Look at my Big Drawers! It’s the Cabinet of Curiosities.

I am so grateful to have a nose. Without having a nose and its scent detecting abilities, I would, for example, be unable to take in and fully appreciate the delightful, fragrant odours of hyacinth blooms in springtime.

But more importantly, without a nose there would be no way of easily homing in on hot dog stands with their alluring onion- and sausage-based aromas filling the air, acting as a huge smell-flag for me and my stomach to notice and then act upon.

Whilst we’re thinking about enticing food smells, one cannot fail to mention the ever-pleasurable sizzling bacon. Or the homely and comforting freshly baked bread. Recently brewed coffee too, that must be given plenty of consideration.

Actually, put all those three together, preferably into my stomach – bacon, fresh bread and coffee – and me and my nose will be satisfied for the rest of the day.

Tomato dribbling at the Gloucester Railway Carriage and Wagon Works

There was a time in my life when I was distinctly unsure about the origin of gherkins.

Despite it sounding like a book written by the rubbish younger brother of Charles Darwin, The Origin of Gherkins was a topic that I once discussed in detail, with me firmly believing that a gherkin was some sort of special weird vegetable that when grown, developed a natural vinegar-tasting tang as it ripened. This was countered by the belief that a gherkin was a small cucumber that tasted of vinegar because it was pickled.

Now, the pickled bit I could get my head around at an unwilling stretch (I mean, who pickles cucumbers?) but the cucumber part was so far out there my head nearly imploded trying to comprehend that I might just be eating cucumbers in my burgers, but also – and this is the bit that hurts – really enjoying them.

No peas please, just the Canadian Mould and some ca-barge, 1920’s style

Some vegetables can be thoroughly boring can’t they?

Peas for example. I find peas exceptionally boring. Without wishing to offend the world’s population of peas, they do exude as much personality and excitement as a chopping board.

But if some vegetables can be boring, can any be exciting?*

I’m not a vegetable aficionado I’m afraid, so I’ll just have to leave that question hanging like an oversized pumpkin (and look very silly amongst the botanist community because a pumpkin is actually classed as a fruit.)

Samuel Rudder was a cheese-mango

I have made a monumental historical discovery.

It’s not often I uncover something so enormously colossal, particularly in the academical world such as this. In fact, my last important discovery was the time I (almost) proved that time travel is possible thanks to archives and cucumbers. You can read about that significant breakthrough here and decide for yourselves how important my contribution to science really is.

Another discovery I’ve made recently was when I realised that the word “algorithm” was not actually spelled or pronounced “alogarithm” [a-logga-rhythm] as I had spent the last forever doing. I’m pretty sure this erroneous pronunciation has made me look fairly silly at various points in my life, so at least that has now been resloved.

As for now though, I really should take a few breaths before I divulge my current discovery, so here’s some background detail before the glorious main event.

Dog dribble, Spaghetti Bolognese and a council minute book: pure beauty?

Isn’t it funny how some people find certain things attractive, yet to somebody else, the exact same thing doesn’t do anything for them. Beauty, as the saying goes, is in the eye of the beholder.

For example, some people would look at a growling, floppy-jowled, saliva-dripping bulldog flashing fangs as sharp as razorblades and would think it’s as cute as a new-born kitten.

But there are some people who would run away extremely fast because they believe they’ve just come across an evil beast from the deepest pit of doom.

I shall let you guess which category I fall into, but here’s a clue: I’m not a fan of dog dribble.

A field trip to another era.

Who remembers their school trips? I’m sure you can recall a few memorable ones, can’t you? I know I can.

Going ice skating at the rink in Swindon was one of them. That wasn’t particularly memorable in itself, as I was both rubbish at ice skating and very accomplished at falling over, so combining the two made me rather damp and helped change my skin colour to various shades of ‘bruise’.

But what I do remember is my classmate executing his falling over routine far more impressively than my efforts. He even decided to top the lot and end his performance with a show stopping ankle breaking routine. There was no way I was going to compete with that, as my ankles certainly didn’t want to extend the competition all the way to the local hospital’s operating theatre. So I let him win that one.

Ignite that ice cream and get sketching!

When taking a holiday in Britain, there are a few things that I consider need to be done in order for the holiday to be classed as an official holiday. The first is to laugh incredulously at the astronomically high prices at motorway service stations for food, drink and fuel, and then stare in wonderment at the crowds of people willingly parting with their cash for such items.

The second is to slowly crawl along a winding B road behind someone towing a caravan or driving a motorhome and then get a bit scared when an exasperated driver thirty cars behind decides to overtake everyone on a blind bend.

The third involves food, and my list of de facto items that have to be eaten on a British holiday is this: a pasty; a cone of chips; a cream tea; an ice cream/ice lolly. If all of these are not consumed during the holiday, then it is not a correct holiday.

How to be civil in a Civil War? Always have a lemon drizzle cake to hand…

When was the last time you smacked your funny bone? That’s an unfair question really, as I can’t remember when I last did it. Maybe you did it last week though. Or yesterday. There might even be someone reading these words right now and they are just about to reach out for a cup of tea and – wallop – the sharp edge of a table or chair goes right into their elbow joint.

I could write anything now, as they won’t be reading this at all. They will be grabbing their elbow instead, which will be fizzing with pain. The pain will slowly grow and steadily move up their forearm and into their fingertips. It will feel as though their entire arm has been attacked by twenty crazed cheese graters. Their face will be screwed up in agony and they will be attempting to recite all of the known swear words in the English language. Plus a few unknown ones too, for good effect.

There is one thing that is certain though: funny bones are anything but funny. Funny bones don’t tell hilarious anecdotes. Funny bones don’t play the make-yourself-dizzy game and then fall headfirst into a hedge. That is funny. So why are they called funny bones? Surely they should be called agony bones or arrrggghhh bones.

A new transport hub, the old cattle market – but no arthritic camels.

Personally, coach journeys are never something I look forward to. If there is any form of alternative transport available instead of a coach, I will always opt for that. Trains, planes, cars, tractors, ferries, speedboats, horseback, rickshaws, go-karts, arthritic camels and carrier pigeons are all preferable to coach travel, even though human-lifting carrier pigeons haven’t yet been invented.

I think my coach travel aversion was formed during school field trips away, where I’d spend the whole excruciatingly long journey doing my very best to make sure I wasn’t ill. Even now, the smell of coaches instantly brings back the intense and uncomfortable feelings of nausea that I felt back then, which sadly starts the whole process off again.

However, here’s the thing: when I travel on buses, I feel absolutely fine. The impending feeling of doom just doesn’t materialise. And yet, it’s essentially the same vehicle. I have never been able to work that out, and therefore find a cure, much to the disappointment of National Express executives everywhere.

Robert Raikes, education pioneer – and now archives mascot inspiration.

Some say that your school days are the best days of your life. I suppose that from the point of view of not having many of life’s worries, they could be right.

But having said that, when I was at school, there were plenty of things to worry about. Such as- would I get to “be” the footballer John Barnes whilst having a kick about during lunch time? (Mainly yes, as everyone else wanted to “be” Gary Lineker or Chris Waddle.)

There were so many other worries too – what was the best way to get out of the pointless cross country PE “lesson”?; who was responsible for nicking my pencil sharpener?; could I swipe an intriguingly named Hedgehog flavour crisp from Daniel during break time without him seeing?; how much Space Dust popping candy could fit in my mouth before it spat and foamed out uncontrollably?; could I make it back home in time to see the next episode of ChuckleVision on TV? And the biggest worry of all – how much of a telling off would I get from my mum after I’d fallen in the brook that ran by the school’s perimeter whilst attempting to jump over it on the way home?

However, a few hundred years ago, there was no such thing as school or education for children. Children were set to work or to simply survive in the city’s disease ridden slums. They had plenty of worries far more serious than crisps and pencil sharpeners, one of which was just trying to stay alive.