At The Pines

In Putney recently I passed The Pines, the former home of that flame-haired pagan sensualist Algernon Charles Swinburne. The strange little chap was rescued from alcoholic isolation by Theodore Watts-Dunton, and sequestrated there in relatively sober senescence with his moustachioed care worker. I visited a pub in Wimbledon recently which he apparently visited on one of his long rambles from his new home. The house now is obscured by foliage, the blue plaque's lustre dimmed. I looked up at the windows - was that the bald cranium of the aged Swinburne I saw fleetingly at one of the upstairs windows? No.

Waddling down by Mother Thames, I am shocked into increased embarrassment at my portly figure by the hordes of floppy-haired, muscle-bejewelled canoeists striding around with 12 foot canoes carelessly tucked like crayons under their massive Oxbridge armpits. I walk sweatily and shame-belliedly away. Unnecessarily warm for October.

Overhead in The Fitzroy Tavern at the weekend: "I've seen the Shawshank Redemption three times and I still can't remember the end".