First of all, I too would like to join Oxfordshire County Council in extending my warmest congratulations to Helena Bonham Carter for her recent award success with The King’s Speech.

By choosing to live near Didcot, the actress has set an example to us all.

Secondly, with Government cuts about to force thousands of people into unemployment, might I suggest Mr Cameron and his advisors also spend a little time looking at just what daytime TV has to offer to individuals who, through no fault of their own, suddenly find themselves cruelly without work – Cash in The Attic, Bargain Hunt and Judge Judy won’t mend anyone’s self-confidence.

Thirdly, if organisers really want to avoid the annual will it?/won’t it? dilemma of the Cowley Road Carnival, why not move its location to Summertown instead? With the exception of Marks and Spencer, the area is desperately in need of a cultural overhaul and a vital injection of East Oxford adrenaline would be welcomed by locals.

And finally, yes, why don’t I just come out and admit it, I am the holder of the unclaimed Lottery ticket worth £956,813, bought last year in the Vale of White Horse. The truth is, I always meant to claim it, but typically I got sidetracked over major worries with my health (a brief but embarrassing bout of dandruff), and matters weren’t helped by my washing the trousers the ticket was kept in.

So while clearly I now have no physical proof of my moral right to the jackpot, it must be clear to Camelot, and indeed anyone who knows me, that I’d never lie (and of course I’ll buy colleagues here at work luncheon vouchers to celebrate my good fortune).

On a very personal note, and following on from my afore-mentioned battle last year against dandruff, I was wandering past the West Oxford Community Centre last Thursday, impeccably dressed in black.

It wasn’t a funeral I was going to but an important lunchtime meet-and-creep with a savvy media consultant from London and I wanted to look severe but swish.

Anyway, steering my way toward the train station, I noticed a large tree was being dismantled. What I didn’t notice was the fine mist of wood shavings that gently settled on the collar and shoulders of my suit as I stepped past.

Suffice to say, having whisked power-dressed Miss Ms off to Browns for a spot of sophisticated dining, I quickly became aware that she seemed somehow ‘anxious’ in my company (yes, a normal enough trait, but nonetheless accentuated by a habit of furiously wiping her hands if we so much as brushed against each other).

Finally, unable to play the role of social pariah any longer, I asked if there was anything I could do to make her feel more comfortable.

She nodded, said she appreciated my concern and taking a deep breath confessed: “It’s just your skin. It seems to be flaking off.”

Cheque please...