This week Andrew Osbourne-Smythe gives us an insight into how he relaxes over a weekend.

Commuting can take its toll on the nerves. Monday to Friday I have to suffer the constant rudeness of people invading my half of the train seat arm rest in an enduring territorial battle not unlike the pointless Great War; the endless typing of neurotic sadists out to rile me; the idiotic chatter of telly addicts from Preston Park; the deliberate broadcast of tuneless bleeps set to override my classical music and the messy pastry flaking bombs exploding from the mouths of pie-eating thugs of Haywards Heath. Thank God for the peaceful weekends in West Hill.

I’m off to play tennis now at the Rackets Club. Jane had to park the car in Buckingham Road after yoga last night and now she’s wandered off to town forgetting to tell me where exactly she has left it. No worries – I can lightly jog along the road by way of a warm-up. Tristram won’t be expecting me to turn up so fighting fit!

Turning left, I’ll maintain a steady pace. Left right, left right, left whooooahh, what the hell? A damn knit-your-own-muesli-Magpie box just left there on the pavement. Would you believe it? I’m picking it up and jogging on the spot. Righty, no 41 – time you learned a lesson. Whatever happened to community spirit? Go forth and multiply, interfering twit! How dare he? I simply asked him why he thought it was OK to set a trip trap for me by leaving his plastic guilt-salving eco hazard in the middle of a public pavement? Charmed I’m sure.

I don’t believe it. I told Jane never to park under the trees – Wood Pigeon poop all over the bonnet. She may as well have poured super glue mixed with Bostick on it. For crying out loud – I can’t park in the club with two tons of that on the bonnet. Why the hell does Jane think I’m happy to drive around in a poop-strewn Beamer? What is the point of having a nice car if it doesn’t actually look nice? How am I supposed to get it off and still make it to the courts in time?

Decide to sprint up West Hill Street, only to be confronted by a huge posterior belonging to an old fool who thinks it’s OK to fiddle around pruning their pathetic front garden and blocking my direct line and most efficient angle to get home. That’s it, I may have to accidentally brush my racket against the overhanging tulips – that’ll teach her to take up so much pavement space.

What’s the rush? What’s the rush? What right has she got to speak to me in such a sarcastic manner? Don’t you get it Doris? I’ve got Wood Pigeon poop on the Beamer because of my half-witted wife and now I’m going to be late for tennis.

Anyway, knowing how to relax is the key to a decent weekend and I’m not going to let the sub-normal so-called local community stand in my way.

I’ve put a notice in the kitchen for Jane. A very simple poster. ATTENTION ALL IDIOTS – DON’T PARK MY BEAUTIFUL CAR UNDER A PIGEON TOILET.