Things that are more irritating include having the same car alarm being allowed by its owners to continue more or less constantly until about six forty-five.

But an even more irritating experience than that is having all of this go on and then having a nearby flock of wild parakeets take exception to the noise and begin competing with it.

So, given that I am in rather desperate need of beauty sleep at the moment anyway, I currently wish all people who have car alarms a big healthy dose of syphilis and eternal damnation.

You utter, utter bastards.

However, now we find ourselves adjusting to the routine of a weekly pickup again, having to make sure that the recycling is gathered up into the lurid orange bags provided for this purpose, and that the main refuse is dumped down in the whelie bins outside the house.

ANd every Monday morning as I leave for work I am invariably faced with the job of falling over the bin, muttering dark words and putting it back in its place after the collection has happened. Every week I’ve had the same gripe: why can’t the bin men just put it back where they found it?

Today though I left the house to find it in exactly the same place it was left. For a moment I assumed it hadn’t been emptied, but a quick check reassured me on this point and so with a shrug I stepped into the street to head off on my merry way.

Only to discover that everyone else’s bins were as out of place as normal. It was only ours that had been put back in its place.

This strikes me as very odd behaviour. I mean… it’s a very odd way of victimising someone isn’t it?

Happy now, Northover?

What’s worse though is that despite having no interest whatsoever in procreating (or children generally if I’m honest) there’s a part of me that’s now wondering how I’d come out.

Is this just my inner self-loather trying to find another stick to beat myself with or am I developing a competitive streak: “hah! I’m hugely fertile and no you can’t have any!”

I worry myself I really do.

Given the quality of London’s streets and the devil-may-care attitude of some of the bus drivers I have experienced I think it’s really quite surprising that more eyepatches aren’t on display in the City.

All of which works mightily well, apparently, and explains why this morning, on visiting the BBC news page I had to stifle more than a small snigger at the headline I saw there:

Call for specialist rape squads.

Er…

Our first visit post-contract signing involved a certain amount of “okay, need to deal with that” and removal of clutter, and it was then I discovered the (empty) box of an M&S Easter egg on top of my bedroom cupboard. A Dalek Easter egg no less.

“Ho-ho!” I thought, “We’ve had fans!” And I must say I grinned slightly as I presented this finding to Chris and my Aunt. “It was meant to be!” I proclaimed.

And then, on sorting through the kitchen, aforementioned Aunt discovered a pinny in one of the drawers which seemed even more bizarre. White it was, but with a large TARDIS emblazoned across it. And another one saying “Stuff being princess, I want to be Queen”.

Gay fans then. Definitely home.

Later I found myself building a pile of post for the previous occupants too, thinking “I’ll get rid of that later” and then carried on moving in.

And then a little later there was a chance encounter with a neighbour outside the front door. “The guys who lived there before moved to Australia,” she confided. We smiled and agreed that it was a nice plan, and then we thought no more of it.

Until… well, do you know those moments when you’re not even thinking of something, but suddenly different thoughts rush forwards to occupy the mental space and combine into a sudden realisation? Suddenly it all linked: Who’ers, Gayers, Australia-ers. I knew someone who ticked those boxes and now I came to think of it his surname was one of those on the post I’d sorted.

On returning to the old flat I dug out the Mac and messaged an occasional drinking buddy of mine on Facebook. “Here, Giles” I asked, “You didn’t live at ******* did you?”

Turns out he did. Of all the places in London Chris and I could have chosen to live, it turns out to be the home of a gay, Who-loving friend of mine who has not long vacated the property and I didn’t even know was so local to me. As far as coincidences go I think that’s pretty impressive.

(The move, incidentally, is now complete. It was hellish. I hurt all over and feel thoroughly drained and ill, but we are, at least, in. Now we just have to get it sorted in time to have a housewarming or we’ll never hear the end of it.)

Now inevitably there’s a certain amount of grumbling about the honours list anyway, and there’s a certain amount of muttering along the lines of “well, he’s only brought back Doctor Who, how does that qualify him for an honour?” but I think he more than deserves this award for service to television and culture over the last twenty-odd years.

Who notwithstanding, he’s the creator of the groundbreaking series Queer as Folk which I had the pleasure of watching again recently and, with the shock value of some of its scenes long since gone, found I was just blown away by the writing. The warmth and the humour and - frankly - brilliant characterisation made me fall in love with it all over again. It’s a stunning bit of writing and well worth a re-viewing if you get the chance.

And then there’s its cultural impact which still resonates to this day.

Then there’s the quality of his other work. I have yet to see many of his other series, but two of his early works “Dark Season” and “Century Falls” had me gripped by Children’s BBC when technically I was way outgrowing it. The former clearly showed he wanted to write Doctor Who, but both also proved that kids could easily handle, nay love, proper drama at a time when the industry believed it was going out of fashion.

If anything I think its these two series that made me realise I wanted to write too.

He’s never written down to kids this one - look at “the Flashing Blade” and “Breakfast Serials” too for further proof - and I do believe that’s vitally important.

His New Doctor Who Adventures novel “Damaged Goods” is something I’ve also picked up again recently and that too is a brilliant - if very dark and, at times, harrowing - read, but also contains seeds that will be familiar to any New Series fans. (Council Estate, with sassy Girl, dark Time Lord, gays a go-go, war machine from an unseen war appearing on earth and so on…)

To see Russell talk about television is too be overawed by his intelligence, his rigour and - above all - his amazing enthusiasm for the medium. It’s always heady stuff and fires me up every time.

And then he’s effectively created a proper Welsh television industry, turning it from a small regional operation into a major powerhouse of drama. And if that doesn’t deserve an OBE I don’t know what does.

The man’s, frankly, brilliant and - despite my occasional problems with his plot decisions on Who - I love him to bits. Well done Russell, it’s an award I think is richly deserved.

In fact I involuntarily let out a bark of a laugh which made me quite glad no-one else was around.

“TWO THICK MOPPETS” it said.

My mind immediately wandered to G-A-Y for some reason.