It's so difficult to describe the actual flavour; it's more a texture. And the comfort factor ought not to be overlooked; there are fewer things more warming and loving than a big bowlful of barley. I
am also devising a pudding involving a sweetened barley topping: apple barley crumble. Perhaps a step too far with the barley? I shall let you know.

Fitba fan will go through hoops for a sporting daughter

My 10-year-old has started playing netball. She's the goalkeeper. I swell with pride as I watch her leaping like a dainty little leaping thing, attempting to pluck an airborne ball as it travels net-ward. Having been a footballing goalkeeper myself, I believe the genetic desire to stop the opposition scoring must has somehow inveigled its way into her DNA. (That and the fact her mother captained the school basketball team.)

Having had a son play football (to quite a high standard), I am accustomed to sideline support. With football, the game is in my blood. I spent many years telling, training, teaching my son about the beauty of the beautiful game. I dreamt at night of the name "Kohli" on the back of a blue jersey, the front adorned with the lion rampant. Archie Macpherson would scream my son's name as he slotted his third and final goal past the luckless Brazilian goalkeeper. After Scotland had disposed of the pre-tournament favourites, my son would lift the Jules Rimet trophy and the legend of a hat-trick scoring Kohli would forever be remembered in Scottish footballing folklore. I never imagined for a minute my daughter would be a half-decent netball player. I spent some years coaching her to keep goal as a footballer: The Cat Kohli was her nickname, such was her ability for self-flinging. But netball has become her game.

It's so very different observing girls compete than watching boys. Apart from the noticeable lack of aggression and testosterone, the sound is altogether different, more mellifluous. That aside, I know football, I have an opinion. I am a season ticket holder at The Arsenal, so I watch arguably the best football in Europe. Therefore I am able to shout meaningful phrases from the sidelines, like "line ball", "tight and goalside" and "you have to be f***ing joking referee!" (my son's former games teacher wasn't so keen on that final phrase). With netball, however, I am as conversant with the rules as I am with notions of electrical engineering. I know the point of the game is to put the ball in the net and that once in possession of the ball one cannot move one's feet. Thereafter I am lost. I have no idea what the rules are when it comes to bounce passing. Why do the girls stand so far away from the shooter, their arms extended in such an unnatural way? What exactly is a pivot? Why are the players restricted to operating within certain zones of the pitch? I know absolutely nothing about this game that has now become the single most important game in my life. There is something strangely liberating about feeling engaged with an event that one knows so little about. I feel I am learning as I go. And after two consecutive defeats (5-0 and 9-0), I very much hope my daughter is too.

A troubled train of thought leads to a guilty fashion conscience

Everyone takes an interest in clothes, but not everyone takes an interest in fashion. I am aware that this is not necessarily an attractive quality. On a train journey to Birmingham I decided to purchase a copy of a men's magazine, one promising autumn/winter style for 2008. I excitedly boarded the train wondering what inspiration may lie within the fashion pages of this gentlemen's quarterly. As I read, a strange feeling of shame overcame me. I felt embarrassed that passers-by might think me superficial to be interested merely in clothes. Where is the value in chasing style? Am I any sort of man of substance? Perhaps I should be reading financial journals or magazines designed to improve the quality of the world. Women browsing fashion mags is a common sight; it's us men that are hard done by when it comes to the fashion press. Perhaps this explains my self-consciousness in reading about the return of the high polo neck and the riding boot. Perhaps we are all entitled to a touch of superficiality. And, naturally, I might be slightly on trend in my vacuousness.

I remember the straight-talking manager you could bank on

My most repeated phrase of the last few weeks, when discussing the disintegration of world banking and finance, has been the idea that profit is privatised and loss is nationalised. I don't mean to hit an industry when it's down, but I don't seem to remember massive banking organisations sharing their huge profits with taxpayers. Yet somehow we are using our taxes to bail the banks out. Such is life. We need banks and banks need us.

I am old enough to remember old-school banking, banking that was about relationships, about a manager looking a customer in the eye and making decisions based on instinct and intuition. It wasn't about greed and profit; it was about believing in individuals, believing in people's dreams and aspirations, whether it was to buy a house or start a business. Nowadays so much banking is about tick-box applications. These forms are only as good as the criteria set. Perhaps the old system was a bit too personal but it seemed to work. My current manager is an old-school banker; he's old enough to remember the way things were yet canny enough to move with the times. He tells me like it is and I appreciate his honesty. Perhaps all our banks should adopt a little more straight talking honesty and a little less self-indulgent, macho risk-taking.