In the grounds of the stately home, only the chimpanzees were allowed to walk on the grass. The buildings were beautiful, yellow bricked and regency. We were here to reunite a teenage boy with the chimp that had rescued him as a small boy. The two of them chased off across the grass to meet with the rest of the chimps and I thought “I hope that doesn’t make other people think they can run over the grass”.

I had to leave my work colleagues and the sleek grey dog on the tube platform and make my way back. Once again I had forgotten to swipe my oyster card. The train left without me yet I was still on board. The four main television channels were broadcasting terrible programmes. On BBC2, on a documentary about “Britain’s most respected sheep castrator”, the presenter was interviewing the man in question at work. The sheep were all set up like wheelbarrows and he was using a microscope and a hammer and chisel to set about his work. The interviewer asked what help the sheep got to deal with their psychological problems after the procedure. “They just have to get used to it and they soon forget”, was the response.

Fortunately, I was meeting friends at a sunny table surrounded by flowers in a pretty little village to celebrate my birthday. Y arrived carrying two recycled jiffy bags with my presents in. One was an open pack of berry fruit Special K and I knew I wouldn’t make it home without having eaten all of them with my bare hands. They are so more-ish.