mostly david ephgrave

Last night, while reading in bed, my mind wandered to the time I ate some chips in the green room of Trinity Arts Centre, Gainsborough. It was only after attempting to read the same sentence for the fourth or fifth time that I realised I wasn’t paying attention to my book. Not only that: it suddenly dawned on me how often I think of this seemingly unmemorable incident when my brain is in its resting state. The question is: why has this one meal become ingrained in my memory? It wasn't special. I’ve eaten a lot of food backstage through the years. It's hardly an unusual situation. They weren’t even good chips. They were pretty subpar - and not the sort of thing I wanted to eat before the two hours' worth of singing that lay ahead. That's one of the downsides to touring: you sometimes have to make do with what you can get. What if, in years to come, this becomes my only vivid memory? What if I end my days lost at sea, wrestlin...

At my next residents’ association AGM, I’d like to raise the issue of their constant use of Comic Sans in all correspondence. Perhaps they do it purposely, to take a sting off their antagonistic tone. It doesn’t work. If anything, it makes me more irritable. There’s nothing fun about a rise in the cost of ground rent, however you dress it up. Comic Sans shouldn’t be the font-of-choice for official documentation. In fact, it's rarely appropriate. Council tax bill? NO. Court summons? NO. Gravestone engraving? DEFINITELY NOT. I might let it go on a kids’ birthday invitation, but even then, I’d question whether the child was the sort of person I’d want my offspring to mix with. Comic Sans is the ITV of typefaces. There, I’ve said it.

Today, I popped into my local Caff è Nero to buy a black Americano and came out with this.  I didn’t pay for the goody bag. It was a wedding gift. This goes to show the loveliness of the staff and the care they give their customers. They’re my favourite coffee shop with very good reason. I used to worry that they thought I was weird. Before I had my office, I’d be in there nearly every day of the week. Most of my blog was written on the premises. It was the perfect place to work and a chance to get out of the house. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been sitting in there, pretending not to wait for my agent to ring. When invariably it didn’t, or it did and the news was bad, it was nice to see a friendly face. The people who work there always show an interest. For someone who’s self-employed and spends a fair amount of time alone, it’s often nice to have a chat. Some of the staff have even been to see my shows. I do like to ...

Today, I rescued a woman whose wheelchair was stuck in a fence, halfway down a steep hill. Call me SuperDavid. At first I thought she’d stopped to pick blackberries, until I heard her calling for help. I then leapt into action, like the lithe, wiry creature that I am. It was a good job I came along when I did, as it was pretty precarious. The incline was such that, even if she’d managed to wiggle herself free, she would have lost control of the chair and rolled into a main road. The upshot of this stunt doesn’t bear thinking about.     Getting her down the hill was tricky. I had to lean backwards to counterbalance the chair and stop it speeding away. It was an exercise in extreme concentration. One false move and she’d be off. Once safely at the bottom, I pushed her across the road, then ran back up the hill to collect my bag. I then ran back down and saw her into town. I then continued onto my chiropractor appointment, now in ...

Who better to slaughter the animals you cherish than the Paradise Butchery? I spotted them today in a shopping centre in Peterborough. It's a shame that they'd closed down. I guess their name was too incongruous. Those two words make for unhappy bedfellows. They were the friendly face of butchery, who put the laughter into slaughter. You could buy your meat safe in the knowledge that the beast in question had gone to a better place. With a little publicity, they could have put paid to sales of Quorn overnight. After all, have you ever seen a more relaxed cow than this?

I’d make a cup of tea, but somebody’s hidden the kettle. Our office shares a kitchen space with a few other businesses. That definition doesn’t do the room justice: while it may be a kitchen, space doesn’t really come into it. I’ve seen battery hens living in less cramped conditions. Not in person, as I don’t spend much time hanging around unethical farming facilities. Not since the injunction. In the kitchen there’s a kettle. Or there was. I popped my head in the room yesterday - the only part of me I can fit in with ease - to find the base and nothing else. The water-bearing bit was nowhere to be seen. I hoped this would be one-off, but it’s still missing. Perhaps someone took it into their office to fill up their cups and then forgot to return it. Whatever the reason, if it’s not back tomorrow, I’m making tea with the hot tap.

The First Class compartments on First Capital Connect trains are a token gesture. There's nothing classy about them. The term First Class suggests they're above the usual standard.  Not with FCC. As far as I can see, the only difference from Standard Class is an A4-sized doily on the headrest, which hardly warrants the entrance fee. Anyone who wastes money on a piece of tracing paper has serious problems.  I once travelled First Class from Euston to Stoke-on-Trent with Virgin Trains. Coffee and breakfast were included in the ticket price, which helped take the sting off my final destination. The only plus point of paying for a First Class ticket on a First Capital Connect train is potentially avoiding the steely glare of a wronged ticket inspector. Is this worth the effort? Why don't they scrap First Class and free up more seats for the average punter? Maybe then I'd feel a little less like cattle in transit.