Knitted Clanger

Tonight’s storm is brought to you by the sensation of being on a ship at sea and the experience of being awake at two in the morning. And the number 3.

What with the bad weather, I appear to have missed the arrival in Birmingham of a giant inflatable horse. Anyway, here it is outside the library and can I just say we're not letting it inside because we've heard of this trick.

I have been outside.

Dammit, my clock's gone back to 3 September 1752, so now I'm left twiddling my thumbs for 11 days while we switch to the Gregorian calendar.

The storm continues, and now I find a solicitor from Whitby has left his card and would I accept consignment of a wooden box full of dirt imported from central Europe which has been rescued from a shipwreck. The card smells faintly of garlic, thoughts?

Morning after the storm.

The storm has hit Birmingham. Wisely, I followed government advice and spent the morning stocking up for emergencies with soup, fairy cakes and a significant amount of chopped cabbage and leeks. I'm ready for anything that involves soup, cake and cabbage, and frankly what doesn't?

Storm Austen is coming. If you are a woman of marriagable age do not attempt to travel to Netherfield without a carriage

CBSO woodwind concert today, sitting close enough to hear their breaths as well as their notes, comfortingly like the background fuzz of an old vinyl recording. Became mesmerised by why one oboe player had a packet of Rizlas on her music stand. Surely oboes make acceptable bongs without that?

Nice to have something in common with the Pope. I also didn’t need chemo after my op. Oh, and I believe we’re both Catholics too.

Today’s ’we should bring that back’ is crying ‘Gammon & Spinach!’ at anyone talking nonsense. I would also thwack them with a sockful of custard, but that’s personal preference.

It's raining so much that, rather than take the literally two steps outside to my bin, I have established an additional indoor emergency bin, with hopes and dreams of going outside in the future. It's called Claude Rains. If the rain continues, the next two will be Elsie and Doris Waters.

Stocks Wood in Bournville, which a sign proudly declares is the last remaining bit of Shakespeare’s Forest of Arden. As it also says some of the trees are up to 150 years old, I have several questions beginning: In what sense exactly..?

Very cross with Mrs Gaskell for not telling me she died before finishing Wives and Daughters. Now, how will I know whether the 'obviously always going to get married' people get married? Also, she looked set to kill off an awkward baby in the final chapter and then didn't bother, which is poor form.

WAR! Same road, rival crochet. Ignore the Give Way sign, the crafters of Bearwood will never give way to each other.

My final evening at Birmingham Lit Fest, with rockstar sex-historian Dr Kate Lister, pictured here explaining that the best euphemisms for cunnilingus her research revealed are ‘sneezing in the cabbage’ and ‘impersonating Stalin’.

Writer who tricked me into reading Moby-Dick twice has pulled out of the Lit Fest at the last minute. So I needn’t have brought my harpoon with me on the bus.

More Birmingham Lit Fest, and how do you celebrate being shortlisted for the Booker? Luke Kennard has bought a rucksack and a shed. M John Harrison has bought a really good chair and a new kettle, but he’s jealous of Luke’s shed.

Drama students from the Conservatoire today in The Beau Defeated by Mary Pix. I’d never heard of it and it’s the usual Restoration stuff but done with great gusto. Campaign now to bring back addressing people as: ‘You saucebox’.”

Well, I have now seen Digger, and if you wanted a non-symmetrical Wes Anderson take on Dr Strangelove that becomes completely inert in its last 30 minutes, this is the film for you. Nowhere near as bad as its box office but they spent $150m more than they should have done.

I did intend to watch Digger but seem to have accidentally watched Gold Diggers of 1933 instead. Best line for everyday use: Oh no, I just couldn't leave the room without a corsage.

I have found the greatest villain in Victorian literature.

What’s the Japanese word for being really pleased with the good job you’ve done of cleaning the windows, until the next morning when the sun strikes from a different angle and you can see every smear.

It’s #Victober which is the month for reading Victoriana, so I’m giving it a go from the unread on my bookshelves. Please feel free to throw buns at whoever invented the word Victober.

Reading homework for Birmingham Lit Fest in October and the gender reversed Moby-Dick is an easier read than actual Moby-Dick but doesn’t really veer off course into new waters and…basically I’ve been tricked into reading Moby-Dick twice in two months, haven’t I.