The wi-fi is a little erratic at the Druidston Hotel, perched on a cliff top in the western extremities of Wales. But wi-fi of any sort is unexpected in the wonderful other-timeliness, which is part of the unique charm of this place, one of the loveliest hotels in Wales, if not Britain. Communications are thus a little tortuous, and encourage more time for the greedy filling of lungs with ozone charged with sea spray, heather and bracken while striding the hairy undulations of the coast path.

Nature chucks in a soundtrack of twittering oyster catchers, keening gulls and squawking choughs (oh yes, Mr Oddie), supported by the ceaseless thud and hiss of waves onto the broad sands of Druidston Haven.

Stress flees, formerly quivering ganglions are stilled, problems that seemed insurmountable simply fade away.

But there are always a few tasks that must be done, tasks so ingrained as to be inescapable to a point where a sense of deprivation sets in if they’re ignored – like writing this blog.

Although remoteness makes it hard to keep in touch with the rest of the noisy, smelly, messy, bad breath, bad karma world,  I know the best place to catch our sporadically dodgy wi-fi connection. In the old farmhouse kitchen of the hotel there is also intermittent chat to be had with Jane Bell, who owns the place with her family. She’s ironing children’s clothing for one of the guests (no wonder she’s become everyone’s favourite granny).

We talk about the intelligence of Jack Russell terriers, the wickedness of the Kennel Club, the influence of the hippy generation on 21st Century British culture and attitudes.

Then the connection goes.

I drive a few miles between bent-over hedges and fields of pasture-munching, black & white milk manufacturers to the ancient bastion of Haverfordwest. I’m on an important mission; I want to take advantage of a very generous offer from the News of the World. I have a little voucher snipped from yesterday’s paper with which I can claim from W H Smiths a 50% discount on a new book, Confessions of a Fake Sheikh, by the tabloid’s star investigative reporter, Mazher Mahmood.

The claim must be made between August 31st and September 14th – “while stocks last”!

But oh! What a let down!

W H Smiths don’t have copy! And the computer says there are none in the warehouse. I can’t even order the book.

I am especially upset. Known for having studied the methods of the great investigator, I’ve been asked to review the book, which Harper Collins, the publishers originally said would be out on September the 15th.

It’s all jolly mysterious.

It had been rumoured that the News of the World, who belong to the same News International gang as Harper Collins, were going to serialise the book, starting last Sunday 31st, followed presumably, given a publication date of September 15th, by the next two Sundays. Then, last Sunday, without any front-page strap, buried in the middle of the paper on pages 38 & 39 is a brief resumé of the book by another Screws journalist, headlined with a crappy and implausible pun, SHEIK AND AWE.

Mazher Mahmood must be spitting with rage in whatever secretly located luxury penthouse apartment he now occupies. Surely they were going to give his book a proper send off?

And even the not very subtle wheeze of a ½price offer to Screws readers to help it up the charts isn’t going to work if there aren’t any in stock and W H Smiths aren’t talking orders.

What’s gone wrong?

Is there a last minute hitch?

Is the book so bad and boring they’re ashamed to let it out without a serious  re-write?

Are there legal problems?

I can hardly wait for next Sunday.

Meanwhile, there’s the bracing west wind, long spells of warm sun (after the Guardian had plonked a huge fat black pissing cloud over Pembrokeshire), and all those stress-releasing aromas…

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