Most of you haven't been to our central library. Partly that's because most of you live in better parts of the world, but mostly because it's also somewhere I go to hang out. As a regular visitor to the library you'd think the librarians would know me by now. One does. He's the chap who signed as a witness to my elevation to lordship. Always gives me a cheery nod as he walks by. What a nice chap.

On the other hand, there's a lady who was working behind the help desk when I strode in yesterday. My incessant requests for obscure reference works that have long since self-combusted brought her to the point of a tantrum at least once. Nonetheless she's always cheery and polite. So when she realised I was standing there, she smiled nd asked if she could help.

You have to understand that the library does not realise that the world communicates via the World Wide Web.. They seem to have their own technology and internet protocols that bear no relation to anyone elses. Time and again I can't access a site or a service because it might harm little children. It's as if they expect you to access the internet for certain specific reasons, such local community services or perhaps tracing your ancestors, as if any of my ancestors ever came anywhere near Swindon or managed to get the council to do anything except throw a form at them.

So when I popped into the library yesterday, I strode toward the help desk intent on asking them to allow me access to a site about world war two aeroplanes. How could that possibly harm children?

The first thing was to ask for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. She ummed and ahhed and eventually allowed me to recover the pencil lodged in the bottom of a plastic holder. Suitably armed with writing implements, I proceeded to write out the information she would later send up to the libraries mysterious and reclusive I.T. experts. They never show themselves in public. I have this image of unkempt nerds kept chained in a straw filled cell, sweating over hot computers for hours on end with security guards goading them on with leather whips. No-one, and I mean no-one, ever goes up to the forbidden third floor.

Information provided, I made the request. She glanced through the pencil scribbles and asked "Lord?... What's that?"

Oh that's me. That's my name. With a subdued look of incredulity mixed with horror she quickly recovered her composure and apologised that she would have to send it to her prison... Erm... I.T. department upstairs. Good. Job done. She left the premises soon after, no doubt keen to be well clear of this nutcase who thinks he's a noble and sends her on impossible missions should she choose to accept them.

There she is this morning, chatting to her colleague on duty at the desk. It might be just me, but I think I managed to get a mention dispatches. And no cheery wave either.

Get Yer Back Into It!

Yesterday I saw the first attempt at demolishing the old college site. A chap in a white tee shirt and shorts ran up the pavement, stopped, then leant forward against the painted plywood security fence as if to push it over. He failed, and continued on his way to report that demolition machinery or explosives would be needed. If only I had a camera with me. You wouldn't believe how ridiculous that looked.