Brighton feels a little crazy at the moment, what with the Labour conference and the attendant protests about fox hunting, trade justice and football stadiums. We have borrowed what seems like a million police from other forces to act as the party's private army, so no doubt criminals in Kent and London are rubbing their hands and preparing to rape and pillage as I write. As my bus crawled along a gridlocked Western Road last night, I almost resolved to vote Conservative.

We escaped to Middle Farm on Sunday where there was supposed to be a farmer's market, but the paucity of stalls meant we just raided the overpriced but tempting farm shop. We bought thyme, chicken, parsnips, peas, gingerbread, Harveys Southdown Harvest Ale and some of those crisps made out of parsnips. I like parsnips.

Meanwhile, it's fresher's week again and we gave our new European Language students a taste of the continental lifestyle by plying them with cheap wine all afternoon. This is clearly the key to avoiding first day dramas. I feel a bit like a direction-giving machine though, since my location at a big desk in the middle of campus inevitably draws all lost souls to me. I'm going to start playing a recorded message I think: 'no, it's at the other end of the corridor, through the green door and down the stairs, ok bye now'.

09:58

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