In the good old days when men were railwaymen and cars came without pillows in the steering wheel, I used to hear english spoken. It's true. These days official forms come in fifteen different languages and young people don't understand each others slang any more. People wonder why I don't go on foreign holidays. Are they serious? Not only do the Department of Work and Pensions not pay me to enjoy myself abroad, they invite every other country's inhabitants to live next door. Sign on the dole and see the world.

It does beg the question of why I'd need to visit a tourist trap in some foreign country. Everybody there has escaped the english tourists by living in England. But it seems the current economic situation in Britain isn't pleasing the eastern europeans. Now that the queues have caught up with them again (is that a coincidence?) I hear them grumbling.

"Britain is the armpit of Europe." Said one disgruntled Pole in the cubicle opposite to me. "I'm going home."

Well. What can I say? It's incredible that after the Polish community here went to all the trouble of opening shops that speak their language he's now going home again. Obviously he came here to escape Polish newsagents. Still, the rich diversity of racial and cultural mix in our area has one benefit. Elves are no longer afraid to show their faces in public. One sat in the cubicle next to me yesterday. His woolly cap and angelic face was a dead giveaway. Must be here for a midnight frolic. Or is he an elvish entrepeneur, dealing in childrens teeth without telling Customs & Excise? Does Santa know he's moonlighting?

Enquiry of the Week

All of a sudden my car is popular. As a shiney white mean machine it annoyed everyone, though possibly that was partly due to the Saturn Five moon rocket exhaust pipe, or even my habit of going to warp at the press of the accelerator.

Now its a poor neglected shadow of its former self. I console myself that I've provided the perfect enviroment for rare species of algae. There you go. Cars can be good for the enviroment. Yet for some strange reason the natives are suddenly interested in driving my immobile steed. With the eco-friendly patina giving my lovelorn car the natural touch, I've already had one hopeful young man try his luck at the door.

Yesterday evening, as I reclined in a bath in silent meditation of whether that spider was planning to ambush me if turn my attention away, I heard a bunch of lads on their way to the pub round the corner.

"Does he want that car or what?" Asked one with the volume control set to four. Of course loud noise triggers an instinctive reaction in thirsty english youths on a Saturday night so they all started hooting and beating their chests. They could try asking me. Who knows? I might tell them. But then... Big tough macho lads dare not make polite enquiries at the door... Someone might find out...