Monday

I was dozing on the sofa with the South Africa v Australia Test match on in the background on Saturday afternoon, so watched the ball tampering incident unfold. It was compelling viewing. What started as a piece of random TV footage, followed by some Keystone Cops moments as the Aussies tried to cover it up, quickly escalated into one of the biggest cricket scandals of modern times. Many people have commented on how dim the Australians must have been to cheat in front of so many high-definition cameras. But cheating only appears blatant when you are caught and it’s hard for anyone to imagine – as the Aussies have insisted – that this was a one-off event. To do so, you have to believe that what happened was this. At lunchtime, David Warner approached his captain, Steve Smith, and said, “The ball isn’t doing much, skip. How about I nip out to the hardware store and buy some sandpaper?”. To which Smith replied, “Good plan, Davey. Cheating is no big deal, so why don’t we just give it a go? It’s not as if there are any great downsides. But we’ll get newbie Cameron Bancroft to do it just in case. He’s always game for a laugh.”

Tuesday

After more than 420,000 people took part in the Big Garden Birdwatch in January, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has reported there has been a significant increase in sightings of goldfinches, long-tailed tits and coal tits – thanks largely to the mild weather last autumn. My own bird identification skills are extremely limited so I have no idea whether any of these species have been near my garden, but one of the highlights of my year so far was looking out of the back window at breakfast time to see seven parakeets picking the fruit off our small crab apple tree. Many birders view parakeets with deep suspicion – they feel they are a bunch of pushy foreigners who have escaped their cages to wreck the habitat for local birds. I understand their concerns, but find it hard to condemn the parakeets just because of the way they look. For me there is something utterly magical about such beautiful, bright green tropical birds making themselves at home in south London. Every time I spot one, my spirits rise a little.

Wednesday

Macbeth is having a bit of a moment. In recent months, there has been new productions at the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company. Both of which have been given the thumbs down by the critics. If you want to try a Macbeth that does hit the spot, you could try Verdi’s version at the Royal Opera House in London which I went to today. Though the opera does take a few liberties – Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene is a far bigger deal than in the play and Macbeth’s haunting “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” manifesto of existential futility gets reduced to a passing line – it remains broadly faithful to the text and the music never fails to articulate the internal sense of conflict. It is, in turns, both tender and chilling. The production also has two performers in Anna Netrebko and Željko Lučić who are at the top of their game, both as singers and actors. It’s rare to find such perfect casting. Do go, if you can get a ticket.

Thursday

Yet more evidence emerges to prove that I have failed my children. Research led by Daniel Müllensiefen, a music psychologist at Goldsmiths, University of London, has found that music lessons help boost academic performance by convincing kids they can acquire new skills. My own musical education lasted until the age of 11, by which time I had managed to grind my way to Grade 2 piano, before both my teacher and my mother, who was an accomplished pianist, decided I’d be doing the world a favour if I gave up. The experience coloured my world view, so when neither of my children showed much inclination to learn an instrument, I didn’t push them. My daughter did try the flute but after she only managed to produce several notes – none of them in the right order – over a couple of months, I was delighted when she gave up. It was too painful for both of us. My son refused to even consider learning an instrument until he decided to teach himself guitar in his late teens. So there we have it. I have needlessly made my children stupider than they might have otherwise been.

Hands up everyone who thinks I’m having a good week. Photograph: Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

Friday

It’s often seemed to me that many anxious people devote their lives to doing things that make them feel more anxious. When I was in the mental hospital we had a therapist who was always late for the group sessions. She said her greatest fear was of being late for things. Make of that what you will. Like many writers I know, I spend most of my day in a state of perpetual anxiety that what I am writing isn’t any good. So a big thank you to the actor Sean Penn whose new novel, Bob Honey Who Just Do Stuff, appears to have been written purely with people like me in mind. To make us realise that no matter how bad we think we are, we are some way off writing sentences as overblown and try-hard as his. Here’s one at random, taken from page 15. “Transitioning into adulthood, Bob like any man, was introduced to evolving nemeses that began innocently enough with an opposing neighbourhood’s militia of dirt-clod warriors and later graduated to the manipulations of mind mandated by a green-grabbing media.” Even Hunter S Thompson on a bad acid trip would have scrubbed that one out. Still, at least I have another digested read sorted.

Digested week digested: 363 days and counting