Mum: It is very big though, isn't it?

Boy: No, it's not.

Mum: And well, it isn't very nice either.

Son: I wanted something unique. Personal. It's a statement.

Mum: I'm just very concerned that you'll regret it in the future.

Son: Everyone has tattoos.

Dad: (quietly) I thought you were trying to be different.

Mum: And it is very disappointing that you used your rent money from us to pay for it. How much did it cost?

Dad: No point asking how much it cost. It's done now.

Son: It wasn't very expensive.

Dad: And that's why it looks so crap and you're a bloody idiot. If you're going to live with it for the rest of your life you should have spent proper money on it and got a good one.

(Ends)

* Formerly Brighton Scenes... but now I have crossed the border...thus the new name.

Eton College

It's easy to make a political argument that private schools shouldn't be allowed to run state schools with taxpayers' money. That's not my beef today. My concern is much more managerial: Eton is not qualified, on a practical level.

Eton has it easy. The pupils want to learn and parents are supportive. Eton's a selective single-sex boarding school. Most boys go on to university, many to Oxbridge. Parents pony up £30k a year and their sons know it. Eton might look old-fashioned: outsiders see tail suits and exquisite architecture. But it's a bustling meritocracy, a hive of independent activity and pupils want to do well.

It is a remarkable place. Energetic, diligent and focussed on excellence. They learn Chinese and Arabic alongside Latin and Classics. Eton is based on the idea that everyone there must be good at something. Be that sport, study, music, drama, art or just being a bloody good bloke.

To a great extent, discipline comes from the boys themselves. Eton is not totalitarian these days and prefers carrots to sticks. Most boys want to succeed and so they work hard and play within the (none too onerous, but often absurd) rules.

I can't say the same for my time in the state sector. I recall students who simply didn't want to be there. Their aspirations had not been nurtured, they didn't have broad horizons and they would not cooperate. It's a tragedy that it is sometimes easier to let those kids find their low level. Every state school struggles with that dilemma. And Eton doesn't have an answer to dealing with those kids. It doesn't know they even exist.

Teachers at Eton have a standing start. The pupils want to participate. The men and women teachers, beaks, at Eton are learned and distinguished, dedicated and talented. But, and I mean this in no way uncharitably, they have a willing crowd. And I bet the remuneration isn't too shabby either.

When I think of the many good teachers I had in the state sector, few would have had trouble teaching at Eton. And then I consider my Eton beaks. Not that many (indeed very few), would prosper in a state school. Hardly a surprise when the teacher to boy ratio at Eton is 1/9. They would have no idea what to do with a genuine under-performer in need of help, a violent troublemaker or indeed the real rough and tumble of a truly, unruly class intent on chaos. And anyway, if those beaks wanted to teach in the state sector, they would surely have chosen that path.

Most beaks aren't trained teachers. Staff in the private sector don't require a PGCE. So what right would an Eton beak have to tell qualified teachers what to do? I suspect most Eton staff could learn a great deal more from their state counterparts rather than vice versa.

And then there's the money. Eton is staggeringly rich. According to their own figures, the school's original foundation amounts to £200m and that provides 11% of Eton's annual income (but I suspect that Eton's total wealth is far greater than that). Full fees at Eton are £30k a year for boys without a scholarship. The school totals 1300 pupils. For a boy from a state school well pleased with £2000 from the Summer Fayre, this sounds like a lot of money.

But Eton wants more. A recent booklet from Eton says of the income from the original foundation: “this is not enough. An institution of Eton's standing should receive between two and four times as much support from its endowment.” I take this to mean that Eton thinks it needs close to £1bn in investments to keep ticking over. And remember, this is an institution with charitable status. Eton gets generous tax breaks from that.

How would this translate to running a state school? Would Eton give any money from it own enormous wealth? I doubt it. Eton's consideration of a school budget in the state sector would be like NASA realising it could only afford an Airfix kit.

The crux of why Eton shouldn't be allowed to run a state school lies with my heartfelt belief that I don't think they want to. The booklet I mentioned before was called “Keep Eton, Eton.” That is not the name of a manifesto for change. They have resisted the temptation since 1440, so why would it be on the agenda now? Self-interest. They'll do what it takes to retain the massive financial benefits they enjoy from their charitable status.

If Eton takes a state school on, it will be because it makes sense for the mothership. It's not for nothing that anything persists for nearly six centuries without a keen sense of self-preservation.

The clue is in the school's motto: Floreat Etona. Let Eton Flourish. If letting Eton flourish means taking on a state school or two to keep their privileged financial benefits, they will. But the motivation will not be a benevolent desire to run the best of state schools.

I fear that Cameron wants state schools that look like Eton. But without selection, well paided staff and oodles of cash, that's not possible. It's also not attractive. He should concentrate on replicating the most successful state schools we have by funding them properly. But he wouldn't understand that. He went to Eton.

I intend to sell it on eBay, so I asked that veritable fount of knowledge on glassware and curios, Lynne Clark aka Josordoni on eBay.

We came up with a working theory. It's likely contemporary with the young princesses featured on the jelly mould. We think that dates it during the second half of the 1930s. It's unlikely that such a frivolous item would have been produced in the austerity of war. Lynne came up with an occasion when such a thing might have been used: King George VI's coronation on 12th May 1937.

It's not hard to imagine street parties in 1937 replete with such jellies. Educated guesses, for sure, but still speculation. Does anyone have any better ideas? Calling all Royal Memorabilia and Kitchenalia specialists!

The pictures in this post will give you an idea. I'll do better ones when I list it on eBay. By the way, I'm not listing it on eBay til September. The August bank holiday weekend is the nadir of eBay's year trafficwise. I want eyeballs!

In woodland, near London, there is a burial park. It is serene and natural. It is, quite simply, a forest where people are buried. There are no stone memorials. It is unspoilt and, in due course, when we are all gone, it will just be forest again.

In that wood there are some buildings where people mourn and say goodbye. The buildings are simple, dignified and non-religious. They are made of glass and wood.

We gathered in one of those buildings to say farewell to Sue. Words were spoken, music was played, tears were shed. We all remembered the woman we missed already. We looked upon her wicker coffin and celebrated a life cut short. I wondered whether we could have avoided being there at all.

As I half-listened to the celebrant, and was invited to reflect with the music, I found myself looking out into the woodland through the windows. It was tipping it down. But still the birds flitted from tree to tree. They were Blue Tits, or the like, I'm no twitcher. The birds were many and lively. I took joy from that: it is a woodland full of life. I wanted one of those birds to be Sue's spirit finding freedom. But I don't believe in a world like that.

And soon after, in the pouring rain, we walked under umbrellas to Sue's final resting place. Slipping along the muddy pathways in the forest, we followed the pallbearers through the trees. Bracken covered the mound of clay soil that would soon fill the hole we gathered around. With a few more words and a lot more tears, our friend was lowered gently down. The rain didn't stop.

And when it was done, we paused for a fleeting moment by that hole before walking from the forest. I wonder if I will ever return.

And then to an old pub. Beer, tea, sandwiches and laughter. So many lovely stories. And tears too. I met her family. Kind people. The rain didn't stop. The rain kept falling that day. I'm glad it rained.

I've struggled to make sense of anything in the past few weeks. But I do know it was good to say farewell to Sue in the way we did. I will miss her so much.

On Thursday, in the wood, as I walked away from her grave, I stooped to pick up a muddy pine cone from the forest floor. I wanted a souvenir and it was an obvious keepsake. The pine cone was damp when I touched it. Like a wooden bullet, it was hard and clenched. I left it on my desk when I got home.

When I sat down to write these words a few days later, it seemed odd that the pine cone was dry and open, like a flower. Why was I surprised? Life goes on.

Cremation strangely felt less gruesome. I felt discomfort at the idea of my own decaying body, not least because I have imagined the putrifying bodies of my own dead, buried friends, and have found that horrific. I have since learnt a bit more about cremation and can't say I care for that much any more.

To me, graveyards have beauty and sometimes beguiling, architechtural chaos, but they are often little more than derelict. I dislike the ego and disorder, frankly, of crooked headstones and crumbling tombs unless they are seriously old. Most municipal cemeteries are ugly, even if the individual memorials have charm and dignity. Few modern memorials are pleasing.

And so I visited Clayton Woods at the weekend, mostly out of curiosity. It has a serene setting and is delightfully unmawkish. In time, it will simply become woodland. They only allow wooden memorials.

Dust to dust. Put me in a cardboard box when I die and plant a tree, if you fancy. That would be nice. Natural burial is the way to go, quite literally. All of a sudden it made sense that the worms should eat me in a due course and that idea feels like a good one.

Clayton Wood is a wonderful model. Informal but organised on a piece of land that is picturesque but not really of much use for anything else. The barn like shelter where you can hold a ceremony is non-religious. You can have any send-off you want.

But it's the simplicity that delights me. A beautiful setting. A hole. A body. A biodegradable coffin. A tree. The passage of time and the work of nature. As good as death gets, surely?

I'm pleased that we have civil partnerships in Britain and I've been to more civil partnerships in the last 18 months than marriages. In every case, I have recently referred to those civil partnerships (fastidiously), as marriages.

I was in a pub recently (imagine) and I said that I was going to the wedding of two chap chums of mine a few weeks hence. My friend, in all seriousness, corrected me: "It's not a wedding, Dan. It's a civil partnership." He received short shrift.

But technically he is absolutely correct, of course. Civil partnerships were a sound political compromise. Gay marriage would have had a hard time in Parliament. Civil partnerships passed easily but left a thread hanging.

But as is typical, the people know best. Many people easily call a civil partnership ceremony, a "wedding." I tried for a while to say that I was going to see friends being "civilly partnered" in an attempt of celebration. I was out of tilt on that.

The civilly partnered boys and girls are happily "married" in common parlance. Everyone involved becomes a husband or a wife. Has anyone ever said at a party: "And you must meet Jo, Alex's civil partner." I have never heard it. Because it's utter nonsense. It lacks elegance more than anything.

Let language lead the way. It's time the law reflected what everyone means and says and sod the bishops (who shouldn't be in the House of Lords anyway). When we say marriage, I don't care whether it's a union between men, women, one of each, or frankly any other combination of two people that's possible. It's about love. It's time everyone was allowed to get married without people like me worrying about the verbiage. Not least because everyone is using the words anyway.

Let’s be clear: I think #hackgate could bring down David Cameron. And if he goes, I can’t really see how the Coalition persists. There would have to be a general election. Not least because the Tories want those Liberal seats they would inevitably gain.

Did anyone ever believe that the flimsy Coalition government had the scaffolding to last five years? Most Tories never wanted an arranged marriage of inconvenience. Not really. For the first year of the Conservative-led coalition, I suspect that Cameron has been, half-heartedly, dismissing those fusty grandees telling him to force the hands of the Liberals.

“Give Cable or Huhne a reason to resign on a point of principle”, I imagined a desiccated Tory saying over a big brandy. “Make them murder this coalition and let’s go to the country and get a Conservative mandate and destroy the LibDems while we’re at it.” They like shooting things, these Tories. They also like metaphors almost as much as me. “Let’s kill two birds with one stone.” Pull!

And until #hackgate came along, there was a strong case for a snap election from a Conservative perspective. A general election in May or June this year would have delivered a majority Conservative government. The Liberals would have been eliminated and the Tories would have taken the majority of their commons seats. Clegg would almost certainly have lost Sheffield Hallam.

Labour would not have made amazing gains in that poll. Labour has been weak for too long. Ed Miliband was still wearing armbands and dipping his toes in the little pool until a few weeks ago. But that’s not true anymore. He’s dog-paddling now (without great skill but decided determination) towards the deep end. The Tories would not barnstorm an election, if it was held this Thursday. But Cameron is at least a strong swimmer, with badges sewn on to his trunks and everything.

Cameron’s pathological lack of substance has been revealed but that isn’t because of Miliband. Cameron looks like he’s made bad decisions and he has yet to seize the initiative or offer a plausible explanation. I think most right-thinking folk could have told him this at the time: he should never have hired Andy Coulson.

Miliband’s next target must be David Cameron. Forget Murdochs various as the bogeymen. Tom Watson and Nick Davies are doing that bit better. Do what has to be done by any Leader of the Opposition: attack the Prime Minister and the government. And keep attacking. And after the attack. Do it again. And again. And just for good measure, keep attacking.

We need to know what David Cameron’s knowledge of Andy Coulson’s involvement phone hacking was. Until we know that, we can’t call for Cameron’s resignation. But I can’t help think the Prime Minister is incredibly vulnerable. And possibly still holding the smoking gun.

There are only two well-worn questions that Ed Miliband needs to keep asking:

“What did the Prime Minister know? And when did he know it?”

I offer my admiration today for a particular comment he made in The Argus. An enterprising chap has painted his beach hut. It’s not within the rules and I couldn’t care less. It looks marvellous. But Councillor Hawtree’s comment is brilliant. I’ve snapped the clipping for your delectation.

Hawtree’s comment is delicious and typical. Hawtree is a Green but I have enjoyed sparring with him over a pint or two. We share a passion for literature, architecture and ephemera. I think he also shares my love of H.G. Wells. And it is good to know that the politician is as real and true as the man. The above quote is exactly him. I can hear him say it. That’s rather unusual these days were media comment is polished and scrubbed and sanitised.

There’s one particular issue I find disagreement with Councillor Hawtree on, and that concerns Brighton Library. His argument (and I boil it down here unfairly) contends that there aren’t enough books there and even fewer plug points. I counter with agreement regarding the plugs but suggest that no library has enough books. You can never have enough.

Brighton Library has a perfectly good municipal collection. It isn’t a university collection. We have two unis in town and their collections are alright. Sussex amuses me enough. But then I have been spoilt. The BLPES is superb.

I rather value that there aren’t too many laptopists tap tapping away in the library but do also realise many people don’t have a workspace at home. I often use the library to work in but we could build a highrise in this city full of free deskspace and powerpoints (with free electricity) and it still wouldn’t be enough. I take heart from the evidently well used sections for kids and teens.

But it’s great to have a champion of libraries on the council beavering away. They need all the friends they can get and they immeasurably important. My point is that we need more people like Christopher Hawtree. He won because he is a tireless campaigner. He knocked on hundreds of doors, he found thousands of signatures for his library petition and he really cares for this fine city. But I rather worry they don’t make ‘em like him anymore.

Hear me now. You can't run a newspaper on a shoestring and maintain your reputation and readership. The cracks are showing at the dear old Argus. The Argus hacks are all good people in my experience. There are just so few of them these days.

But be afraid. That Lynne Truss (AKA the National Truss) lives down our way. She's a Brighton girl. I fear that she might just go ape crazy one day if we see many more boobs like this. And who would blame her? I was fizzing with annoyance. But Truss doesn't mess. She'd want begging...