So I found myself wandering into the crypt of a church one Sunday evening, not quite knowing what to expect. The room was buzzing with activity. A TV blared in a corner, men made up temporary beds for themselves and a small kitchen was a blur of bodies preparing hot food for the evening's residents.

Every Wednesday and Sunday night the church would provide a bed and a meal for about 20 or so people who had nowhere else to go. There were alcoholics and drug addicts. I struggled to work out whether they were addicts who became homeless or whether their addictions assuaged the pain of life without shelter.

There were those for whom a community couldn't care less, let alone offer care in the community. And there were others, not blighted by addiction or illness, whose lives had simply fallen apart, one way or another.

The shelter would regularly turn away applicants since beds were in short supply. There was room for 20 and no more. The reality was simple. The local council statistics said there were only two homeless people in their borough. Palpably that was incorrect. I counted at least 26 that evening. And since the borough recorded such a low figure they felt they were not required to offer any financial support to combat homelessness.

My corner of London has its problems but it is also an area with plenty of rich folk, no shortage of movers and a plethora of shakers. It seemed ironic to me that less than 500 yards away from the site where Tony Blair and Gordon Brown made their pact to launch New Labour, six people would go without a bed for the night, six people would be turned away.

A civilised nation ought to be judged on how it treats those less fortunate. If that is the case we come up short when it comes to civilising the homeless. Or perhaps it's those of us with roofs that need civilising.

Blissed out by the sunshine on Leith

Leith has changed. My, how it has changed. I remember last being there about 15 years ago for my cousin Sanjay's stag weekend. For some reason, unbeknown to any of us stags, he had booked us into a dodgy little Indian restaurant doon by the watter. Having quad biked and paintballed our day away we were hoping for slightly more salubrious surroundings than Leith. I remember thinking that Ian Rankin (the greatest ever crime/thriller writer) must have spent a great deal of time in Leith researching crimes and misdemeanours. In fact I counted more ladies of the night outside the restaurant than waiting staff inside.

The Leith of Thursday morning last week was beautiful. The water twinkled, the architecture resplendent, the folk warm and welcoming. The sky was blue and I blessed The Proclaimers as I enjoyed the sunshine.

Reproduction furniture

My friend and his Geordie granny are talking about a couple who've had no luck in trying for a baby.

My friend: So what are they going to do?

Granny: Well, they're going to go and see a doctor.

My friend: Really?

Granny: Yes, they are going to try that MFI.

My friend: MFI?

Granny: Yes, to help them have a baby.

(Pause. The penny drops.]

My friend: Granny, you mean IVF.

Cheese, Sir, I want some more

It was an early start on Wednesday morning, the chill morning a precursor to autumn. The cold and the hour were mitigated by the fact that my destination was Edinburgh. Entering the departure lounge, stomach-led as ever, I investigated the possible breakfasting opportunities; the boy has to eat. I settled upon a toasted muffin packed full of egg, sausage and cheese. I think there is something wholly unexplored in the union of cheese and meat-based products, especially when the cheese has been melted. And sure enough, after the application of heat my muffin was ready and beguiling.

Hot as it was, I decided to make tentative attacks around the periphery of the toasted delight. This periphery was smothered in melted cheese and completely egg and sausage free. It was at this point as the stringy, tangy cheese mingled with the lightly toasted doughy muffin that I was reminded of the simple pleasure of cheese on toast. I grew up eating toast that had been enhanced by cheese.

Apart from its economic upside as a cheap and filling meal, there were so many different variations, so many slight adjustments that radically transformed the simplicity of the snack, taking it to an altogether higher plane. The addition of chopped tomatoes and onions adds a crunchy, sweet component to the cheese. Mum would often sprinkle a few green chillies over the cheese, these emerald studs of heat sinking in and enveloping themselves in the glorious duvet, like little surprises of flavour waiting to be discovered. Welsh rarebit is a tangy, more ebullient version of the staple; and it's Welsh, a nation I have a great deal of time for. The classic tuna melt was always a firm favourite, a quick and easy meal. The only point of contention was the addition of mayonnaise. My problem here was that I could never make tuna mayo as well as Clara could at the Grosvenor Café on Byres Road, a tuna mayo they shoved lovingly into an oversized croissant.

Later in life I widened my net of ingredients and experimented with ham in my cheese (which worked) and sliced avocado (which really didn't). It has been more than a year since I sat down and tucked into the unpretentious delight of a plate of cheese on toast. Inspired by my airport experience I know what I shall be having for lunch when I return to London.