I increasingly think my writing is somewhat futile. The threat from climate change is now a certainty, and writing blogs, or books, seems a bit like scribbling away in the bowels of the Titanic, hoping, in a year or two, to complete a magnum opus which the Captain will read, and, eventually, be convinced to think about reducing speed.

But I would like to be up on the bridge helping to wrestle the wheel from the Captain's hands, and advising the passengers where the baling tins are, while refusing to allow the band to play 'nearer my god to thee'.

But it is increasingly obvious that I am not going to be - the captains, around the world, are still ordering more coal to be shovelled into the boilers, demanding more and more speed even as the Arctic meltdown produces ever more icebergs. So what is the point of writing at all, meeting self-imposed deadlines each week, scanning the world's media for news, forming ideas that look at the news in, well, new ways, turning accepted wisdom on its head and seeing what falls out of its pockets? Am I just a blockhead, as Samuel Johnson, were he still alive, would say?

If even the lovely Sheryl can't effectively communicate with Karl then what hope do I have of influencing anyone?