God, I'm like a weathervane: the slightest change, the merest distraction, I change direction. I can turn 180 degrees better than most ballerinas can pirouette. More flip-flop than Mitt Romney...in my own way that is.

I'm still reeling from seeing a film about Joe Strummer last week. I've been pounding the walls with a Clash greatest hits album all weekend, disturbing the neighbours with someone else's punk rock electric guitar; pestering a friend who once worked in music PR for any Clash anecdotes - none; and idling in Chiswick Waterstones thumbing through whatever books I can find on the great man or his band.

What a difference two hours can make, a mere 120 minutes or so, which is roughly the length of "The Future is unknown". I strolled into Panton St cinema, eulogising to a friend the wonders of Provence, how, if only the money was there, I'd sell up, buy a farmhouse, and spend my days wandering through my lavender fields in the dawn and the shade of my olive trees at dusk a la Peter Mayle.

We leave, shell-shocked, stunned by what we've just seen: raw, visceral, in-yer- face music from the only band that mattered, whiplashed by their phyiscal power, four fireworks skidding in all directions, tremendous concert footage. I now want to form a band. I know a chord...I think...but I have a name, oh yes, I have a name - The Weathervanes. A salute to my capricious temperament.