On death by PowerPoint and mouldy old dough:

I'd started to suspect that making sourdough wasn't as exciting as I'd first thought, feeding Spot night after night with no apparent change in his condition or temperament. Could it be possible that no wild yeast survives in the murky atmosphere of Manchester? To this end I'd cut back on feeding Spot to check that I wasn't diluting the yeast.

I've also been busy on a presentation skills course the last couple of days, bellowing "a proper cup of coffee from a proper copper coffee pot" at the top of my lungs and learning to be faster than a speeding bullet point. So, coming home last night I checked in on Spot and, joy of joys, he was frothing and bubbling like the more industrialised stretches of the River Irwell. The reduced feed and the odd stray beam of sunlight that we've had over the last couple of days seems to have done him a power of good.

There was a disturbing band of mould at the top of his home though so I hastily decanted him into a spare tub and fed him again to perk up his immune system. Hopefully this will have staved off ergot poisoning but, if I start denouncing witches in my future blogs, please send an ambulance. This morning though he had a pleasing layer of hooch and, when I stirred this in, he now has a very satisfying beery taste and smell.

Tomorrow, Spot's first loaf...