What is they say about people who briefly appear in the limelight enjoying their 15 minutes of fame?
Well how about my 15 seconds of fame?
For that's what happened to Yours Truly the other day.
It all came about when the BBC had cause to interview colleague Peter Dewhurst in the office about the idea of a Nelson's Column in the town centre for an item on the regional news programme later that day.
When the clip was shown, there, in the backgroiund, was a reporter hammering away at the keyboard, complete with black eye - yes, it was me!
Now the black eye came about as a result of my head coming into contact with the edge of the bedroom door as I went to the bathroom early one morning.
The usual jokes aboiut the condition of the "other man" were a central part of conversation in my club for the next few days, and one man even christened me "Panda" - for obvious reasons - until the bruising disappeared.
But that brief background appearance had not gone unnoticed.
Nicky the barmaid and several members had all spotted me - or rather the black eye - and took great delight in telling me so.
Sadly, the fleeting fame vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived, and there were no queues of autograph hunters at the club doors.
Not this time, anyway ....
 

Whenever I read a story in the national press about diabetics having to endure daily injections, my blood begins to boil.
In fact, you could say that I feel needled!
If you read this drivel, you would think that we diabetics have to undergo torture two, three or four times a day in order to stay alive.
All kinds of images of needles the thickness of crochet hooks being forced through the skin are conjured up - and nothing could be further from the truth.
As someone who injects twice daily and has done for the last 16 and a half years, I know what I am talking about.
THe whole process involves drawing up insulin into a syringe with an attached needle thinner than one you would use to sew on a shirt or blouse button and injecting the insulin into your abdomen or thigh.
No probelms, no pain, no suffering and all done in a few seconds.
OK, we would much rather not have to do it - but the alternative if we chose not to, i.e. death, is something that cannot be contemplated.
And there is little I cannot do today that I could before I was diagnosed back in 1991.
I can still go to work every day.
I can still drive my car.
I can still go out for a drink at night.
I can still eat what I want, with a few exceptions.
I can still go for walks in the countryside provided I take my insulin and glucose tablets/a couple of Mars bars with me in case of delays/emergencies.
In short, being diabetic is no obstacle to leading an ordinary life.
There is talk that at some time in the future, there will be pancreatic implants available to type 1 diabetics which will make daily injections a thing of the past.
But that is some way off - I only hope I am still around when it happens to reap some of the benefits!

What is it about the Lancashire accent - and that in this particular part of the county - that seems to cause such amusement?
Cockney rhyming slang doesn't have people falling over laughing. The awful Birmingham accent doesn't either, and nor does Scouse or Geordie.
But start talking Lancashire to people from another part of the country and you can almost guarantee that they will start scratching their heads as though us locals are from another planet.
The other week, I had cause to call County Hall in Preston on a routine inquiry as part of my job.
Preston, do not forget, is only around 30 miles away at the other end of the M65 - but it might as well as have been at the other end of the country.
I had no sooner explained who I was and what I wanted than the charming young woman - at least she sounded young to me - at the other end of the line burst out laughing.
Bemused, I wondered if I had said something untoward, or if my query had been misconstrued, so asked the woman what she was laughing at.
"Nothing. I just love your accent," came the reply.
Now my rich Trawden/Colne tones have never caused such amusement before.
In fact, the last time it provoked any comment at all was when I was much younger and I wrote the Pubs and Clubs news which was a feature of the Colne Times back then. Ringing one den of iniquity in the town centre, a young barmaid answered the phone and went in search of "mine host" who returned to say that he had no news, but the barmaid thought I had a sexy voice!
I don't know what was wrong with me that day, but it had never happened before, and it's never happened again since!
But you have to admit there is something about the local twang that is instantly recognisable - for instance, about 20 years ago, I was in Scotland with my brother and we stopped overnight in the small town of Killin.
As we sat having a drink in the bar, the hotelier came to our table and said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn't help overhearing your Lancashire accents. Do you happen to come from anywhere near Colne?"
It turned out the man had played rugby union for Rotherham against Colne and Nelson at Holt House on more than one occasion and knew the Tindall family, who ran the club in those days, very well indeed - probably better than myself, and I knew some of them well enough.
So back to the original question.
What is it about the Lancashire accent that provokes such mirth?
Is it because those in the South laughed at George Formby and Frank Randle during the war and think we are all tarred with the same brush?
Do they think that we all still wear braces, cloth caps and clogs?
I haven't got a clue what it is, but I'll tell you one thing - I'd a lot sooner spend my time mixing with people from my home town than with a bunch of poncy, stuck-up off comed 'uns (that's people who have moved here from elsewhere, for those non-natives).
Lancashire folk are honest, straight talking, down to earth, call a spade a bloody shovel and speak our own language which we can understand - and if other people find it funny, that's their problem.

Remember how I promised you the other week that I would keep you informed how my garden was getting on after the weed and feed treatment?
Well, unforeseen circumstances have brought the update forward.
Those of a certain age (i.e. myself and older) will remember Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men, and how we marvelled at the wonders of children's television in the early 1960s.
They contunually moved across the screens on strings clearly visible, mumbling "Flob-a-lob" as they went, and every so often were troubled by a spindly character called the Weed.
At least they only had one weed - not like me.
Over the last few weeks, I have no sooner got rid of one lot of weeds from my beds and patio than another lot has appeared, each one seemingly more resistent to sp;rays of Roundup or Weedol which are supposed to kill them off, roots and all, than the previous one.
So while my lawns are slowly returning to something like normal - the black and brown patches are lessening daily - I will this weekend have to turn his attention to finding the appropriate garden tool and clearing the cracks in my patio, then to turning the soil in my beds once again to take out yet more dandelions, forget-me-nots and other weeds I do not know the names of, whether they be English or Latin.
Talking of which, how many of you did Latin at school? After me now --- amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. Amabo, amabis, amabit ...

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Gardening!
The very mention of the word is enough to make me cringe.
Now that spring is here, it has been time to get out the Garden Claw, turn over the soil, remove the winter weeds and think about buying some border plants - and then not bothering.
Then there is the lawns.
The first cut the other week showed that the grass was slowly being replaceed by a comination of moss, clover, buttercups, dandelions (more than ever this year) and small weeds.
Cue a trip to Gordon Rigg's at Walsden (if only because it allows me a leisurely drive back over Widdop to base camp) for Weed and feed.
Apply it, water the grass as no rain forecast and watch the  green top turn into an ugly, black-patched area - and still there are bits that I've missed.
But at least the grass seems to be growing again and I've avoided by dubbed the new Alan Titchmarch like I was the other year when I inadvertently covered weeds with toxic killer which turned my front lawn into a surface resembling a cricket square, deviod of any grass at all!!!
You've probably already gathered that I regard gardening as a chore that has to be performed rather than one that has to be enjoyed - but I still make an effort to make the lawns look presentable.
And the flyer through the other day from a Bolton firm offering me an artificial lawn - no mention of cost, of couirse - wennt straight on the recycling pile with the rest of the junk mail.
Will there be success at the end of the day? Next Weed and Feed is due towards end of June, with third one in September. Watch this space ...