Look what I saw this week.

An unimaginable quantity of otters.

Literally anything could happen. Disclaimer: Not literally. Not anything.

Sorry about the lull. There is a time when having other writing that one really ought to be working on actually means one does things like this a lot more, as displacement. Then there comes a time then having other writing that one REALLY, REALLY ought to be working on means that one does things like this a lot less, as panic sets in. Other things one does less: Emails. Phone calls. Seeing people. Refraining from screaming at the cats.

However, I just had to say something about this week's Apprentice. Because I happen to know someone behind the scenes on the production team, and I can tell you, sparks really flew at Sir Alan's latest maverick decision. 'You've done what?!?' shrieked the producer, unable to believe the no-nonsense millionnaire's sheer chutzpah. 'You've put four of them through to the final!?! But Sir Alan, how could you? You know how hard I and the whole team here have been working on setting up a really exciting final task for two finalists- we've spent tens of thousands of pounds on making it the best one ever! And now, just because of your unpredictable on-the-fly decision, we're going to have to ditch it all, and start from scratch on a whole new idea that will work well for four finalists!' 'I'm sorry' growled the incorrigible tycoon 'But you know me - when I have a crazy loose cannon notion, I act on it. That's just the way I roll.' 'Oh well' sighed the long-suffering TV honcho 'You may as well sink those two paddle-steamers, Lyndsay. They're no use to us now. And hey, everybody - start thinking of something four people can compete at. Maybe... Ludo. And as for you, Sir Alan- just try to keep your iconoclastic behaviour to a mimimum next time!' 'I'll try...' grinned the rule-breaking entrepeneur 'but I can't promise anything!' 'Oh, you!' exclaimed the producer 'I can't stay mad at you for long!' And with that, he grabbed the surprising businessman by the fuzzy chops, and planted a big kiss right on his crinkled forehead!

That's what happened. True story.

He could have gone to the trouble of finding out her first name, though.

There is a bench near where I live which now bears the following inscription, half in black leading, half in blue felt tip. See if you can guess where the break occurs.

'In memory of John Randall-Gieves 1921 - 1995 - 2008 Frank Lampard's Mum.'

Despite the slightly unsettling Dr Who style regeneration picture it conjures up of the curious events of 1995, I find this oddly touching. I like the idea of these two people, Mr Randall-Gieves and Mrs Lampard, who are very unlikely ever to have met, finding themselves roughly yoked together by two other people's desire to commemorate them. After all, that's what you do with park benches - you share them with strangers.

Humph would be proud of us.

You know that little box on the BBC news website with the top five most popular stories at any given time? Well, at the moment the most emailed story is a report on how one British bird species is actually thriving under climate change, under the headline 'Great tits cope well with warming'. How encouraging to see that people are at last giving ecologicial stories the attention they deserve...

I am supposed to be writing a sitcom.

My friend Ed has just announced to the world, or that part of the world which is on F*c*b**k, (Gosh, that looks unexpectedly rude when you asterisk out the vowels) that he has seen 'more otters than you can possibly imagine'. Naturally, I scooted over to his page to leave a message with the funny joke that he shouldn't be too sure of himself, because I can imagine ten otters... only to find not one but two people had already got there. Well, I suppose it's quite an obvious joke. Plus my friend Ed knows a lot of comedians, both in the literal sense and the sense beloved of sarcastic policemen. However, I would like to point out that my two rivals used the numbers six and nine as the number of otters they could possibly imagine, both of which I think are slightly less funny than ten otters. Because it's a round number, and so sounds like a number I've genuinely reached by testing, not just one I picked for a joke, whilst still being hilariously low. But I didn't reach it by testing, of course. I just picked it for a joke. And that brings me to my sermon for today.

How many otters can you possibly imagine? Because if I say I can imagine a million otters, I'm obviously lying. I can't really even imagine a million pounds. I know what it could buy, but I can't imagine an actual million actual pound coins. Still less otters. They're famously harder to imagine than coins. Now, a thousand pound coins I think I can imagine. I can certainly imagine a thousand page book. But I don't think I can imagine a thousand otters. But then, what are my criteria here? To qualify as being imagined, do I have to be able to imagine each individual ottery face, and be able to distinguish in my imagination young Tasmania the Otter from Old Uncle Winchelsea the Otter? (I'm assuming here that otters use broadly the same naming system as Wombles.) No, I don't think so. I think I just have to be able to imagine what that mass of otters would look like, how much space they would take up, and how cross they'd be about it. I can imagine eight otters around my dining table, for instance, but I can't really imagine a thousand otters. My guess is that that's about a double decker bus full, but I can't imagine whether that's a tightly packed RSPCA nightmare of a bus, or whether the otters are lounging in relative comfort. (Remember they can sit under the seats as well as on them. And in the aisles).

Now, the ADC Theatre in Cambridge seats about 220, and I reckon I can imagine that full of otters. (An otter on every seat, that is. They only sit under them on buses. I mean, come on, they have to be able to see the stage). This is good - let's ramp it up. The Garrick theatre in London has a capacity, so Google tells me, of 656... but with regret I must admit I can't really imagine that full of otters. I mean, I can... but if I'm honest with myself, I'm just imagining the theatre, filling the stalls with otters, and then mentally clone brushing those same otters into the dress circle and upper circle. I'm not even certain I'm imagining the otters at the back of the stalls. I'm just imagining 'a theatre full of otters'. And now, confidence crumbling, I'm beginning to doubt my feat of imagination with the ADC. Did I really imagine 220 otters? Even the ones at the back, and the sides? Or am I just imagining 220 seats, and then tacking the word 'otters' over the word 'seats'? Hell, can I even imagine one otter? Let me check. Right, I've checked, I definitely can imagine one otter. He's called Barney, he's slightly over medium size, and he has a white mark on his muzzle where a larger otter named Velasquez snatched a trout from his mouth. From this we can draw two further conclusions: 1) I can imagine two otters. 2) The Womble naming system is not invariable amongst otters.

So. I'm confident I can imagine those two otters and their struggle to come to terms with that terrible summer's day when Barney's trust in Velasquez was forever shattered; but shifty about those 220 otters enjoying a patchy but basically competent student production of The Duchess of Malfi. So, maybe the thing to do is avoid any helpful framing device like a theatre or a bus or a netball team, and just imagine an increasing number of otters in a blank white void. No, that's too depressing. I'm just imagined Barney there alone, and it's breaking my heart. I'll imagine them in my garden. Ok. One otter. Check. Two otters. Will Barney ever forgive him? Three otters. Easy. Four otters. Piece of cake. Five otters. Yep. Six, seven, eight - yes. Nine, ten, eleven. I think so, yes. Twelve otters... ... ... ... ... no. I can't imagine twelve otters. Not really. When it comes right down to it, I'm just imagining six otters twice. And if I don't break it down into sub-groups like that, it's basically no different from my image of eleven otters. Come to that, I'm not sure my eleven otters were that different from my ten. What about my ten from my nine? No, there is a difference there. That's interesting. Because that seems to suggest that the number of otters I can possibly imagine... is ten. Ladies and gentlemen, it was funny because it was true.

I think Ed probably did see more than ten otters. I shan't bother leaving a message.

Two things you might be interested in.

'John Finnemore, Apparently', my pilot radio sketch show, will be going out on Radio Four at 11pm this coming Monday, May 5th, and will be available on 'Listen Again' for a week afterwards. Hope you like it.

Also, free tickets are now available on the BBC website ( http://shows.external.bbc.co.uk/) for the recordings of what they are pleased to describe as 'a new brilliant new sitcom'. So, both brilliant and new, then, but twice as new as it's brilliant... It's called Cabin Pressure, it's about the pilots of a tiny charter airline, and very excitingly it stars Benedict Cumberbatch, from A Life Backwards, Hawking, and Atonement; Roger Allam, from The Thick of It, The Queen, and A Cock and Bull Story; and Stephanie Cole, from A Bit of a Do, Housewife 49 and Talking Heads. And me, from here. The recordings are all in June - do come if you'd like to. (The tickets for the sketch show recording went surprisingly fast, so you may want to get in quick.)

Plug over, normal service will be resumed shortly.

Book titles that are improved by knocking off the last letter.

• Three Men in a Boa.
• How to be Goo.
• Of Mice and Me.
• Catch 2.
• Winnie the Poo.
• A Brief History of Tim.

My thought process on seeing the advert 'Make Yourself 3D'

1. Ooh. That sounds somehow intriguing. I wonder what it means.
2. Ah. It turns out it means 'Turn yourself 3D by making a character that looks and dresses like you. It's fun and free.' That no longer sounds intriguing, because I am not a nine year old girl. Besides, if I wanted to make a character that looks and dresses like me, I would simply have a child.
3. Hang on though. Surely if you make a character that's rendered on a flat computer screen, that's turning yourself 2D?
4. Hang on more... I'm already 3D! I don't need to make myself 3D - three is precisely the number of dimensions in which I currently exist!
5. I don't think it should have taken me four steps to realise that.
6. Oh look. A pigeon.

Enter our prize draw for a pickled egg.

Strapline of the April 2002 issue of the Fish Friers’ Review: ‘Win yourself some chips’. Now that’s what I call knowing your readership.

Lines from Bob Marley songs that were written for him by a middle-class Englishwoman.

• Don’t you worry about a thing
• There is one question I’d really love to ask
• Stand up for your rights!
• I hope this jam is going to last...

Not to mention the spin-off series about her brother Rhodes.

You know how sometimes you see a sign that suddenly inspires you to write a whole series of adventure books for children? Oh, don’t you? Well, to be fair, neither did I until ten minutes ago. But as I looked at that sign; like JK Rowling on that train journey, or Joe Craig after his usual pre-book pint of margaritas, inspiration struck; and my heroine leapt fully-formed into existence – the impetuous Irish-Italian girl detective, and the dare-devil adventures that lead her mother to exclaim the title of, let us say, the fourth book in the series: ‘Please Take Care, Piazza Slippery!’

Job done.

Sign at till at the British Library cafe:

"Due to a new credit card terminal installation, we are not able to process any payment by cards."

Right. Frankly, I'd have been tempted to stick with the old terminal.

Or: 'Yes, if you're some kind of IDIOT!'

What they say on the Northern Rock website in reply to the following Frequently Asked Question: (Thanks Marianne)

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

The Bank of England and HM Treasury has made it clear that all existing and new deposits in Northern Rock are covered by these guarantee arrangements and are safe and secure. Customers need not fear for their deposits. Northern Rock continues business as usual. Savers can, should they wish to, withdraw money in the usual way. But there is no need to do so, since all savings are safeguarded by the Government. If you still wish to make a withdrawal, you may do so in accordance with the Terms & Conditions of your account.

What they would like to say:

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why do you ask?

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Doesn't matter whether you can or not. You don't need to.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why? I've just told you, your money's fine. Leave it where it is.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

I'm not telling you.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Oh, for heaven's sake stop whinging on about your bloody money! There's more important things in the world, you know! Things that money can't buy! The tranluscence of a butterfly's wing! The laughter of a child paddling in a brook! It's not all about your stupid squalid little pot of cash, which is, in any case, perfectly safe!

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Yes.

So if anyone needs a towel, just give me a shout.

I was getting myself some car insurance the other day, and had to select my job from a drop down menu. Only they didn't have 'writer'. Fair enough, I thought, I suppose it's a relatively niche profession, I can understand them leaving it out. Except that here are just a few of the jobs they were absolutely fine with.

Violin Maker
Clay Pigeon Instructor
Foam Converter
Pearl Stringer
Weighbridge Clerk
Tea Taster
Water Diviner
Falconer
Head Lad
Towel Supplier

And doubtless someone, somewhere, was once given it for Christmas... and was overjoyed.

You remember how I paranoidly take out books to have on my desk at the British Library, so it looks like I have a right to be there; but cannily choose ones that look really dull so I won't be distracted into reading them? No? Well I do.

Such as the excellent 'Early United States Barbed Wire Patents', by Jesse S James. Presumably he added the 'S' to avoid being confused with notorious outlaw and train robber Jesse James. Though I can't help thinking he did this job far more efficiently just by writing a book about barbed wire patents. Here is the first sentence:

'I started to realize the dire need of a book of this kind soon after I started to collect old types of barbed wire in 1957.' Hats off to Jesse the use of the word 'dire'.

Here are my other three favourite sentences:

'I believe it would be a safe bet, if anyone could ever get a caller, that there has been more of this ‘Hodge’s ten-point spur rowel’ wire found by barbed wire collectors than all the other ‘rotating’ type barbs combined.'

Look out for some terrific exclamation mark work in this next one:

'I believe this patent takes the cake for the largest number of barb types shown that can be used on its fence-wire. Seven!'

And the peerless:

'If you happen to be a barbed-wire collector who has been trying to locate the patent data on your ‘saw-toothed ribbed ribbon wire’, you need look no further!'


See, now it looks as if I'm sneering at someone for being enthusiastic about their hobby, and God knows I've bored on about comedy for too long to too many people to be allowed to do that, even if I wanted to. But, Jesse, I don't know... barbed wire? Really?

Rejected titles for the film 'Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium'.

• Mr. O'Moore's Fantastical Store
• Mr. McWopp's Bewildering Shop
• Mr. Moletail-Begalia's Odd Wholesale Retailer
• Mr. Bleeosk's Kooky Kiosk
• Mr. Roy Far-Bus's Weird Branch of Toys-R-Us.
• Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (Memo to self - remember to change name of guy, and thing he owns.)
• Death Mask IV.

Next week: Will the Beatles ever reform? We ask them all.

An advert on my email sidebar has just encouraged me to subscribe to the Washington Post, with the following inducement:

'All the latest Pakistan news - Benazir Bhutto interview.'

The latest news? Really? I can't help thinking there's a story they may have missed...

No mention of their sworn enemy, the Sodding Fat-Faced Cat.

Good news, everybody! It has just come to my attention that there lives in Madagascar a species of rodent - in the Nesomyidae family, since you ask - known as the Bastard Big-Footed Mouse. See, don't you find that this bleak, cold, new year's world suddenly seems that much happier a place to be, knowing we share it with Bastard Big-Footed Mice?

There was no hesitation, either. Joe knows his friends, and he also knows those who are missing from that list.

Coo. Quiet round here, isn't it? Cobwebs and everything. Ah well, maybe I'll do better in the new year. I'll have a go, anyway. In the meantime, happy new year, and here is the latest in a very occasional series (by which I mean I've done it once before, and I'm doing it now): My Favourite Guess In The Game Of Articulate This Christmas Season:

Karl (describing 'stranger'): Someone you don't know!
Joe: Emily!

Also, I'm afraid I killed the French ambassador.

Every morning when I have my bath, my bleary eyes rest on my girlfriend's shampoo bottle, directly opposite me. And every morning, in that highly receptive and barely conscious state, I read, over and over again, the sentence they've chosen to emblazen on the back of it:

'Get A More Dazzling Blonde!'

Now, luckily, my current blonde is more than dazzling enough for me. But still, I can't help thinking Derren Brown would advise her she's playing with fire.