It seems that Luciano Pavarotti made his final appearance at Covent Garden last Sunday, a termination that leaves his devoted fans in a state of near-hysteria. Monstrous in every way, his legendary status is already assured by a cheerful English nursery rhyme heard in the village:

My name is Pavarotti
And I am very fat.
But I made a load of money
So!
What do you think of that?

In 1984, I was in Mexico City. While there I visited a bank—I think it was a branch of the Banco del Atlántico—to cash a travellers' cheque. What a pity that I did not open an account with that bank and deposit a small sum, say £150 ($215). Had I done so, and had I gone away and forgotten about this small sum of money, I would now be worth £300 million ($430 million) and I could afford to pay Pavarotti's restaurant bills for the rest of my life. Or that, at least, is what would have happened if one is to believe the story of Señora Celia Reyes, a Mexican widow. She deposited £16,000 ($23,000) in the Banco del Atlántico in 1988 and is now said to be the richest woman in the world, with a fortune of £30 billion ($43 billion). This is because Mexican interest rates rose to as much as 150 percent in the intervening period. Occasionally, like everyone else in this country, I dream of winning the National Lottery. Since I never buy a lottery ticket, this seems unlikely to happen, barring a clerical error of course. But what a pathetic ambition. Señora Reyes could afford to fund the National Lottery out of her spare cash. For some reason, the story of la Reyes has become a new obsession. It first broke on a startled world last July, but I have only just heard about it. Only now do I realise that life has played another dirty trick. In fact, I am almost certain that I did leave a small sum of money in some Mexican bank, if only I could find the ticket.

Clerical errors are not uncommon, as the full story of this government's iniquitous Gatso speed cameras confirms. Gatso speed cameras are those hideous grey boxes that have been placed by the roadside in order to harass and rob inoffensive motorists. We who live under the iron lash of the Thames Valley Police Authority have to deal with 311 Gatso speed cameras, and we are frequently the victims of clerical errors. People have been summonsed for speeding through the Thames Valley when they were in fact abroad or "in a meeting" or on the office couch with Miss Jones. They have had to battle to prove their innocence, especially in the last case. But perhaps the tide is beginning to turn. The Chief Constable has suffered a major defeat with the new directive ordering him to paint his cameras bright yellow and to stop hiding them behind hedges and round corners. For a start, he has been forced to agree that he has been concealing these cameras. The motorist's final victory can only be a matter of time.

Tomorrow is a big day for British tennis fans. Tim Henman plays Greg Rusedski in the third round of the Australian Open. If Henman can go on to win in Australia, he will surely take Wimbledon this year. The only fly in the ointment is the British press, which is already taking the opportunity to abuse Henman, the finest tennis player we have produced in over 50 years, as a "Mother's Boy". Because Henman does not snort cocaine, or lock himself in a broom cupboard with a chambermaid, or turn the air blue on court, our sporting press does not know what to do with him. The idea that a tennis champion can remain both courteous and calm baffles these paunchy freeloaders completely. Even when Henman was battling in the semi-final on the Centre Court last year, the duty chimp behind the microphone on BBC Radio 1 felt it necessary to abuse him. When Henman wins Wimbledon, as he surely will, it will be worth it just to see the toe rags of the British press queuing up to congratulate him.