THE BIGGEST RUSH

I suppose I should write about the riots although there has undoubtedly been too much 'ink' (to use an old-fashioned phrase) spilled on this subject already and we haven't seen the half of it yet.

You know, the politicos and the chattering classes seem, generally, to agree that this outbreak of lawlessness that affected quite a number of English cities, was a key indicator of some sort of breakdown in society.

Maybe, but I am less inclined to think in such dramatic terms.

The line I find most telling about this whole affair was the comment made by one of the defendants in court when asked by the judge why she went on the rampage, as it were. She answered that it was the "biggest rush" she'd had felt in her life.

And that's the point. Think about it. Suddenly you have the opportunity to run around the streets, being chased as if in a video game (only this time for real!) by the boys in blue and you're more or less free to break windows, torch cars, steal those things you've always wanted to own and - at the same time - you have a very good chance of not being caught. Being caught means you lost the game.

For me, this explains the rapid spread of the disturbances. There was, just briefly, a sort of riot tourism. People came into the cities to smash and grab and the very time that the frightened masses - the workers, you and me in other words - were hurrying in the other direction. It was indeed a rush - nothing like it had ever occurred, ever been available, during the (thus far short) lifetimes of the rioters.

Does this explain arson and the deaths - were these a mere function of over-exuberance getting out of hand? No of course not, it neither explains nor condones. These darker issues almost certainly arose from long-time criminals working under cover of the confusion for their own ghastly purposes or, alternatively, from racists seeking to settle scores (or to open wounds).

None of this makes things right but I think it's as good an explanation of any other. Society is, if you're young (and whether dispossessed or not) boring. Yes of course there are role-models we wish all the young folks would follow, but no everyone can be an Olympian or, indeed, an Eagle Scout but almost everyone, at the age of the majority of the rioters, was energetic and somewhat hormonal and, no doubt, keen not to be told what to do (at least for a while).

SHETLAND WEST OF WALES

Pembrokeshire is often described as "little England west of Wales". Be that as it may, the 'house' where I've been staying for the past 12 days is, from its twee Scots name, a little piece of Shetland on the Pembrokeshire Coast.

It would have been better had it been England!

Here's some holiday advice - particularly if you, like me, are somewhat suspicious of the Scots and their purposes: Do not hire a Scottish house (accurately 'terraced cottage') in Wales from people who live in Essex. The combination is not agreeable even if the location, Newport Pembs, is very attractive indeed.

OK, Ok. I know I'm very tall but the doorways were low even by dwarfish Shetland standards. One puts up with that sort of thing (just) even though it means having to creep about like an octogenarian. But what about that architectural afterthought than an estate agent might risibly describe as the 'bathroom complex'?

Do you know the old joke: "When I was young we had an outside lavatory; then we saved up some money and bought a house." Well there was something of that.

Let me take you in by the front door. As you enter you are immediately faced by an unexpected and, to be fair, attractive black laquered staircase rising to the two small bedrooms. Avoiding this one ducks left into a parlour with a floor embellished with rush matting held to the rather worn tiles by silver gaffer tape.

Crouch through a door that even Mickey Rooney would have trouble with and into the kitchen area where on the left, in a nod to geography, is a Welsh dresser stacked with non-descript china that one may not use - it's there for the look.

Duck under an arch for the tiny washing-up 'zone' and then again duck (having moved no more than a further six feet) through what was originally the back door.

Notice something missing - like the loo and bathroom for instance?

Aha. Now we're into an outhouse with a second back door to the left and rough concrete flooring underfoot. There's a captivating display of old shoes and boots to the right and an Edwardian wood and cast iron drying-rack above, just in position to give a good whack to the cranium just in case one has managed to dodge all the other obstacles to that point.

Finally to the right we have a bathroom and separately a loo where the lavatory itself is only barely attached to the ground (I hesitate to say 'floor') and gives the impression - should one choose to shift position and set off a bout of rocking - of being at sea. There's something about water in the lavatory pan slopping about to confirm one isn't at home.