into any kind of useful, flowing discussion, and it's unclear whether it's serious or a comedy programme. I think we all conducted ourselves well in the circumstances, covering a daunting array of topics (charity, 24-hour news, offensive humour, government versus the individual) and occasionally warming up. I'd like to do it for real, if they'll have me.

20.00: car to Victoria 
 
21.10: arrive home, mentally drained. Taped the exciting 49 Up for another night and watched newly-arrived live Goldfrapp DVD Wonderful Electric - disc one: concert from June 2003 at Somerset House. Knockout voice, beguiling stage presence, tight band, glorious set culled from Felt Mountain and Black Cherry, ideal armchair entertainment for a mentally drained talking head. Can't wait to see her live in October.

Why is it always the middle bird feeder? That's what I can't understand.

The views expressed are those of Andrew Collins and not necessarily those of the BBC.