Last night I went to see Billy Bragg at The Sage Gateshead and I don't mind telling you that he was absolutely fantastic.

Anyone who knows me will know that I would probably pay good money to see Billy Bragg if he was singing a selection of Ethiopian nursery rhymes accompanied only by the spoons. But of the many times I've seen him over the past 20 years, I think last night was one of his finest performances - full of passion, humour and, of course, great songs.

Now you may be wondering what my Bragg review has to do with a blog about life in the Journal newsroom, so I'll explain...

The dance out on Sunday went very well – despite the occasional drizzle.

All the teams turned up, and everyone in Tyne Bridge who said they would. Even Madame Fifi who rang me at about 10.30 to ask what we were going to do if it rained. She gets Guitarman in and out of his wheelchair so it wasn’t an unreasonable question.

Baltic Square is one of the best places to dance on Tyneside. It is flat, sheltered by the Baltic and the Tyne gorge and faces west . In the afternoon it is quite a suntrap. There is an excellent backdrop of the Sage, the bridges and Newcastle Quayside. The Millennium Bridge, and Q-buses, bring a steady stream of visitors who almost all stop to have a look. The steps up to the road even provide seating for the audience. The Baltic itself has toilets and a café where thirsty dancers can acquire water, coffee or even lunch. There is also good (if expensive) parking nearby with exceedingly enthusiastic parking attendants. On a sunny afternoon it is almost perfect.

One of the great things about journalism is that occasionally you get to do things you never imagined you'd do.

This weekend, for example, I've been showing an Australian film crew around Newcastle and Gateshead and helping them film a segment for a programme called The Great Outdoors (their version of Wish You Were Here, I think).

This basically meant walking around town with a bloke called Ernie Dingo (honest) and talking to him about local attractions and then trying to teach him how to speak Geordie.

As I have worked in public relations (sorry Graeme my secret is out) whenever there’s an event coming up I do a press release and email it out to all and sundry.

Next Sunday, 27th April from noon until 2.30pm, seven traditional dance teams from all over Tyneside will be dancing for St George outside the Baltic from 12 noon until 2.30pm. The organiser sent me the list of teams (Addison Rapper, Clog and Children, Hexham Morris Men, Hexhamshire Lasses, Short Circuit and Tyne Bridge Morris) while we were away on holiday in Wales. So I didn’t get the release emailed out until yesterday lunchtime. But yesterday afternoon I got a ‘phone call from a very nice girl at BBC Radio Newcastle asking if I’d like to go on the Mike Parr Show to talk about St George’s Day.

So first thing this morning, while boys got their own breakfast, I put on kit, got out a garland and the dragon, threw my clog bag into the boot of the car and set off to the Pink Palace. The gentleman on reception was quite surprise to see a female morris dancer walk in with a large red dragon over her shoulder.

It’s a good job that I wasn’t relying on my seed crop to feed us all this year.

According to reports in a number of newspapers today, vegetable seed sales have increased by 60 per cent as Britons attempt to save money while credit crunch hits and apparently vegetable seed sales are outstripping flower seeds for the first time since we were told to Dig for Victory in the Second World War

Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.

For months I have been taking the mick out of those awful surveys punted our way by desperate PR firms.

But there comes a point when you can't satirise these people any more and that came today when we got a hopeless PR survey...about PR.

One of the most frequently used cliches I hear about the weather at the moment is "it's lambing storms". In fact, one of my neighbours told me his conspiracy theory about lambing this week: "it's lambs that lead to global warming" he confided in me. "All that gas. If they just stopped breeding the bloody things, we'd be all right."

Whilst I do not wish to cast doubt on this dead certainty of a resolution to our current environmental problems, I do think that banning lamb would lead to a revolution on the scale of the French. It has to be said that lamb is one of the most popular meats in the restaurants, and whenever we do special dinners where a set menu is required, the usual request is for North Eastern lamb.

It was while gazing at the lambs in the park across the road from the restaurant last week that I decided that Comfort needed a new mascot. After a couple of heated arguments with the husband, the issue was settled: and on Thursday night, Rosemary the Lamb became Comfort's new figurehead.

Life as a professional pool player is often not what people think. It would be a great life if all I had to do was to practise for 4-5 hours a day and still have a solid income to live on.

But is it realistic?

I never intended getting a replacement cat after Tiddles died; Matilda was perfectly content to be a single cat. But constant nagging from the boys and a trip to a pet shop in North Shields put an end to that.

A little black scrap of a thing (with white toes, bib and whiskers) climbed out of the manageress’ arms onto mine, looked deep into my heart with her navy-blue boot-button eyes and I was lost. We called her Kitty and she loved us. If anyone was in the house she was always in the same room, preferably within a few feet, purring like a motorbike. She perfected climbing up onto Fester’s shoulders (shirt or no shirt) to bully him into giving her cheese slices. She gave affection generously but on her own terms; grabbing your hand to lick it, and holding fingers and knuckles in her mouth. It only hurt if you tried to pull away.

Enough with the rhubarb!