I’ve been on the bus one day (because of this damned foot thing) and I’m already fed up and want to be back on my bike. Crammed full of sweaty, miserable commuters and noisy chavs listening to shitty R&B on their stolen mobile phones, going barely above walking pace because of the amount of traffic in Manchester, bouncing around corners on the pothole-ridden roads and throwing passengers around like they’re on a waltzer before braking suddenly two centimetres away from the bus in front. Bah, give me my bike any day of the week.

Veteran jazz musician and radio host Humphrey Lyttelton has died aged 86.

I am very sad about this. I had the privelege of attending several recordings of I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue, and he was a genial, warm, wonderful – if somewhat bewildered, at times – host, as well as a fantastically talented trumpeter and jazz musician. He will be greatly, greatly missed.

So, Plantar Fasciitis is really quite painful. I appear to have damaged my foot whilst skiing and then well and truly cemented that damage by going for a run the other day. Nurse says to not run, cycle or walk long distances for a few weeks. I guess I’m not doing the Great Manchester Run this year, then. Bum.

As I was walking down Deansgate to the cinema this evening (Son of Rambow; very good, go and see it, you’ll like it), I saw a pigeon very nearly fly into a young lady’s face. She was naturally a little shocked and taken aback by this, but by the time she had recovered sufficiently to remonstrate with the beast, it had flown off and disappeared. And so, fuming but without a target for her anger, she instead located the nearest other pigeon to her on the pavement and shouted a torrent of unfocused abuse at it instead, presumably on the understanding that it could maybe pass on her complaints to the offending bird should they happen upon each other later in the day. Then, satisfied, she adjusted her coat and proceeded on down Deansgate, as if nothing had ever happened.