17th January 2001 - 8:20 p.m.

This week's episode of Tales From The East-End finds me visiting the locksmiths in the market, hoping to replace the key that I, famously, inadvertently handed over to a homeless man with my spare change (if you're out there, my cidery chum, I'll narrow your search for the door down a bit. It's Borwick Avenue, Walthamstow, and I shall put the kettle on in anticipation). But, let’s face it, you really know that something’s going wrong when the locksmith begins to address you as 'Guv'ner', and later, 'Old fruit'. I narrowly suppress an odd urge to refer to him as 'Me ol'cock-sparrer', and get out whilst the going's good. Only to have an elderly Asian man mutter 'Shagger!' under his breath, as he walks past me on an otherwise deserted street. On second thoughts, he may simply have been sneezing, or mistaking me for the West Ham goalkeeper - Oh, bye then readers! Thanks for sticking around so long! - but I am rather taken with the idea of being referred to as the 'East-End Shagger'. It wouldn't be too long, of course, before I were stripped of my crown, and thrown from the carnival float, but I'm sure I can keep my dark secrets of celibacy under wraps for a week or two; just long enough that I can put the position on my CV.