Greetings from a blustery West Dorset. I hope all is going well in the various parts of the globe, and I note to my delight that this now includes China and North Korea, so greetings all.

Yesterday, I spent the morning in our local market town. I won't say which one, as we are equidistant between each. (I suppose one couldn't really be otherwise.) As I walked around the place, I had a terrifying out-of-body experience, as glimpses of the future projected themselves on to my increasingly anxious retinae. What, I wondered for a start, is this thing with trainers, as I gazed upon those of every vintage desirous of sporting unsuitable sportswear? At nearly 60, I cannot for the life of me imagine wearing trainers when I (rarely) shop. I would rather swim with alligators than walk into WH Smith with Adidas covering my metatarsals. And, considering it was market-day (i.e.: there was nowhere to park), why on earth did everyone look so flipping miserable? I found myself engulfed in a sea of misery, with everyone moaning about their various health 'issues', or the price of fish. Actually, talking of fish, that was one highlight: the local fishmonger does make a wonderful smoked mackerel pate.

They say that our local market town is earning itself a sobriquet of 'A certain part of London'-on-Sea. It's full of bistros and wine cafes, say the various journalists, a thriving hub of society, full of thrusting youngsters in their (t)rusty chick-magnets. Er, not from where I was sitting it wasn't. True, I'd just bought myself a cappucino, which had been proferred with very bad grace, once the little lady serving me had understood what I meant by the term, and when I told her that I intended to take it on to the square (which has yet to be re-named the plaza), I was given it in a not wholly spotless mug. I mean, honestly: cappucino - in a mug?? Where was the fun in that? How could I possibly burn my lip on something that wasn't made of cardboard and didn't have a tiny li-wrecking aperture at the top of it? And a handle? It was like drinking a pint of best from a handle-less glass in the saloon bar. I sat on one of the surprisingly empty benches, with my purchases, namely a digital radio (which was a bit extravagant, I know, but our bedroom radio has been with us since 1982, so I thought the outlay was justified), Elton John's new CD, 'The Union' (which needs to be listened to twice before it can be fully appreciated - i.e.: I thought it was rubbish when I put it on the first time and this morning it's actually pretty good) and Duncan Bannatyne's autobiography. (Because if this blog doesn't make me a few squid when it's published I shall need other ideas.)

I soon realised why the benches were empty There, sitting beside a young lady who was not wholly uneasy on the eye was a young gentleman, doing his best, not to entice her into his own babe-magnet, but into the ways of spirituality. The young lady was remarkably patient, I thought, but after about 15 minutes, she'd had enough - and so had I. Another trainer-bedecked gentleman of advancing years walked past.

I have a confession to make. I do not only have a motorcycle. I have a scooter, too. I suppose that must make me a Mocker - or something. I've had it since it was new in 2006, and it brings back memories of the Vespa and the Lambretta I owned (together) when I was a student. So that's where I'm going now. Once I've put on my parka jacket and leather gloves, loaded up the box with projectiles and a couple of corned beef sandwiches, I'll be on the road.

Oh, the memories.