Currently sneezing and snuffling. I naturally assume I am the Patient Zero of Europe’s forthcoming Bird Flu pandemic, as mentioned in some newspapers in the bits between bombs and knifes. As if there wasn’t enough to get worried about right now. Is it more reassuring to see police at the entrance of every tube station, or less?

What is impressive is the speed with which suspects of terrorism or recent well-publicised violent killings have been tracked down and apprehended. Seems to be a combination of media saturation and CCTV use. It’s now harder to hide than ever, if the authorities are after you. One can only hope they’ve got the right people. With suspected suicide bombers, it’s not so much “come out with your hands up” as “come out with your trousers down”. Tabloid newspaper covers of captured men in their smalls, echoing what must now be referred to as the Saddam look. I’ve just invested in new Marks and Spencer underwear, in case they come for me.

Looking forward to getting away from it all… or at least, to where London’s arts scene relocates for most of August. My Edinburgh accommodation is sorted out. Have booked a ticket to The Book Club on the 22nd, as I’m keen to see Stewart Lee and Martin White on the same bill. Also booked a ticket to “Tomfoolery”, the Tom Lehrer show with Kit and the Widow.

Otherwise, my Edinburgh To See list currently reads: Gonzo Dog gig (Mr White plays the hits of Stanshall, Innes and co), Joanna Neary, Sue Perkins, Stew Lee’s latest show and book reading, Ms Silke’s flatmate’s Woody Allen-esque play, something featuring Xavior, Ryan, Yr Mum & Yr Dad, and other Kash Pointy sorts, a gig by Dresden Dolls, a Francis Bacon exhibition… I’ll try to cram as much as possible into my smattering of days in the city (22nd-25th), and report back here, Dear Reader.

Fosca recordings progressing well in Radlett. Guitar stabs on “Kim” sound very Field Mice-esque. Performed it at the cabaret last Friday using a lecturn, a la Mark E Smith. This week we also had Ernesto, a poet who takes his clothes off while reciting. The Bistrotheque decor is increasingly odd. Glass bell jars on shelves around the room containing model animals: a parrot admiring itself in a mirror, above a mouseskin rug. A squirrel holding an even smaller bell jar, containing an illuminated sugar lump over which hovers a fly. What can it all mean? Such sights wouldn’t be out of place in Ms Angela Carter’s excellent Nights At The Circus, which I’m currently reading. The first page contains the word steatopygous, meaning “fat-buttocked”. As opposed to callipygian, which is more “shapely-buttocked”.

Doing holiday relief at Archway Video. Today I tried to optimize the shop computer to work faster, but instead made it crash into a pre-Windows bluescreen state and reduced poor Ms Silke to running the shop with pen and paper for an hour or so. Thankfully managed to get it working again after much fiddling about in Safe Mode. I have learned my lesson, and shall concentrate more on dusting and explaining to customers why they can’t get “The Machinist” on video. (Frequently Given Answer: 70% of new films are released on DVD only, and rising).

This should really remind me that lately I’ve been spending too much of my own life in Safe Mode. About time I got on with the real stuff, even if I risk a few crashes.

Two new gay-ish Colin Farrell movies out this week: the popcorn “Alexander” and the carrot-cake “A Home At The End Of The World”.

The former DVD’s cover depicts an armoured Mr Farrell shouting on a horse, in front of thousands of Ancient World troops. The message is: it’s that sort of film.

The latter has a photo of him in a nice jumper drinking coffee in a New York cafe and meaning it. The message being: it’s that sort of film.

“Sideways” is the runaway rental hit in Highgate, though. It’s very good of the director Mr Payne to make a film that I can recommend to pretty much anyone at all. It’s the movie equivalent of Carole King’s “Tapestry”; it manages to please most people, while retaining a sense of tasteful, non-pandering artistic worth.