From my Diary for April 2026

Will this become a monthly genre of post; will I do three or four times and then go off it, or will I do it this once and then never again? Let’s find out…

Writing plot points out on post-it notes. Wrote one for the conversation where Alice tries to work out if Claire would join the pact if asked. Then, when I looked at the post-it note, it... seemed a little off somehow, though I was sure the phrase I’d used was a common one. As indeed it is… it just wasn’t the one I’d meant to write. What I’d intended was: ‘Alice sounds out Claire’. What I’d written was: ‘Alice feels up Claire’.

I wonder how Birdwise East Kent calculated the very precise and different distances these birds require for their personal space. I’m sure they’re correct- Birdwise East Kent are famously wise about birds, particularly the ones you get in East Kent- but what I fear they might have over-estimated is my ability to a) recognise these birds again when I’m not looking at the sign, b) remember the specific distance in metres assigned to each species, and c) accurately calculate the distance by eye.

Don’t get me wrong - I’d love to be the sort of person who could do all these things. I’m almost moved when I picture myself observing a turnstone from behind the appropriate 25 metre exclusion zone… and then, when I notice a sanderling has alighted next to it, respectfully backing off the necessary extra metre.

The voice-artist for the recorded announcements on the London Underground at the moment was clearly asked to give one of those ‘smile in the voice’ readings. Which means that when she announces ‘The Piccadilly line is operating with severe delays!’, her smilingly proud tone makes it sound as if she’s saying ‘with flawless efficiency!’

“The Piccadilly line is operating with severe delays! No, please, hold your applause! It’s simply what we do.”

Wow, Paul Oliver. That’s an energetic logical leap.

“Paul, have you seen the kids?”

“Well, I don’t see them in the garden, so I suppose they’re on the Moon.”

The announcer on Radio 3 just told me a couple of things about Chopin I didn’t know. His rages- especially in old age- were apparently terrifying; and he wrote the piece we’re about to hear in his early thirties… by which time he had already entered his final decade. Interesting. But hang on. In that case, these senile, King Lear-esque rages of old age of his, they were when he was… in his early forties? I looked him up. Nope. Turns out Chopin’s raging days were over by the age of 39.

Bloody Hell, Radio 3. I thought our agreement was that you were to make me feel comparatively young?

It’s now over three weeks since Easter, but still this corner shop is refusing to blink on discounts. You have to admire their resolve. Any day now, a set of triplets will walk in with a sudden craving for curved white chocolate, no interest in the festivals of the Christian calendar, and £30 in their pockets.

Beyond the paywall: more of this sort of thing. This side of the paywall:

Love,

The Airport