The past few weeks have been spent in the enclosed rehearsal spaces of the Ambassadors Theatre in London’s West End, preparing and finally opening in Private Lives. Shut off from the world as I am, we could have become a colony of North Korea for all I know. And yet some things do penetrate – who could fail to be horrified and appalled by the twin disasters in North Africa recently? These two devastating events have resulted in the deaths of an ever-rising number of tens of thousands of people. And yet they already seem to have dropped off our news coverage. Has the enormity of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami made the western world immune to such disasters? How can the latest news from the Strictly studio occupy more space in news outlets than Morocco or Libya? Madness.

It is so good to finally perform in front of live audiences. No two audiences are ever the same; reactions can vary wildly and that is part of the thrill of performance and what keeps us on our mettle. You can always feel early on whether the audience is with you, or whether you have to work that little bit harder. You really have to earn the applause at the end. Noël Coward did this play when he was 30 and complained endlessly about feeling exhausted. I’m 71!

In his Diary a few weeks ago, Richard Madeley wrote that he is often mistaken for me. Yet not once have I been mistaken for him – what’s that about?

During my stint in the West End, I often walk to the theatre from my home in west London. The reverse not so much, as walking through theatreland in the dark doesn’t feel that safe. Rarely do you see any coppers on the street these days, and it makes you wonder how cities are policed. Even when incidents are reported, nothing much seems to be done about them. Petty crime appears to be of little interest to the police, and yet surely this is a part of the day-to-day life of any built-up area. I wonder what the figures are like for entry into the police. We see lots of recruitment advertisements for the Armed Forces on TV; very good they are, too, and I would be surprised if they didn’t boost numbers, but I can’t remember seeing anything similar for the police force. I think they are missing a trick.

Another thing I’ve noticed about central London is that there is a pleasing lack of litter these days. The streets are so much cleaner, but I tell you what I think qualifies as the new litter: e-bikes and e-scooters. These wretched machines clutter up our urban highways; people either just chuck them any old where, or they park them in the spaces reserved for motorbikes. This is more than irritating for those of us using motorbikes to beat the traffic. The other day a line of illegally parked e-bikes fell over on to my Vespa, resulting in considerable damage, but who would care enough to do anything, I wonder. The Mayor? No, don’t be stupid, he isn’t interested in helping out with everyday problems, he’s too busy saving the planet.

Rick Stein got it in the neck recently for charging £2 for his condiments. It is surprising how quick everyone is to howl in outrage at having to pay for anything, but frankly anyone who is happy to pay for fast food – never the cheapest or healthiest option – must have the odd two quid for ketchup. If not, why not try a baked potato at home and use your own jumbo bottle of Heinz, or maybe forego that fizzy drink if you must have the ketchup – where there’s a will.

The flat-racing season is drawing to a close – always depressing for me, but this year doubly so as we say goodbye to Frankie Dettori, who took over the mantle from Lester Piggott as the people’s flutter of choice. I’ll miss his flying dismount, although of late my heart has been in my mouth that he might break a leg.

The difference between men and women when it comes to clothes seems to be continuity. Women’s clothing needs a constant update – or so my wife tells me – but men can continue to wear their suits for decades (depending on their fast-food intake). But oh my goodness the thrill when you finally dust off that quivering cheque book. This year I ordered a new suit from Anderson & Sheppard, my tailor of choice since the sad death of Doug Hayward. For months I have been going to fittings and watching with delight and anticipation as these remarkably skilful professionals conjure up something of such perfection. The day for collection draws ever closer – anyone in the Savile Row area keep a lookout for a smug-looking Havers swaggering down the street, searching for mirrors.