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Yesterday, I woke up with a blocked nose hole but I reckoned, if I was careful, I could survive the day’s breathing on one nostril only. I have to stress, this was a gay rambling day, guaranteed to be a titter and a half, so, I donned my cagoule and chunky socks, dropped a Cox into my pocket and whizzed down to the station to meet the gang. The walk, just outside Haywards Heath, was sublime: we marvelled at a huge viaduct, oooed and aaaahed at the pretty snowdrops and laughed ’til we felt sick, when one of our party slipped on his arse in a claggy field. By lunchtime, I was Coxless and desperate for food but what was this, on arrival at our pre-arranged pub pitstop, we were met by three members of the Russian mafia; one was as wide as he was tall, another was the spit of Doctor Zhivago and all three had hair coming out of their nostrils and their ears. Luckily, after a quick frisk, we were allowed in – but only because we’d booked a table. Post-lunch, regretting our orgy of Vimto and chunky chips, we plodded the last mile or so back to the station, where, inspired by the mist and a man with a whistle, I came over all Jenny Agutter and started running up the platform, crying ‘daddy, my daddy’. Unfortunately, before I could get the second ‘daddy’ out, I’d fallen over a small dog and lay bleeding, my right leg ripped to shreds – yet again. Bang goes that knee modelling assignment.