Number 14 update

I had no idea how this would work out in practice, but I prepared by learning 'Do you speak English?' and 'May I take your photo?', and by keeping my camera uncased and ready for action. On our first expedition outside the apartment, we were walking across a park when I saw four nuns in brown habits hurrying along in a tight group. Before I could think, I was running across to catch them. The adrenaline was pumping. 'You sorry!' I shouted. Their heads snapped round and they skittered like a nervous, four-headed religious foal. 'Your thank you speak English?' Without their feet moving, they slid into formation, three of them moving to the back and shoving forward the smallest (far left in photo), who went very red and said 'Little'. 'What type of nuns are you?' I asked. I wasn't sure how to speak to nuns, but thought this would be safe. 'We are Franciscan. We dress brown'. I told them I hadn't seen brown nuns in England. 'We're not popular here too', she said, sadly. I pictured them being jostled and pinched in the street, only realising later that she probably meant they weren't common. That was all the nun small talk I had – it was time to strike. 'Can I shake your mushroom?' I said, holding up my camera. They looked at each other, and decided a photo wouldn't break any taboos. For a few moments, they went quite giddy, giggling and nudging each other into position. I took their picture and could see they needed to get on. I thanked them, said hello, and left. I was pleased to be off the mark, but wished I'd studied enough Polish to be able to say 'OK girls – on the count of three, show me your tattoos.'

Every part of Eastern Europe has its unique style of Gypsy music. In Warsaw, it's the five-piece brass band. This was the first we saw in action. They put a huge amount of physical effort into their ancient instruments, and the music is fantastic – the two on the left working together to make the complicated bass rhythms, the two trumpets playing together or in harmony on top, and the chap in the middle filling it out in the middle with his own harmonies and rhythms. The music is is occasionally embellished by the guy second from the right with some shuffling dance steps, a whirl of the hat in the air, or some random shouting. Note the paper coffee cup – there seems to be some kind of bye-law in Warsaw, as all buskers had either one of these or a friend going round with a hat actively pestering for money. These guys weren't making money very quickly, and as many people were putting their fingers in their ears as they walked past as were putting money in the cup. I watched a few numbers and gave them some money, and they were happy to squeeze up for a photo call.

On the tram home I was following our route on the map when the man next to me asked where we wanted to get to. He told us where to get off, and I asked him where he'd learnt his English. He had spent thirty-five years working as an architect in Melbourne. He'd come back to Poland because it was his home, but seemed unsure whether he'd made the right decision because all his friends are in Australia, and he feels cold all the time.  We talked about Sydney Opera House for a stop, then I pounced. He was delighted to have his photo taken, and whipped his glasses off. His name is Chris. 

Next morning we were looking for our tram stop, and found ourselves walking behind a young guy with an accordion. When he turned out to be getting on the same tram, I decided to pull out my accordion player's union card. I asked him if he spoke English. He just shook his head slowly without any change of expression, so I shrugged and smiled and left him to it. A few seconds later he called after me 'Italian?', so I told him I also played, found out he was Romanian, and was hoping to make 100 złotis – about £20 – busking that day. He didn't mind having his photo taken at all, and tried to help us find our way to the zoo. His name is Ale, and that's A minor he's playing.

Warsaw Zoo is like I remember zoos from my childhood. The animals are in simple enclosures, with little effort put into recreating their natural environment. You can get really close to the animals, and Health and Safety doesn't feature highly (I swear I remember riding a lion when I was four). Some of the animals looked pretty depressed, but not the gorillas. The gorilla house  was empty apart from a young man with a timer and clipboard. On the other side of a worryingly thin window, two adolescent gorillas were play-fighting, baring their fangs and crashing into the glass in wrestling holds. We asked the young guy what he was doing. He was a student researching gorilla behaviour, it turned out, and he had to spend 15 hours with these two, recording absolutely everything they did. We were witnessing a particularly interesting bit of action, he explained, as the younger one was starting to assert himself against the boss. We stood and watched the display for twenty minutes in awe and terror, feeling like the puny primates we are. (A shame, because I'd just come out of the pygmy marmoset section feeling enormous and powerful). The young man, whose name is Radek, reluctantly agreed to a photo, but seemed too awkward to pose.

As we were walking round the zoo, we kept glimpsing a smartly dressed young chap learning bits of script. When I saw him with a cameraman near the lion enclosure, I went to investigate. He was very friendly. He was making a television program about the Polish national symbol – the eagle – and was going around other animals exploring whether they had any connection to Poland. I asked him if he was famous, and he went very bashful and said, 'You could say, a little'. His name is Radek Kotjarski – but maybe not spelled in that way. This could have been a great photo, as I lined him up with a lion lying majestically to the side of his head. But then I absent-mindedly stepped to the side as I clicked, and the majestic lion is now behind his head.

In Warsaw's most famous park the next morning, through the trees I caught a glimpse of some strange goings on, and went over to find out what was happening. A dozen or so men in very convincing American Civil War outfits were gathered around a tent. I asked them if they spoke English, and they said no, but told me to wait while they got Mateusz. He eventually appeared, and explained that they were a society that reenacted the Louisiana 14th regiment, which was a Polish unit in the civil war. They are not history specialists, but a range of 'ordinary' people (I had my doubts about this). They normally got together once a month, but were holding a recruiting day today, and had marched twelve miles the evening before and slept rough in the woods. Only one of the group had been to America, but Mateusz (the tall one in the middle) went quivery and misty eyed when I asked him if he hoped to go – 'That's my dream,' he said.

OK – so it's another gypsy accordion player. But that's my thing, and I was over-excited, especially after finding out that Romanians speak Italian. I thought this was an old lady until I got right up to her, and saw that she was only about fifteen. She was very sweet and smiley. She said she couldn't make much in a day – about 50 złotis – and had been playing since she was five. She was very happy to have her photo taken. Her name is Cosmina. Warsaw is one of the few places I've been where just about everyone is white, so I wish I'd had the courage to ask her what it was like to live there as a gypsy, and whether she'd prefer to be in Romania. 

We were in the main Sunday market, and I was admiring a rabbit-skin jacket with Lola. The lady on the stall told us that she made them out of skins her friend in Italy sends her. She also made very unusual hats from discarded clothes. She'd spent a long time in Amsterdam and had friends all over the world – 'I love people too much' – but had decided to come back to Poland, because it was her home. She seemed extremely warm and pretty eccentric – I couldn't imagine anyone except her actually wearing the homemade hats and rabbit-skin coats. Her name is Miriam.

By the last day, I still needed at least one more to fulfil the challenge, and I was starting to flag. It was the Warsaw Marathon, and there were quite a few competitors milling around. I wanted to buttonhole someone and ask them about the experience, but the opportunity didn't come to me, and I didn't quite have the energy to create it. I also missed out on the chap on the tram who'd been in the US army for two years, the toyshop owner who went wild at a boarding-school in Bury St Edmunds, the old man who does one painting of Warsaw every day of his life, the young man sketching squirrels in the park, and many more who I couldn't summon up the nerve or the energy for. The challenge was great, though. It added a layer to the holiday which made it more memorable, and got me looking at things through a different lens. Just by making a small extra effort I felt I was stepping out of the normal tourist experience, and all the subjects seemed very pleased to be asked. I'm going to try to do this wherever we go to some extent – try to winkle the backstory out of people that come my way. So this is the tired last effort – the nice lady who helped us get back to the airport. She was the information desk in one of the major stations, but only seemed to know the word 'down' in English. Claire helped things with her mime – the two movements she does are her hand shooting through the air (accompanied by a dramatic 'Pshoooosh!!') and a sudden bending of the knees. Neither of these, as far as I can see, has any connection with what she's trying to say, but the two women connected somehow as humans. She was extremely surprised to have her photo taken, and seemed flattered. I thought it would be too weird to ask her name.

Number 13 update

I opted for the simplest form of trick there is – 'knock and run' as we used to call it in 1970s Timperley, or 'knock-down Ginger' as some southern fools insist on calling it. So in this version, I would knock on someone's door and leave a treat. I had very little time, as we were going away, so I bought a couple of nice things to eat and drink and chose my victims, who I can't reveal. One of the houses has a glass door and no cover for sneaking up or away. I crawled in and put down the treats, then knocked hard, slammed myself into reverse crawl, and got up and legged it round the corner. They would have had to be looking out of the window at that exact moment to spot me. Next morning a car stopped next to me and the two victims got out and gave me a big hug. 'That means a lot,' one of them said. It was unexpected and a sweet moment. One of them had been looking out of the window at the exact moment, and glimpsed my blue jumper, which I still had on. I didn't have time to explain that I'm not actually kind, but was just doing a challenge. It showed me that tiny efforts like this can be quite powerful – I'll try to keep dropping them in randomly when I see the chance.

Number 14

Ha ha - interesting and fairly scary challenge. We're going to Warsaw for three days. I've never been there before, and speak no Polish. I might pop into the local Polski Sklep tomorrow and find out how to say 'Can I take your photo?' and 'My one phone call will be to my solicitor'.

Number 12 update update

Done it! For someone who can dance at all, going to a dance class probably seems like no big deal, like having an interview in a sausage shop wouldn't bother someone who doesn't have a lisp. I dance with a lisp.

So I got there on the dot of eight. Kidlington (as every Inspector Morse fan knows) has a tiny centre. I was picturing a candle-lit village hall. The handful of people would smile and nod when I went in. They have kindly and helpful expressions. Inspector Lewis would hand me a pint of Guinness – 'This'll settle yer nerves, son.'

But Exeter Hall is the size of an aircraft hangar, and far more brightly lit. Scattered around the hall were about twenty stony-faced people. The most stony-faced sat at a table next to a cash box. I sidled up. 'I've just come to try it out,' I said. 'No need to pay, then,' she didn't reply, friendlily. 'That's eight pounds,' she did reply, stony-facedly. 'Plus two to join.' I didn't want to 'join' – I didn't know if I'd like it. 'What if I don't like it?' I said. She didn't have time for this. 'Well you'll be a member ... for life.' I took the clipboard and form she handed me, and tried to work out the logic of this as I headed for an empty table. There were more people now. I felt they were all looking at me. I could tell that they knew. I started to become aware of my movements. How do you walk naturally? I tried to picture my legs like ribbons so that they wouldn't look wooden. Mm ... no, that didn't feel right – my foot went too far forward in the air. Now people were looking at me. I reached the table and busied myself with the form. Name ... job ... OK. Pets ... blood group ... mother's maiden name ... done. That's good – it didn't ask anything about dancing. That would have been irrelevant and intrusive.

The place was filling up now. A man was sitting at my table. 'Been before?' I said, willing him to nervously say 'No.' 'For about three years,' he said expressionlessly, and looked down at his phone. I wished I was him. I made my way back to the desk in short bursts, using knots of old ladies as cover. The stony-faced woman had my life-membership card ready. I wondered what the magnetic strip was for – what could I swipe with it? Did it literally open doors?

Things were starting to happen quickly now. A man and a woman had hopped up on the stage. Crowds of people (where were they coming from?) were pouring onto the dance floor. I joined them. 'Men on one side, women on the other,' said a booming voice from the stage. Before I could move, I found myself facing a smiling middle-aged lady, about my mother's age. (I now realize that I am not 27, as I always imagine myself. No doubt, she saw herself facing a middle-aged man, about her father's age.)

'Hi, I'm Meg,' she said. 'Hi, I'm Meg,' I replied, extremely nervous now. 'Man's left hand to lady's left hand, back a step, forward a step, and spin her anti-clockwise,' boomed the stage. Before I could work out what this even meant, Meg was off, pushing me back, pulling me forward and spinning herself anti-clockwise.  We stopped. 'You were supposed to do that,' she said. 'Ladies all change! Six ... seven ... eight!' Someone else was there! We were off. This time I did it, and she – no time to exchange names from now on – looked relaxed about it. 'Ladies all change ... next step!' ordered the bully. I concentrated as though my dignity depended on it. Two partners later, I'd almost grasped the man-spin. No time to be pleased with myself – the third and last step was being demonstrated. This one looked impossible. Spin, step back, open and close your lady, spin, step back. After five minutes with rotating expert partners, I wasn't far off. 'Freestyle!' commanded the voice, and the lights went down. People were asking each other to dance. I spotted someone who was almost as hopeless as me, and asked her if she wanted to dance. We struggled our way painfully through fragments of the routine, but our combined hopelessness was just too high. 

The music stopped. Keen to master this now, I scanned the room and spotted someone who was good.  'Dance?' She nodded and said, 'I'm Gwen, by the way.' She was tiny – about up to my top rib if she jumped. We did the three moves a few times. 'I can't believe it's your first time,' she said, 'I thought it must be at least your second.' Wow. She had mistaken me for a second timer! My head swelled. I suddenly saw myself as a modern-jive god. 'At least your second' – the words were echoing round my head. I put a little more panache into a spin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gwen's head snap back. I had myself in a neck hold. I had spun Gwen the wrong way, hard. 'It's OK, we were all beginners once,' said Gwen, rubbing her neck. 'I'll just sit down for a few minutes,' she said, as I apologized. I sat down too.

It was the beginners' recap now anyway. A depressing affair in a bare, brightly-lit room, where they break down the moves so much that they don't seem like dancing any more. I'd crushed my own high spirits with my assault on Gwen, and I was just going through the motions as we ... erm ... went through the motions. After half an hour, my knowledge had gone backwards, and it was time for the closing freestyle.

My confidence was shot. Someone asked me if I wanted to dance. I wanted to say no, but instead said 'Yes' with a cracking voice and twisted smile. The music started – country rock. The moves were flashing through my mind randomly, interspersed with images of Gwen's head snapping back. I could see my partner was confused by my random movements. My dancing self-esteem had gone. I was deliberately dancing with stiff legs. 'Look who you asked to dance,' I challenged my partner mentally, 'Mr Wooden Legs.' I did a random spin, with my arse deliberately sticking out. The song went on and on – Don't you break my heart, my achy breaky heart ... My movements became more frantic and disconnected. Images whirled in my head ... the man on the stage... Miley Cyrus's giant tongue flapping ... President Kennedy's head snapping back... the Kikuyu circumciser guffawing ...

At last it stopped. 'Thanks,' I said to my partner, who was standing open-mouthed. I turned sharply, for the first time all night, and headed for the car. As I wiped the sweat, or perhaps tears, from my face and started the engine, I could hear some Britney Spears starting up. 

The next morning, when I realised it hadn't all been a dream, I surprised myself. Modern jive, I thought – I wouldn't mind trying that again.

Number 13

At first glance I thought 'a nice trick' meant a trick that works really well because it catches someone properly by surprise and gives them a nasty scare / burn / sweet / bruise / insect / death. I'm not a fan of practical jokes, and haven't attempted one since I almost blinded my cousin John with the 'look down the hose and see what's blocking the water' trick in 1974, so I was pleased when I noticed nice was in italics so the idea is to make someone smile. But that still means you have to make them vulnerable in order for the nice bit to work. I'm inexperienced at this, and worried I might misjudge it:

Me [in hired police uniform, knocking at door of acquaintance's house]: Are you the wife of David Thomas Saunders?  

Mrs Saunders [suddenly pale and shaky]: Yes

Me: Did he leave home in a red Vauxhall Cavalier this morning?

Mrs Saunders [holds the wall, legs crumble]: Oh my God

Me [producing daffodils from behind back]: Well he's got you these!'

I'm going to see if I can come up with a trick, or if anyone suggests one – otherwise I may have to interpret it as 'Give a stranger a nice surprise'.

Number 12 update

So on Thursday the nightly children's taxi service will be suspended, and I will be attending the beginners' modern jive class in Kidlington: beginners' lesson is at 8, then the experienced dancers arrive and beginners are removed for a recap and a nervous sweat. 9.30 is 'lights off' and a free for all. Claire, who is a dancer, has been to one of these classes (but isn't going on Thursday), and could barely describe what I can expect without collapsing in giggles. But she has at least supplied me with the fireproof leotard and ostrich feather which she explained everyone has to wear, so at least I won't look like the odd one out. Any non-dancing wooden-legged brothers or sisters would be extremely welcome!

Number 11 update

My attempts to contact people I've lost touch with have first taken me back to Milan in the mid-80s, where I had my first proper job. As soon as I got there and moved into my old friend Gary's cupboard, we decided to start a band. The very next day he found not only a very good guitarist – the boyfriend of a colleague -- but also a semi-pro and beautiful singer who was a student at the 'College for Maidens' where he 'worked' (= spent his time drooling). We wrote a couple of quick songs, took the name 'Men's Rubbish', and we were off, meeting up every Saturday morning in a studio to rehearse. After a few months, before we were anything like ready, we got offered a big gig, playing outdoors at a major international volleyball tournament, with an audience of 5,000 people. When the moment came we were cacking ourselves so badly that we didn't notice the drummer still hadn't appeared until we were actually climbing onto the stage. It didn't matter – as I put my foot on the first step, a giant thunderclap set off the worst hailstorm I'd ever experienced – golf-ball-sized chunks of ice smashed glasses on the tables, a swarm of roadies dragged away the huge PA system, and that was the end of Men's Rubbish. We took it as a sign that a) there IS a god, b) health and safety is not his priority and c) he didn't rate our music (We found out later that our drummer had fallen off his motorbike on the way to the gig and broken his arm, which only confirmed this). Apart from me and Gary, we never met up again. It would have ended badly in any case, as we were all in love with the singer. So the anticlimax is that I've tried every trick to contact guitarist Carmine Sirimarco and singer Stefania Martinelli without result, apart from finding out she went on to higher things in her singing career.

                         Stefania Martinelli (bottom left): higher things

Number 12

According to anyone who's ever seen me dance, and me, I can't dance. Putting together the comments over the years – people have been quite free with them – it seems like a) my legs look like they've been swapped round, b) and are made of wood, c) and my arse sticks out. In my youth I perfected a style which some cruel people called 'prawn dancing'. The prawn part, I think, came mainly from the way I kept my head down and my arms bent in front of my face (my bright pink face and bulging eyes possibly also contributed). If I had to dance, I was determined not to be recognised.

So now I just have to decide which of the following local dance groups (there are millions – what the hell is wrong with people?!) is in for a laugh / awkward silence:

• 'Folk dancing for fun' (Sorry? Did you say 'Driving a nail through your own foot for fun'?)
• Morris dancing (as a vocal life-long supporter of fox dancing and morris hunting, would need heavy disguise)
• Scottish country dancing (a coward's way out, as have done this drunk at weddings)
• Argentine tango (would require most bravery - picture Al Pacino in 'Scent of a Prawn')
• Balkan dance (have 'spoiled' this while drunk at a wedding, they said. Why should they decide which direction the circle goes round, I say)
• Modern jive (has potential. I don't)
• African dance (I have done, not through choice, the Kikuyu circumcision dance. A large crowd of Kenyans from all over the country was watching and guffawing. Some, I discovered afterwards, were crying with laughter. In a country racked by tribal divisions, I like to think my dancing briefly brought them together. There is a photo of this below – the only known photo of me dancing; I am the one with the swapped round wooden legs and the sticking-out arse)

Number 11

Nothing is springing to mind. All the people who I've known in the past and got on well enough with to see again ... I have done. Or at least I've tried and failed. Same as anyone's done on Facebook. There's also an additional rule which I was given verbally and firmly: I can't include any women that I said anything more then Hello to*.

I'm blank. Would the old chap in the library count? I said 'Hello' to him** yesterday (technically 'in my past') and haven't seen him since. A pedant might argue about whether or not I 'knew' him, though, as I'd never seen him before and he didn't look up or reply to my hello. Even though I sensed a connection as we shared that table for ten minutes, I suppose it wouldn't be in the spirit of the challenge.

A quick initial riffle through the people I went to school or university with or have worked or shared a flat with since rules them out. But already a few faces and places I'd forgotten have popped up, and even if most of them made me wince and immediately pop them back down again, that's going to be the value of this challenge – pulling out the mental shoeboxes from under my mental bed and going through them, mentally.

*Actually, an expression was used here which I've only heard once since the early eighties, and which made me blush.

**Not a euphemism. Definitely not the early eighties thing.

Number 10 update

So I screwed up my courage and went into the Blue Cross charity shop. It was very busy. Oh dear. I waited till one of the ladies - let's call her 'Jackie' * - had a moment, and told her I had an unusual favour to ask - could she photograph me each time I came out of the changing room. A less confident woman would have screamed or reached for the panic button, but she just said 'You'll have to show me what to press.' Two things caught my eye straight away: a black shirt with large leaves over it - something you might wear in a casino in the Florida Keys. And a fez - something you might wear ... erm ... never.
I got changed out of my greystuff, came out of the cubicle and handed the camera to Jackie. She didn't seem to recognize me. She took the camera and put it up against the middle of her face, the wrong way round. 'I've never used one before', she said. I felt a twinge of bad luck. Out of 7 billion people, the only one ... 'Turn it round, Jackie', I said. 'When you see me on the screen, press the big button'. She turned it round and pointed it at my navel. 'Oh yes, that's it'. 'Can you see my head?'. 'Yes'. She clearly couldn't.  Three pensioners had stopped their browsing and were smiling. 'Maybe it would be better like this' I said, gently moving it up so it pointed at me. 'That's much better now' said Jackie, as the camera slipped down towards my navel again. What the hell was she seeing on the screen? I tried to think of how I could say 'Can you see my head?' in a more simple way, without the difficult words. I moved it up again. It slipped down again. 'I'll tell you what, Jackie. I'll squat down a bit.' I squatted. A couple with a toddler had noticed, and came over to watch. 'OK, so now press the big button'. I did a big smile. Nothing happened. 'Have you pressed it?'. 'Yes'. She hadn't. 'The big one ... the one I showed you'. 'OK'. I did another big smile. 'Just getting your face in focus'. 'It's OK - the camera will do that - just press the BUTTON ... erm, please.' She stood motionless. 'Here, I'll show you' I said standing up and taking a step forward. The button clicked. 'You moved!'. There was some suppressed laughter from the dozen-or-so onlookers. I squatted back down and did a smile from memory. Jackie waited till my thighs were going weak and there was no mirth left in my smile, and clicked. 'There you go'. I thanked Jackie, hung the Florida shirt back up, and went back into the changing rooms to try on my next outfit. It was way too small, and I could sense the onlookers were lingering outside, waiting. I put my greystuff back on and came out of the cubicle to buy the Florida shirt and just go. One of the onlookers was buying the shirt. It had all been for nothing. I thanked Jackie as I left. 'I'm going to buy one of those', said Jackie. I think she meant the camera.

                                       I've never used one before

                   Press the big one ... the one I showed you ... yes ... PRESS it!

I just wanted to get it over with now. Helen and Douglas house next. All the men's clothes were grey, and either minuscule or massive. Sue Ryder Care the same. And Oxford Animal Sanctuary Shop, African's Children Fund, even the obscure Zimbabwean splinter charity shop which no one has ever been in apart from the widows of the tiny and huge men in grey. I'd given up when I remembered Sobell House. When I went in, the two ladies were talking about which churches in Witney are 'high church' and which are 'happy clappy' - obvious code for talking about where to score the best crystal meth. Glancing around the sea of grey, I spotted a blue shoulder poking out. A denim shirt. An urban cowboy ... at 50? It was my only chance. I interrupted the ladies and explained to Helen ** about the challenges. Two minutes later she had the camera. 'I'll take it from a low angle with the posters in the background' she said - she was clearly from the opposite end of the spectrum to Jackie. 'Keeping it on?'

                                           Helen **. High church.

                       Straight shootin', whisky swillin', mid-life crisis

* Her real name
** Her name was Janet.

Number 10

Ha ha - nice one.

If you gave George Clooney a string vest, a jumper you found in a bin and some paint-covered tracky bottoms, he'd still manage to look sharp. I am the opposite. If someone put me in an Armani suit – and I can't picture any sequence of events that would lead to that – I'd still look like I'd put my clothes on with a shovel. 

I've also never been interested in clothes, although I do usually wear them so as not to embarrass the kids. I've never really got fashion – suddenly everyone decides that what would have been a sign of severe mental health issues six months ago now looks good. 

Recent beardies, I'm talking to you - if you wanted a bushy beard, why didn't you grow one before, so you could be special? 

But I don't have the courage or desire to wear clothes that stand out, so I have evolved over the years a wardrobe that you could fairly describe as dull, limited, and crap. 

The charity shop part of this is no challenge at all – that's where I buy my clothes anyway. The challenge is the fear of ending up looking like some kind of navvy-clown. Or maybe in six months' time everyone will have swapped their beard for the new, 'navvy-clown' look.

Number 9

This week's challenge was connected to Lola's lifebook -- a picture book we made for Lola telling the story of her early life and adoption. As that's her story to tell, I can't really share it on a blog. Instead, as it's her eighth birthday tomorrow, I thought it would be a time to look back on her top ten comedy moments from the ones we've collected over the years. Her comic timing is second to none; she can not only pick out the moment and phrase of maximum embarrassment, but she is a master of the comic pause. And although she generally disapproves of swearing, she knows where to slip in a profanity for highest impact. So here's the countdown ...

10 (age 7)

Claire: Do you like my new top?

Lola: You look like Cinderella. (long pause) In scene one.

9 (age 7)

Claire's asking Lola about a dish she'd had.
Claire: What did it taste like?
Lola: I can't remember what it tasted like - I haven't got a photographic tongue!

8 (age 2)
Claire's away for a few days.
Me: What do you think Mummy's doing now?
Lola: Don't know.
Me: But what do you think she's doing? Have a guess.
Lola: I don't ... flippin ... know.

7 (age 6)

After weeks of rain.

Lola: God spoke to me. He said, 'Lols, build an ark'.

Me: He knows you well enough to call you Lols, does he?

Lola: He knows everyone. (pause) He calls you Jimmy.

6 (age 3)

Climbs up onto my knee.

Lola: I think it's time you knew how babies are made.

5 (age 6)

I come down in the morning with Lola. The magnetic letters on the fridge have been arranged into the word 'fucker'.

Me: Did you write that?

Lola: No! (long pause) I only added the 'er'.

4 (age 5)

Lola: I don't chatter all the time, do I. I'm not Irish.

3 (age 3)

An ENORMOUS lady comes to buy our hermit crabs. She's so large that Claire has to open both doors of the porch, which has previously only been done for the piano and sofa. The lady makes her way to the crab tank tucked in the corner of the room. Lola waits for her moment.

Lola (loudly): That's a very small space isn't it, mummy ...

(Looong pause to allow Claire to freeze with dread)

... Too small for HER fat bottom!

2 (age 3)

I've just been out with Lola, and I'm in the kitchen. I can half-hear a sound from upstairs – 'Mmf, mmf, mmf', 'Mmf, mmf, mmf'. I go to the stairs. The sound is human, and now sounds like a muffled 'Noi, noi, noi', 'Noi, noi, noi'. I go up into our bedroom to investigate. Lola is face-down on the bed with her arms behind her, stuck in her coat. I extricate her, and she's fine.

Me: What were you shouting when you were stuck?

Lola: Nine, nine, nine. You told me that was the number you call when there's an emergency.

1 (age 2)

We're in a restaurant with Granny and Granddad, Lola's in a highchair, waiting for a quiet moment to strike. The moment arrives ...

Lola (very loudly): Lola got a normal fanny ... 

(long pause; conversation in the restaurant stops)

... Mummy got a hairy fanny ...

(long pause; Granny's fork is frozen in midair; Claire is suddenly extremely engrossed in her food; time stands still ...)

... What Granny got?

Number 8 update

Well, I have to report a damp squib. I went into the police station this afternoon, and a smiley duty officer came to the window and said 'What can I do you for?' Normally a cliché, I thought this was quite funny in the context. 'Attempted murder', I said. He stopped smiling. OK, so I didn't actually say that - that's what I really wanted to say. One blurt from trouble - good title for a thriller. I asked if they still had identity parades, and he told me with a nostalgic look in his eye that they finished a couple of years ago, and they use a database of photos nowadays. So that was that for the challenge that had the potential to push me into Grand Theft Auto territory - or, more likely in Witney, Small Theft Bottle of Sherry territory.

Witney police station. I had to get this off google earth because it's the only                        building in the world that has no image on google. How sad.

He clearly hadn't had much human contact for a few months, and was keen to chat. 'They were a nightmare, those parades. Imagine you're looking for someone with short blond hair and a scar over his left eye - you've got to find seven people who meet that description. In Witney. Mind you, it's a horrible feeling when they pick you out.' I asked him how he knew. Turns out most of the line-ups mostly consisted of police officers, because they couldn't find enough people who fitted the description. If I was the victim,  I definitely wouldn't choose anyone wearing a police uniform - that would create a cycle of confusion no one would get out of.
'Those artists impressions weren't any better', he told me. 'We had one old lady had had burglars. She gave a brilliant description, and the artist drew someone that looked exactly like Sandy from Crossroads. Turned out that's what she'd been watching when she'd been burgled. Never caught the burglar.' As Crossroads finished in 1988, I felt like this wasn't a fresh anecdote.

                            
                      Sandy from Crossroads. Where is he now?

So that's it. No adventures, but I enjoyed a short chat with a very human and friendly duty officer.

Number 8

Jesus O'Reilly. I wasn't expecting this one. I laughed on and off all day after opening this, picturing myself in a line-up with a suspected criminal and other 50-year-olds doing the same challenge as me. But there were nerves behind the laughter. What if I get picked out, and the wheels of justice creak into motion? You can't stop them once they've started. I can see myself becoming the Witney One, blinking in the flashlights as I'm released age 92 after serving time for a crime committed by someone who looks a bit like me. Claire assured me, on the basis of no research at all, that volunteers who are picked out can't actually end up going to prison. If this is true, there's nothing stopping me volunteering before going on the greatest crime spree this town has ever seen (breaking the 20-year old record of two broken wing-mirrors and an overturned wheelie bin).

I was also wondering what crime someone who looked like me would be most likely to commit. Fraud and indecent exposure seemed most likely, probably simultaneously – pretty much sums up my face. So at some point this week, once I've stopped laughing, I'll be outside the police station, trying to arrange my face like a criminal's and plucking up the courage to sign up.

Number 7 update

I recorded some snippets of our fantastic four nights in Devon with my on-loan art kit. We took a jigsaw to all do in odd moments, and I drew Claire starting it on the first evening. She looks like she is using her giant head to control her robotic claw to do something unidentifiable. But it was a quick sketch, and you can tell her hair is wet and her clothes are patterned, which is the main thing.

Same evening, tried a really quick sketch of Lola listening to her bedtime story. No ... all I can say is thank Christ she had her hands over her face, or she would have come out like Elephant Girl. Plus point: you can see it's a girl (long hair + dress = girl).

Next morning, while waiting for kettle to boil for tea, I attempted the view from the caravan window. Car park, mobile homes, cars and net curtains. Pencil. Very tricky with a dreary result - should have sat down and relaxed.

It was a really sunny day for February. I got a photo of a dog running along Paignton beach carrying a tennis ball, and drew the photo with a biro afterwards then added a bit of paint. I was pleased with how it turned out. Apart from drawing and painting, the good thing about this challenge has been noticing stuff I would never have noticed before – how a dog's limbs and muscles are arranged when it's running, the positioning of the eyes, how black the nose and lips are. I just don't look at dogs. Not to mention the legs of a pier, the sea, or how reflections work. It also captured a great day more than a photo could on its own. The green tennis ball theme continued later when we stopped a couple to ask them if they knew where we could find  some food.  As they were helping us, Freddie knocked what was clearly their old dog's 'comfort' tennis ball into a massive bramble patch. 'He's not going to get that, is he,' the man said very sadly.

A minute later, Lola was on the concrete path running next to the beach and I took a photo to get her against the really blue sky. The photo came out well, so I did a biro version then painted. Children's faces are hard – that was the main lesson – but it came out OK, especially the dress and hair. 

We had 15 minutes sitting on the Paignton to Dartmouth steam train before it went. I had a go at a church – St Andrews, as I've just looked up. It just looked like a series of lines and shapes until the very last couple of minutes. Top tip for drawing a church when you're in a rush: start with the windows and roof crosses.

And that was it. Only six pictures, but it made me want to do more drawing and learn how to paint, and it will make me look at the world in a different way. I will also do portrait commissions of children with ping-pong ball heads and dot eyes.

Number 7

There was a mysterious parcel next to the wicker basket for the opening of number 7.

I'd had hints it had been specially positioned for our 4-night stay in a caravan in Devon. And it was ...

Fantastic - definitely outside my normal holiday activities. Inside the parcel was the necessary ...

I can already see in my mind's eye what I might produce. Moody seascapes in the style of early Turner. I mean, of course, Christopher Turner, from my class at primary school. He was utterly crap at art, and I vividly remember everyone pointing and laughing in disbelief at his painting of a dog. But then again, he didn't have nearly as many pencils as me (eight - won't be going short of them!).

Number 6 update

Not much action here. A Well Worth It £2.99 bird-feeder swinging around in the rain. There are no birds around, and even if there were it would take a very skilful cross-wind landing to get on the feeder in these conditions. I have also been informed, by someone who knows, that the feeder is 'rubbish'. Birds like metal feeders, apparently, but not as much as they like fat balls. I'll have another crack when the weather's less mental, as no one wants to see fat balls swinging in the wind out of their kitchen window. The only other thing I've learned from this one so far is that a 'nuthatch' is in fact a bird, not part of the feeder.

... right, next day, and we've upgraded the feeder, the sun has come out, and we have our first customer! It's Fat Alan the greedy woodpigeon, who's been hoovering up spilled seeds for the last 45 minutes.

Good job he hasn't yet learnt to land on the feeder, as he'd probably bring down the bush it's attached to. The photo captures him waddling off to Greggs for a couple of pasties. We saw a feeder in action outside a cafe this morning, with a queue of delicate and colourful little birds waiting to land and nibble. That's more what I had in mind, but will make do with Alan for now.

Number 5 update

Did the hug - a full 10 seconds with kiss on cheek. No ambush necessary. 'That's 10 seconds of my day wasted' was the response. I suspect he secretly enjoyed it as much as me. It wasn't caught on camera, but here's an earlier tender moment, after we'd stayed up all night watching the Open University course on Using Theodolites in Surveying, just for the hell of it. We were young and foolish then.

Number 6

Yes - like it. I don't think about birds much; although I know a lot of them (owl, robin, penguin, eagle, both types of tit (long-tail and stupid), beagle and ... erm ... owl - that must be all of them, surely) I admit there are gaps in my knowledge. So I'll do some basic research about their feeding habits and then it's down to Well Worth It to see what the hell a bird feeder even is. So many questions already swirling in my head - Are they vegetarian? What time do they have meals? Can they get overweight? What do they drink?
Blimey, another niche of life I never thought I'd be delving into.

Number 2 update

Very kindly, Claire asked me last night if I'd like a bath, at the right temperature this time. It sounded perfect, and ten minutes later I was lowering myself in. It didn't live up to what I was imagining - I felt hot and restless. The shower attachment then focused my attention. It had clearly exploded during the running of the bath, blowing out a large chunk of rubber. I think that the kind person who ran the bath - let's call her 'Clara'* - may have forgotten my series of powerpoint talks on Water Pressure and its Effects on Shower Attachments, and run the cold tap on its own**.
This would mean a) having to buy a new shower attachment (Argos £17.99 - explosions not covered by the guarantee) and fit it next day, and b) making do with a Charlie Potter stand-up jungle wash instead of a shower after my run next morning***. Even more restless now, I got out after five minutes.
This morning, Layla**** told me that she was on the loo just feet away when the explosion happened. It followed hissing that got louder and louder, and she thought the world was going to end.
So that's me finished with baths. They aren't pleasant - they're uncomfortable, sometimes painful - even potentially fatal - and expensive. If you ever see me getting into a bath, shoot me*****.

                                                    blast damage

*Not her real name
**Damn - I hope that wasn't too close to her real name
***Oh no, I've accidentally mentioned her real surname now
****Not her real name
*****Hang on a minute ... what are you doing in my bathroom with a loaded gun?

Number 5

Six seconds could be tricky, but apparently it's important, because research shows that if we hold a hug for at least six seconds, we 'optimize the flow of mood-boosting chemicals'. If I tell Fred what's going to happen, he will refuse - that is what teenagers do. From my days in the Vietcong, I know that the only approach is the ambush. I'll wait around a corner this evening, keeping away from breakables, grab him and hold on for as long as possible before he shakes me off. I will then post the results of this six-second hug research, hopefully not from the fracture clinic.

Number 4 update

OK - I first tried to do this after a meeting in London, while paying my tax bill online at the Traveller's Tavern by Victoria Bus Station.

It was pretty crowded, and I worked out that I'd have to tell one of the bar staff what I was doing, and give them £4 for someone's drink, then give them the nod when someone suitable went to the bar. It was impossible though, partly because the bar was really crowded, and partly because hardly anyone came in on their own.
Next try was in Witney on a Saturday morning when I had a bit of time, at Church Green Cafe, chosen because it's a rare place where you pay after you order.

It only has about four tables downstairs, so the anonymous bit would be tricky. A young couple came in first, and if they'd just had a coffee each they would have been perfect, but they ordered three toasted sandwiches, soup, several sausage rolls, baked potatoes with chilli, and - I think I heard right - a roast swan. Two other young couples also ruled themselves out through sheer greed. A young woman then came in on her own and ordered a coffee. I put myself in her shoes - I would have been the only person who saw her come in, and it would have clearly been me who paid for her coffee. I didn't want to be seen as a pervy old bloke at any point, so I took off her shoes and left.
By Tuesday I'd already opened the next challenge, and had to take action. I remembered there's a chap who goes to the Blue Boar ...

... every day for coffee, who I've met but who won't remember me. He's a good-hearted, gentle kind of bloke (can't name him because people will know him), so I got one in for him even though he wasn't there. So I sort of fulfilled the challenge.