More proof emerged this week that we are evolving as a species: Russian president Dmitry Medvedev has signed a bill that officially classifies beer as alcohol. Well thank God for that. After all, if we’re honest none of us were sure.

Yeah we’d all heard the rumours. But that’s all they were. No concrete facts. To some the very notion of alcohol in beer has been consigned to myth and legend – a spook story used by parents to frighten the children. Well not any more.

It must be a great comfort for the hundred and forty million odd Russians that they’ve got this genius running the show. And he’s clearly on a roll. Early reports have come in that President Medvedev will address the Russian people next week to tell them trees are made of wood and the sea is wet.

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I have come to the conclusion that the vending machine where I am currently working is not my friend. It is a spiteful monster that wears me down in a mean-spirited process of attrition.

Every day it’s the same. I come into the office each morning with the best intentions. I make myself a tea, glance at the vending machine and scoff at its audacity. How dare this arrogant contraption think it can break me with its sugar-filled trinkets of deceit. I don’t need to rely on it for a snack fix. I’ve brought in an apple.

But come four in the afternoon, several hours after I failed to enjoy my pathetic apple, it’s a different story. I’m wandering around the office like a crack-riddled homeless person, asking people if they can spare any change so I can gorge myself on chocolate and crisps. I’ve snapped. And it knows. The vending machine is laughing at me. Every single day.

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Who buys those hideous china figurines advertised on the back of magazines? Will somebody please own up. Clearly these foul baubles are being bought because they keep on selling them.

For only fifty pounds you too can be the proud owner of a delightful porcelain cat dressed as a Victorian scullery maid. Or a timeless ceramic gravy boat emblazoned with a horse standing next to a duck. And if you buy two or more you’ll receive a pair of tiny china shoes and a miniature English country cottage absolutely free.

Who looks at an inaccurate image of a member of the Royal Family badly painted onto a dish and thinks, yes, that gaudy piece of tat will really tie the room together?

Commemorative plates are the worst. Is it company policy to hire artists who can’t paint? Saw an advert the other week for a plate claiming to have Lady Diana’s face on it, but it looked like Rod Hull.

Thing is, if there actually was a Rod Hull commemorative plate on the market, people would buy it. Which is probably what he would have wanted.