It's been a turbulent week.

The corporation has reached epic proportions of stupidity and I'm beginning to understand why I feel like an imposter. I feel like an imposter because I am an imposter. I am the Judas that will sell them off for a bag of silver. I'm the virus, the infestation of truth that will endeavour to penetrate them from the inside out. I am no longer safe, my true intentions have been broadcast and the disciples are on to me. I am doubting Thomas.

Do I stand to be burned at the stake of modern corporate culture? Will the clergy of middle-management, who have come to believe the spin, the lie, hang a pouch of saltpere and sulphur round my neck as a show of mercy? Will the loyal corporate slaves and servants fan the flames, dance and chant the holy name of Messiah whilst my heathen body seeths, crackles and is cauterized, stripped of flesh and consumed by the helpdesk zombies, my brain steamed and spooned out for the desktop fools to relish, perhaps with cranberry, orange and port sauce.

The religious establishment no longer enjoys the position it once held over society, as the clergy have lost their power over the people, so have a few of the tendrils that were buried deep within the guilty conscience of society been plucked out, fetid and wretched, gnarled, reeking and bloody. Modern management methodolgies and Human Resources think-tanks have taken advantage of the very basic human need to believe, subscribe, identify and belong. They have forged, modelled and implemented methods born of these basic weaknesses and used them to carefully secularize us without much of a choice. We have a choice, apparently the bible tells us that. However, should you choose to question, should you choose to raise doubts, you have lost faith, the craftiest weapon the Church ever came up with. Faith is the best answer to the questions that have never been addressed and cannot be answered.

I've just been to Marylebone farmer's market. It has become a regular Sunday fixture and is done in the name of quality of life. I am sliding my few pence into the 'Retard the decline of the Roman empire' tin in hope, blind hope, much like the faith aspect of a certain religion, that the success factor for human-kind, the path that we lost in our endeavour to conquer all, dominate the physical and metaphysical, shall be delivered once again to a bearded, mattered and wisdom-spouting old crank on the mount of marinaded olives, Primrose Hill. I am exercising my choice not to be subjected to shit. I'll choose the animal I eat, I want to know its name, the farmer's name, and I want his daughter's number.

The farmers' market adds a little atmosphere of country in the city. For four hours every a Sunday people prod fresh produce, sample freerange meats and organic vegetables in the hope (once again) of securing a nice find, that, if not consumed on the day will most likely perish. The return of the perishible vegetables. It boggles my mind that if you buy a carrot from any supermarket, you could leave it out for two weeks and it would still be as fresh and snappy as the day you bought it. This is because they are produced for high yeald and length of shelf-life. One of my organic carrots wouldn't survive 48 hours unrefrigerated.

The first thing I do when I get to the market is order half a dozen oysters for immediate consumption. The bearded, tattooed, burly and hardened men of the sea shuck them there and then and provide a range of condiments (for safe eating) in the form of shallot vinaigrette, lemon wedges and black pepper. Oysters, by the way are a wonderful, life replenishing cure, or at least aide in massaging a hangover.

I returned with a commendable bounty of bacon, gammon, rump steak, pigs trotters and tail (for my veal stock), fresh apple juice, eggs, red snapper, pollock and trout fillets. The week ahead looks good, and will most likely revolve around food, as usual.

Last weekend I travelled to Wales to visit Andrew & Co. Andrew got me to go over for the Guardian Hay festival. The Hay fesival is a literary and general cultural festival that runs for a week. It is set in Hey-on-Wye at the foot of the Black mountains and is possibly the most charming town I have ever encountered. It is no bigger than 500 by 300 yards, is steeped in arcadian surroundings with hedgerows and sheep and has at its centre a hill with a castle built on top, from which the entire town can be seen. The town is a town of bookshops, and not much else. The bookshops share the town with coffee shops and a few food shops, a hotel and old stone houses with plush English gardens (Welsh actually, why should a garden in Wales be called English?); it has everything for a weekend away. There are 40 bookshops in Hay-on-Wye, I was confounded that such a place could actually exist. I returned from Wales with books and bags of food. Last week was a good week.