To a classical concert on Tuesday at the Wigmore Hall in London - classy concert, classy place, classy people: money, but sedate money, English money: 50-plus, pearls, Viyella shirts. Have you ever noticed that as a herd the English upper classes have their own smell? It's quite distinctive, a great stirring-pot of smells from clothes that are not dry-cleaned stupidly often, and hygiene routines that are sensible rather than zealous.

There is no overriding component to the mélange, more a texture: heavy, rounded, with a hint of musk and singeing. Think humidity and wool; think roses and wax-polish; gin not tonic, and aftershaves that are spicy rather than sweet. Think leather, and Labrador; well-cooked vegetables, and books with a trace of mildew. Think biscuits. Think wood. Think the smell of a Rover 90.

So much about our digital- electronic age will be available to future generations in recorded form. But in more senses than one the aroma will be gone, lost for ever, utterly of its time. I wonder if sniffer dogs can be trained to smell class?

In the great debate this month about state surveillance, I feel torn. Among fellow anti-Iraq-war voices I notice an almost knee-jerk hostility to snooping. The civil-libertarian instinct is admirable; but if we are to oppose invading and occupying countries as an effective means of enhancing our own security - to deride the use of clunking great armies to pursue nimble and elusive terrorists, carpet-bombing haystacks in pursuit of needles - then we do need to propose a better way.

The discriminating use of Intelligence must be part of the answer, and I've often thought that defence spending might better be poured into massively beefing up the Paras and the SAS and developing a British version of Mossad than into Eurofighters, Trident missiles, and village-busting bombs.

There are real worries about the duffer-quotient in police and secret-service intelligence gathering; and the problem of intelligently processing mountains of raw data is immense. Nor do democracy and due process sit easily with secrecy. But I'll take some convincing that it is possible for the apparatus of state to stay a jump ahead of villainy without spying.

At last the idiotic 3m x 2m PR posters have gone. A time-hallowed feature of Derby's nothing-doing construction site of a railway station, “A Vision for Derby Station” was a verb-less announcement, captioning a picture of happy, smiling people looking, presumably, into a joyful future. What “vision”? When?

I'm not against marketing and PR, I'm against bad marketing and PR. The victims here are not the travelling public, who were never as gullible as the suits who paid for it. How much did Network Rail cough up for a bunch of brain-dead PR dweebs to advise them that these posters would help passengers feel good about our station? For the past four-odd years, we have had just one question: “When will the scaffolding go?” What doctrine of marketing teaches that reminding people you won't answer their question is good PR?

I arrive back in London to open a form-letter from EDF Energy announcing a hike in gas and electricity prices. It trills about “a range of innovative products” to save energy. It tells you the new prices. It does not tell you the old prices. It is sub-headed: “We're here for you.”

“No you *$#~$*# aren't!” scream a million householders. Rage. Red mist.

Again: bad marketing. How much did EDF pay consultants to design a communication that opts for exactly the wrong tone? Repeat three times, after me, PR gurus: “Delivering a bad-news message in a good-news voice just enrages people.”

Yesterday's Times reports a new challenge to Robert Mugabe. From within his own Zanu (PF) party, a minister, Simba Makoni, has thrown down the gauntlet.

I was raised in what is now Zimbabwe. In African politics (whether or not you regret this) challenge is always more likely to be effective from within the power structure than to it.

“Simba” means lion. He will need to be. But this is the beginning of the end for Mugabe.

The phone rang on Saturday morning. “This is the Royal Mail, Derby Sorting Office. Are you called Matt?” I concede as much. “On Friday you posted a postcard beginning ‘Dear Pam'.”

This was true. I was postponing supper with Pam.

“But you put no surname, and no address, hers or yours. You signed it ‘Matt P' and wrote your phone number. Would you like us to address it for you?”

If this is the surveillance society, give me more.

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