The car-park of a block of flats just around the corner yesterday.

I'll never feel so bad about litter at Dicksonfield again.

I'm a somewhat reluctant member and a less than occasional user of Facebook but someone in India wants to peek at my wall and use my facilities.

Thanks to the vigilant powers in cyberspace I have been warned about this activity and have updated my password to provide a staunch defence of the very unexciting material that appears in my account  Perhaps I should also delete my profile picture in case an intruder exercises his or her make-up skills to impersonate me.

Rabbit Punch made it - first prize in its category.  So now I've appeared in two prizewinning films.  That's assuming my brief appearance in this one didn't end up on the cutting room floor.  Surely not.

The documentary about Jocky Wilson also won first prize in its but Jocky himself just missed the news by dying, poor chap.

Yesterday was the last of the winter mixed social golf competitions that I have been playing in.  What a lovely day it was weatherwise.  The haar of the previous day had dispersd and we enjoyed a gloriously sunny and warm afternoon.

The end of the season was celebrated by playing a Texas scramble instead of a Fourball and afterwards we had a meal in the clubhouse, various prizes were presented and silly games played.

I didn't feature in the golfing prizes but my team triumphed in the silly games.  One guy was astonishing in his ability to catch a soft ball on his head while wearing a velcro studded cap.  I didn't excel at anything although at least none of my magnetic darts fell on the floor.  However the team performance won me a little box of chocs.  

The real golf season starts shortly and I'm looking forward to that.

While in the art college yesterday I learnt that a film in which I make a fleeting appearance is on the shortlist for a BAFTA Scotland New Talent award.  Rabbit Punch is one of three in the short fiction category.  It's no thanks to me of course but I'll be rooting for it and keeping an eye open for the results when they are announced later this month.  If it wins maybe it will get a screening and I'll have a chance to see it.

Looking through the other nominees my attention was caught by Kirkcaldy Man in one of the documentary categories.  It's already won a prize in a German documentary film festival.  It's about Jocky Wilson the darts player who went from rags to riches and back to rags again.  It was screened in Glasgow last month but alas I did not know.  The Guardian's man saw it somewhere and has this to say. If BAFTA like it perhaps we'll all get a peek.

I was in the art college working on a student film called Matinee Idol which is a little story about a handsome silent movie star whose voice is a rough and impenetrable Aberdonian.  His first foray into the talkies is losing the movie moguls, of whom I am one, lots of money.

It's being produced using what's called chroma key compositing meaning that everything is shot against a plain colour background (normally green or blue) and afterwards the desired background replaces the green through digital magic.  Thus you don't need to go all the way to Australia to be filmed gazing in awe at Ayer's Rock if you can get hold of some footage of it.

The little twist compared to filming in real locations is that since all the backgrounds are in the same physical position you have to move your set and your actors around to get shots from different points of view instead of moving your camera quite as much.  Tricky getting lined up against something that isn't there.      

Good company, good food and drink and exceptionally good weather all contributed to an excellent weekend in the Lake District.

So it was a trifle dispiriting to get home and find that the invasive smokers who I thought I had got rid of some time ago had been in the stair again, polluted the place and littered it with smoking debris.  This time their twisted little minds had added a touch of vandalism.  I can see them giggling away as they burnt a smiley face into the carpet with their fag-ends.

The knowledge that smoking kills gives me a little comfort.  If only it killed more quickly.

It's been on since October but I've only just managed to get around to seeing it.

The Cadell exhibition at the Scottish Gallery of Modern Art ,the biggest and best for 70 years, is simply lovely.  I've long admired pictures such as The Orange Blind and Portrait of a Lady in Black that are in our public collections.  They are both here but the exhibition draws on a number of private collections for the majority of the pictures on display and those naturally I had never seen.

There are gorgeous still lifes; one of white geraniums particularly appealed to me.  There are beautiful interiors that together with elegant women one thinks of as his trademark.  I could have happily ripped two or three of those off the wall and taken them home with me; Interior Croft House, Interior Strathur and the terrific portrait of the wife of one of his patrons whose name I've forgotten.

Add to that a whole roomful of vibrant landscapes of Iona and a few fruits of his visits to France and Venice and you have the makings of a satisfying afternoon in the gallery where you can finish off by indulging in a nice cup of coffee as you rest your feet.

Don't neglect the little display of letters and photographs charting his life that is shown in the ground floor library.  From his explanation during his teenage sojourn in Paris as a student accompanied by his mother and sister that they didn't stay long in the Jardin des Plantes because of the smell of the poor people to his sad comments on financial distress towards the end of his life they are fascinating.

But hurry; it closes on the 18th.

After the disappointment of A Dangerous Method (which several critics praised by the way) it was a relief to thoroughly enjoy two highly contrasting films later in the week.

Cria Cuervos (made in 1975) is, according to the critics, a parable on the lingering death of Franco's regime.  Be that as it may, it is also a stonkingly good story of adult peculiarities seen through the large penetrating brown eyes of the marvellous eight year old Ana Torrent. It's a warm, charming and ultimately happy picture of kids growing up.  There's that parable I suppose.

Carancho is anything but warm and charming, or rather the world of ambulance chasing lawyers and insurance fraud that it portrays isn't.  But the romantic relationship that develops at the centre of the brutal and bloody events that pepper this Tarantinoesque thriller has its own gentle warmth.  The ending won't come as a surprise to the wordly wise cinemagoer but the more sentimental amongst them will regret it.