When I undertook to write a few words from my bunker in the part of London that the press in this country sneeringly refer to as the People's Republic of Islington (which neatly overlooks the fact that it's brimful these days with ex-public schoolboys on the make, self-satisfied merchant bankers and hot-shot lawyers with expensive cars, smug partners and dull, factualist children) I wondered to what extent I'd find myself using personal experience to illustrate some broader socio-political issue (such as, the other day, a rich woman behind the wheel of a vast and powerful car hitting a puddle at speed, drenching all much poorer pedestrians in a 50-yard semicircle); or whether I'd steer clear of the lightly pontificatory Alistair Cooke-ish approach and hide whatever we all know we have to hide by being, er, entirely flippant and irrelevant.

And, staring into a grey computer screen, I'm still wondering. But who cares, because meanwhile this column is doing its best to turn itself into a kind of urban section of a would-be countryman's diary.

It is my duty to report that bodies are piling up in the back garden and, once again, I'm involved. In my last despatch, I spoke of the cruel fate of my daughter's pet rabbit, almost certainly eaten by a very large fox which lives locally and which, incidentally, was seen in the early morning only a couple of Tuesdays ago preening itself, after a restorative massage, shampoo and facial, on a back garden wall two doors away. I now have to tell you that my well-intentioned attempt to provide a little seed for the dwindling number of wild birds in these back gardens has backfired badly and resulted in the savage death by cat mauling of what is, let me tell you, a rare bird round here — a beautifully iridescently feathered starling.

I put some birdseed into a sort of plastic fishnet stocking, and hung it from our cherry tree. Imagine the delight of this city boy to see it visited by robins, goldfinches and a pair of starlings. But the birds ruptured the stocking, causing the seed to fall to the ground, and one of the starlings — the male — was obviously having a go at pecking the seed on the ground when it was attacked by one of the overfed, kill-for-pleasure cats round here. I buried what was left of this beautiful bird the other day.

I've bought a little wooden birdstand (cost £18.99 from the garden centre at Alexandra Palace) and sited it at first floor level (that's second floor to American readers) on the balcony outside my study. The cats can't get up here, but the birds can. We'll see what happens.

I sometimes get away from the word processor in pursuit of my other job, which can take me to interesting parts of town. Yesterday I had to drive through the City to the mazy, mediaeval lanes around Southwark Cathedral, and on the way, though still within the confines of Islington, I passed Alfred Hitchcock's Gainsborough Studios. This was where in 1938, before the great man went to Hollywood and 'Psycho' fame, he made 'The Lady Vanishes'. I always think of this movie when I drive down the strangely bleak New North Road. Fabulous suspense melodrama, it was, with as pacey a comedic script (by Sidney Gilliat and Frank Launder) as anyone could wish for. Developers have now punched a hole in the Gainsborough Studio roof and, give it six months and a great deal of money, you'll be able to buy a warehouse apartment there. Is there a moral here, somewhere? Like, intellectual property gives way to the bulldozers of real property? Nah. No morals in property development, and certainly none in making movies.