Sometimes, you are absolutely sure of something. Other times, it is necessary to introduce a caveat. Both of these positions are morally and intellectually defensible. It is right to express certainty or doubt, provided that that accurately reflects your feelings. And being able to understand the difference is a vital part of clear thinking and expression. Sir Craig Reedie is a vice-president of the British Olympic Association, which he used to chair, and is member of the International Olympic Committee. He clearly has a much clearer view than I on the fine line between certainty and doubt, as he comments on page 11 on the possibility of a Scottish Olympic team. He says, 'When Scotland is an independent nation, I am 99.999% sure the IOC will grant them [a national Olympic committee].' Contrary to what Elton John has been telling us all these years, the hardest word seems actually to be 'certain'.

Madeleine Bunting is enthusing about art on page 25, and mentions the popular successes of the work of Antony Gormley and Andy Goldsworthy. 'The critics may sniff at both Gormley and Goldsworthy (some do so very loudly).' I can imagine mild critics sniffing, but the idea that harsher judges might also sniff, but simply at a higher volume, seems excessively optimistic a picture. Perhaps life as a creative artist is not so hard if the worst objection you will suffer is people impersonating a noisy head cold.

There was a particular type of playground conversation in my schooldays that was designed to be a kind of linguistic trap. You were asked a tedious question, to which the only apparent answer is in some way wrong or incriminating. You would invariably ending up inadvertently admitting to homosexuality, or HIV-positive status, or some other unlikely affliction for a mid-80s 10-year-old. There were others rather more psychological in style, less howlingly funny than the brilliant gay/AIDS material, and less bullying in outcome. One of these was, 'Don't think of a purple elephant.' Agnes Poirier, writing about Michael Moore on page 27, clearly missed that week in the playground, when she defends Moore's film against accusations of propaganda: 'George Orwell would hate it. But forget about him for a minute.' I'm trying to forget about George Orwell, Ms Poirier, but I really don't think it's me that's making it so difficult.

The cricket commentators on Test Match Special, of whom the third editorial on page 28 is in praise, engage in very English anarchic digressions 'in between balls, returning seamlessly to the matter in hand when the action starts again.' It should be clarified that it is the commentaries that are seamless. The balls, in cricket, remain resolutely seamful.

Alice Wignall, on page 3 of Office Hours, recommends not taking your birthday off, but going into work and enjoying the attention. Her mind wanders to birthdays of her childhood. 'Ages 5 to 11 are the halcyon days…teenage years are obviously slightly more tricky.' If I ever meet Alice Wignall, I must remember not to ask her what happened on her twelfth birthday. It must have been something very harrowing.

I'm not a druid, and you can call a fool anyone who says that I am. Adrian Rooke is, though, and he's on page 6 of Weather talking about 'Weather and me'. He says, 'At Stonehenge…there will always be people celebrating the midsummer solstice.' Always? Surely the point of things like the summer solstice is that you only celebrate them on the summer solstice? Perhaps it's a crowd-calming rota system. But what would I know – I am, as I may have already made clear – not a druid.

And, from our archive:

Guardian, 26th January

British children spend too much on sweets and fizzy drinks, according to a report covered on page 10 of news. The report's author says, 'High-profile media campaigns have managed to jolt many parents into taking more control.' Another way to get a good 'jolt' is to drinks loads of sugary fizzy drinks, ideally with a healthy dose of caffeine included.

Paul Greengrass directed hijack film United 93, and is profiled on page 17. 'Guardian critic Peter Bradshaw was not alone when he wrote that he had difficulty breathing while watching it,' we learn. At first I was glad Mr Bradshaw had some company while penning his review. Now I am convinced that arts correspondent Mark Brown is telling us that Peter Bradshaw steals his ideas from other critics. Even when that idea is life-threatenening apnoea.

The US military are developing weapons that really hurt, rather than entirely kill you. The latest one is a heat ray that burns your skin, but only the very edge, according to an article and diagram on page 18. The system is called Silent Guardian, a title which, to British ears, suggests a left-leaning pathologist TV drama.

A Los Angeles drinks company is using Jimi Hendrix to sell its new range, it says on page 22. The company's boss is called Josh Glass. Surely Mr Glass never seriously considered any other career. Except perhaps glazier.

Klaus Schwab runs Davos, the big-money talking shop currently meeting in Switzerland. 'Davos is not a conference,' he says on page 29. 'It's a multi-stakeholder network of global decision-makers.' Are you sure you wouldn't rather call it a conference? Honestly, Klaus, that's quite a mouthful.

The minister for public health, according to a correction on page 34, 'is Caroline Flint, not Flynn. Obviously. Flynn Flint would be a ridiculous name.

Roger Federer is quite ridiculously good at tennis. He beat Andy Roddick really easily at the Australian Open, which Mr Roddick found rather frustrating, it says on page 10. Roddick at one point yelled, 'Goddamn everything, it's all gone…' though the applause for Federer covered the end of the sentence. Speculation gets a hard press but, on this one, it's all we've got. Possibilities must include: 'Pete Tong'; 'to Iceland'; and 'rapidly downhill'. Or the sentence really did end there, and he was staring disbelievingly at his empty bottle of Barley Water.

Zoe Williams must have a better radio than me. But then, she does have to write the 'Radio head' column on page 31 of G2. She is bickering with her boyfriend about whether Radio 4 or 5 is best (if you ask me, this argument is simply a displacement of the real issue in their relationship – but nobody has). Zoe says that Radio 4 is better because she, a 4-o-phile, could now pick out Tim Yeo in a line-up. My radio has never given me a photo of Tim Yeo (though I have to admit, I've never asked it particularly hard). If, as they say, the pictures are better on radio, Ms Williams is in for a disappointment when she sees Mr Yeo's real visage, as opposed to the one she has dreamt up listening to him speak.