It could only happen in the English public sector.

Two days ago, while enjoying my early morning cup of coffee while getting down to the day’s business, the building fire alarm began to sound. Skulling the rest of my drink – oh that sweet caffeine goodness, so necessary in the morning – and grumbling at having to do so, I was forced to don coat, scarf, gloves and bag (always an elogated ritual at the best of times) and evacuate along with my colleagues into the midst of grey, overcast fogbound, bloody freezing London. Our breath wreathing around us like smoke, we milled around for about 15 minutes, before being allowed back in.

The smell of burning greeted our nostrils as we made our way back to our floor. The culprit? A mince pie, apparently microwaved for an overly long time, had been reduced to a smoking, shrivelled, curranty and calcified pastry mess. Which had set off the alarm and sent us into the freezing chill.

Thank you very much to the Microwave Ignoramus inhabiting our building.

And a Cool Yule to all.

Standing in line to enter Château Versailles on our second visit (more on why later), it became evident that terrorism’s arm had stretched far enough to permeate even this touristey outing to the Sun King’s domain on an overcast, muggy September Sunday afternoon. My idle musings on various means and methods of annihilating all who stood before me in the ever-increasing queue was interrupted by a piercing (American) female voice.

American Lady 1: Why does Osama hate us so much?

American Lady 2: Well, honey, you have to understand – he’s an extremist. Oh by the way, that’s a lovely jumper you have on.

Fact – more comical than fiction, non?

A 48 hour hiatus from 19 days straight and 53 matches of the World Cup means withdrawal shakes and a chance to catch up blog-wise with what I’ve been up to.

London turned on a warm one last Sunday as we headed down to Brighton for Dylan Moran, Terre a Terre and a coma-inducing 90 minutes or so in a crowded pub watching England bore Ecuador into submission. The only amusing incident involved little old Granny, in usual Granny uniform of pale hair, floral dress, grey cardigan and sturdy shoes, jump into the pub, shout out “Eng-er-land!” and do a little shimmy before exiting as abruptly. Bless.

Terre a Terre

A Brighton institution, Terre a Terre’s pleasant but pedestrian interior – ochre walls, easy-on-the-eye artwork – belie food quite unlike any I’ve tasted. Gourmet vegeterian, the menu is complicated. Descriptions of each dish often runs for a long colourful paragraph, full of unheard-of four syllabled words. Needless to say, I can’t quite remember any examples. Still, whatever you choose – and more than likely it will not be what you expect – you are guaranteed a tongue-curlingly tasty treat, not to mention one which won’t pollute your insides with precious metals, insecticides or other lovely modern day innovations.

Organic wines, beers and ciders also feature as do desserts with similarly unfathomable descriptions. Unfortunately, due to stomach restrictions, I could not wade manfully into the pudding breach.

Leave all misgivings about vegeterian restaurants behind. Foodie carnivores will love Terre a Terre as much as any veggie (as the omnivorous friend who dragged me there will attest).

What I enjoyed

Lentilles du lait

Dumplings

A ’smash’ of pumpkin

Compartmentalised tofu with pickled vegetables

Organic cider

Dylan Moran – Pavilion Theatre, The Brighton Dome

Grumpy, irritable, cynical and wonderfully gifted with the ability to pierce through life’s many surreal moments to reveal startling head-clapping ‘why did I not think of that?!’ insights. Mr Moran, of Black Books fame, played the Pavilion Theatre at the stunning Regency-era Brighton Dome and, as expected, reduced the entire new age / chi chi / too-cool-for-school / wannabe-rock-star / art school Brighton audience to tears. Sipping on beer, wine and tea, he rambled through a gamut of topics – the World Cup, Australia, the Irish, children, love, rejection, driving, and Arnold Schwarzenegger (“the guy lifted things for a living, and they voted him in as governor”, “most people avoid lifting things, if they can help it”).

A forty minute set was far too short to hear from Mr Moran. But after we handclapped him into an encore, he asked us to imagine the following scenario (I’m paraphrasing, btw):

“On a Sunday, after a hard day’s photocopying, just as you get ready to leave, your boss comes up to you. And tells you how wonderful your photocopying is. And how he’d like you to stay a bit longer to do more of this wonderful photocopying. You’d tell him to bugger off, wouldn’t you?”

And with that, he was off. And so were we.

Apparently, during 2004, some wit spotted David Hasselhoff at an event in London. On recognising the Baywatch and the sometime popstar, the quipster shouted: “You – you are nothing without your talking car! Remember that! Nothing!”

Fab. I almost choked on my porridge.