Yesterday was warm. Very warm. We brits aren't used to that level of warmness. Even hardened package holidaymakers were breathing out heavily and wiping sweat from their brow as they dragged their kids from one place to another. I had no choice but to drag myself.

They do say that only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the mid day sun. Guilty. As I left the library after lunchtime to head for the shops, I crossed the triangular space where our centotaph stands. Standing in the shade of the trees was a small crowd of asians, doing nothing more than chatting to themselves and avoiding any need to sweat whatsoever, which is odd, because they were waiting for work to appear at the agencies that have their offices to one side.

Predictably, the ordinary english blokes all venture forth in baggy shorts and adopt a sort of holiday demeanour, or at least, without the drunkness. Young adults wander around town dragging their 'dangerous dog' puppies with them as symbols of their... Erm... Somethingness.

I do find it strange though that women in Britain always seem to tie their hair back in weather like this. They all wear sunglasses and all of them look completely identical, give or take a few pounds. It isn't like the beaches of Miami I saw portrayed on television, where every woman is young, individually pretty, wearing a tight swimsuit, and displays permed hair in wavy bucketloads that must have cost them a second mortgage or a night on the casting couch.

It might not suprise you that I don't adopt the latest fashion. Mostly that's because I don't know what it is and wouldn't care less if I did. Some years ago I had to do one of those online character tests to see what my perfect career path would be. The end result of countless psychological profiling was that I was always destined to be a hat designer. Hat designer? Yesterday Miss R commented that despite my misgivings hat design relies on form and substance. Three dimensional awareness and.... Oh stop it. I have as much fashion sense as a french snail.

The good news is that I have another psychological test to complete. The programme centre has decided that now I've been unemployed for more than three years, it's time to find out what I really ought to be doing to earn my money. With a bit of luck it'll suggest something fun, action packed, or interesting. Like the competitive world of hat design for instance. Is the government hiring spies in Swindon this year? What I would give to drive an Aston Martin with machine guns right now.

When You're Ready...

As soon as I opened the web page I recognised the test immediately. I did all this stuff back in november. It's all about ordering statements and choices in order of priority. From that the system can determine what sort of person I am. I'm amazed it doesn't ask for my star sign. Well, it's either this or a social gathering with Miss R. Which is the lesser evil?

Very quickly I rediscover the numerative skills section. Accountants would love these questions. If country A uses 5,500MW of power derived from windpower which is expected to rise by 1.2% next year, and that windpower is 5% of the total generated power, determine the required rise in windpower for country C if that nation must generate twice the total power of country A and currently creates 3.8% of their total energy output from windpower..

What? I don't understand the question. My brain is old and tired, incapable of solving deep mystical problems concerning international eco-friendly power distribution. There are twenty questions like this and I've probably only got another twenty years to live. There's a whole list of these questions for personality, literacy, spacial awareness, and some other stuff which could only be of use for those applying for jobs with NASA. Apparently I have one and a half hours to finish it. What is this, an astronaut application form?

Buy A Chevvy

Incredible. I've just seen a television advert for Chevrolet cars. In Britain? I didn't know our roads were straight enough.

Doing My Bit

Watching disabled ex-soldiers prepare themselves for an attempt on the Paris-Dakar rally brought mixed emotions to me. It's impossible not to be impressed by the determination of these guys to make new lives for themselves. It's impossible not be saddened by the sheer futility and waste of able bodied men ripped apart by hidden explosives.

The strange thing was how useless I felt. Not out of any sense of being unable to wreak vengeance against the people who did that to them. Nor was it any misplaced sense of guilt that I wasn't there when it happened. It's that they're already beyond my help simply because of their own efforts. Pride can be a powerful motivation and too much help causes more damage than it alleviates.

So where do I help a man brought low by a twist of fate? Some years ago I was standing at a bar enjoying the mood of the evening. The pub was packed out, the music loud, the bar staff frantically keeping their customers happy.

A chap came in on a wheelchair. His was a lost cause. None of the bar staff could see him and I remember that sullen 'Why am I here?' look on his face. No. He had every right to enjoy a night out. I caught the attention of a barmaid and made sure he got the drink he wanted. It turned out he was a victim of a motorcycle accident, but we didn't dwell on misfortune. He genuinely brightened up with someone to talk to.

It wasn't a huge gesture was it? Nothing heroic, nothing worthy of medals at Buckingham Palace or biography on the best seller list. But he went away happy. His sister thanked me for that a bit later. I'm proud to say I only did what I could.