You could be forgiven for thinking that these artistically arranged objects were an installation in a gallery, labelled provocatively "A Good Night Out".

But no; this is the sight that met my eyes when I summoned the lift to take me to the top floor at twenty to four this afternoon. I hadn't been in the lift for twenty-four hours so I suppose they could have been there since last night but it couldn't have been that much of a good night out because the condom was empty.

Thank God for small mercies.

It was a beautiful day yesterday so I wandered about the gardens for a while then popped into the National Gallery for a coffee and a peep at some very imaginative work done by SQA Art and Design students. I suppose that's what we called Higher Art in my day but I don't remember seeing such creativity at KHS. Maybe at the time I couldn't see past Tam Gourdie's italic handwriting obsession.

There is a William Blake exhibition on as well and I found that I was just too late to get a seat to hear the very imaginative Alasdair Gray talking about him and reading some of Blake's verse to boot. The spoilsport health and safety bogey forbade me to sit in the aisle so I left muttering incantations involving up, yours and Jimmy.

Later in the day I meandered into a pub and had a very satisfying glass of IPA; what a splendid contrast to the insipid and gassy French lager that has been my post golf tipple all summer. You have to give them full marks for vino but a great big zero for beer.

Spanish beer is no better than French and on the evidence below you'd have to give the golf resort owning Spaniards a pretty low score for their language skills as well.

The group now running Les Dryades hope to make a bob or two by building houses around the course and have produced a flashy brochure extolling the project. However its title isn't quite right in either French or English and the inside is often worse.

Now Grupo Balboa is not a very big organisation so maybe you can understand their skimping on translation costs; not forgive of course but understand.

On the other hand FIAT could surely have spared a copper to have my car's handbook given the once over by a native English speaker. It is riddled with nonsense such as "These dusts are harmless and is not the beginning of a fire; then the unfold cushion surface and the car interiors can be covered by a dusty remains;"

I expect that when it is sung in Italian it sounds wonderful.

I've been in Edinburgh for a whole week and the word "litter" has barely passed my lips. I may have whispered it gently into the ears of an intimate few but that's all.

Here though is a manifestation of Dirty Scotland that has me scratching my head in despair and disbelief. Rubbish disposal is well organised at the flats where I live. Here's how it works. In the privacy of your own home you collect your domestic waste and when you have a bagful you go to one of the bin-stores, put your bag in the bin and once a week the bin is emptied and cleaned.

So what is this cretin's game?Was the bin full? No. Was he a dwarf who couldn't reach up to the lid? Unlikely. Was leaving the gate open a final fingers up to the responsible residents? Undoubtedly.

Unfortunately none of my windows overlook this bin-store otherwise I should mount a 24 hour watch with my litter lout laser at the ready.

I was sure I'd bump into Ming in the crowd of senior citz taking advantage of the £1.50 lunchtime shows at the Cameo yesterday now that he has more time on his hands. But no. By not taking my advice to enjoy the fruits of his age he missed a treat.

I saw Two days In Paris; written, directed, produced and starred in by Julie Delpy. She seems to be quite famous but her name meant nothing to me, although skimming through her credits I guess I may have caught sight of her on screen before. Whoever she is she did a great job of making me laugh.

That laughter was stilled later in the day when I saw Scotland go down ignominiously before the Georgian teenagers in Tblisi. They must have been on Irn Bru when they beat France twice and they'll need a double dose to get past Italy into Euro 2008.

I expect they'll try to intimidate Italy with the skirl and drones of the pipes but that won't be enough. At critical moments I'd throw in Brass Jaw. The noise a saxophone quartet can make in full cry would make any goalkeeper stick his hands over his ears leaving the way clear for a lightning strike.

Less than a week but I'm picking up the threads of the British way of life again. I'm still occasionally saying pardon instead of sorry when I get in someone's way and I've twice found myself on the wrong side of the road but I have not been disloyal to the Queen.

Alan was here for the weekend and together with Siobhan we took in a Picasso exhibition and the film "When Did You Last See Your Father". In the film Colin Firth discovers on his father's death-bed that he wasn't such a bad old stick after all. I think the DVD will make an excellent Christmas gift, two in fact.

I had to leave Alan to his own devices on Sunday while I attended my first rehearsal for Wild Honey. In the absence of the director, delayed in Portugal with a bad leg, it could have been a shambles but it passed off remarkably well. I thought that perhaps it was a little early for talk of the actors gliding through the piece as though it were a Mozart symphony, but still.

Last night the director's leg had not yet reached home but under the self-deprecating leadership of Iain Kerr we blocked Act 2 and standing in for a number of absent actors I had fun exercising my range of funny voices.

I got home to the news of Ming Campbell's resignation. I said at the time of his election that he was too old and it seems that for once my political judgement was right. My advice to Ming is to enjoy his freedom of Scotland bus pass, his winter fuel allowance, his concession tickets to theatres and cinemas and the other sundry goodies on offer to oldies. Leave running the country (or in the Lib Dem's case not) to those who still have hair to pull out at the frustration of it all. How old is Gordon?

It's different in the theatre of course. Oldies still achieve. Witness Fiona's winning production at the Woking Drama Festival. Best out of 26 entries is pretty good. Will she similarly sweep aside the opposition at the English, or even British finals?

I spent Wednesday morning putting the finishing touches to the house hibernation: covering beds in plastic; draining the water system; spreading poison everywhere a rodent is likely to stroll; and set off for the channel around lunchtime.

An uneventful journey followed by a tolerable dinner, a bit of a drool over Soir 3's Marie Drucker and half a night's rest saw me bright and early by the quayside for the ferry to Dover. My car was checked for hidden immigrants on the French side but I was spared examination on arrival in England thanks to the unlucky Latvian ahead of me who must have looked like better pickings to the defenders of our frontiers.

There followed a day of stressful close combat. British motorway traffic when not at a standstill likes either to play at Formula 1 or to dawdle in the overtaking lanes. Yesterday there was more than enough standstill, much of it incomprehensible, so a journey estimated at nine hours took close to twelve.

But here I am safe and sound and everything looks set for a splendid winter season.

It has felt like being back in the hotel business these last three weeks. I’ve had four parties of visitors, nine people in all. Everyone has now gone and I believe enjoyed their visit to the Creuse. They certainly had much better weather than they would have had at the height of summer.

My uninvited guests appear also to have gone and I trust that they did not enjoy their visit at all. Indeed I hope they are dead. I could never be a Bhuddist.