How can you burn a mussel? That was the question I was desperate to ask David Pipe at Pond House. The injustice of the meal the evening before was still burning.

I'm no Rick Stein, but I do like to decimate the odd plate of shell fish.

So when the local hostelry offered "mussels in white wine sauce" at a bargain £4 my face lit up.

Five hours later it was the bowel that was on fire.

The mussels were indeed in white wine - well what was left of them. Some had given up the ghost and thrown themselves out their shells before arriving at my table. The others had turned black and had to be prized out by a combination of a fork and my left little finger.

More than one sprang from their shell and hurled across the table, ending up in ash trays or the plush shagpile carpet.

By the time I'd finished my meal the actual head count of mussels eaten was six from 23 shells. It worked out about 66p each.

I had a lasagne for dessert.

The Pipe visit was my last ahead of the Festival and it always a sad moment to wave goodbye to Nigel the cameraman.

So instead of seeing teams of thoroughbreds paraded before my beady eyes, the Cheltenham preparations are now mundane.

Monday saw the purchase of some new shoes for the great meeting (black slip-on footgloves) and a haircut.

The beard was grown so I could resemble George Clooney in Syriana, but it doesn't work if the hair gets too bushy. It isn't now.

The most accurate description of the barnet seven days ahead of the meeting is a cross between Cadfael and Phil Collins.

Simon Claisse is busily watering the track to encourage grass growth. I am doing so to try and ensure that for at least this Festival I am more Henry VIII than Friar Tuck.