He says, as if it were a matter of principle of which I need reminding: "I'm never on time."Thereafter is a sequence of awkwardnesses with Katie Melua: where's she going to stand, which microphone is hers, is it loud enough, can she hear what she wants to hear, does she want a cup of tea? Chair? Music stand? We run through "Fairy Tale of New York", and the bit "...the boys from the NYPD choir are singing...", after the waltz reprise of the opening tune - well, it throws everybody. But, he's on time.I say, "You're on time!" He sits with a heavy thump on the chair in front of the bass drum, which is his sort of throne when it comes to rehearsals, dropping his clanking bags next to him and then taking in the room to see who's paying attention, a grin on his face. In the departure lounge at Stansted, on the way to Bilbao, in September, he looked youthful, and slenderer, with his hair newly done and dyed the colour of soot. It's filthy and black and is redolent of dripping alleyways and rat-runs and standpipes and influenza epidemics and prison-ships. Now, after three months, the crown of his head is sprouting hair that's the colour of cigarette-ash, pushing the chimney-flue colour before it. Then, Shane arrives and Mike Batt's eminence is suddenly and completely dispelled. Mike Batt, to us, is the man responsible, among other things, for "Remember You're a Womble" It's hard to get that out of one's mind He is concerned about the film-making team, but soon demurs.

He has the air of needing to make things happen around him, even if it's merely for the purpose of making sure people know he's around.Katie Melua is a diminutive, spry, canny young girl with igneous eyes, wearing a Peruvian hat with earflaps She seems altogether too young for us hoary old tars. Shane's wearing a coat that you might expect to find in the theatre wardrobe labelled "Dickens". He's got a family commitment, followed by a presentation at the Science Museum At two o'clock, Katie Melua and her team arrive. This includes her manager, Mike Batt, who has Caesarian hair the colour of the inside of a turnip. But that's tomorrow and I'm not going to worry about it.We've been mindful of the set-list needing a bit of a transfusion: it's been relatively unchanged since 2001 and then it was, more or less, based on an old set-list we had from 1989.

We run through "Billy's Bones", which is pretty straightforward, for most of us, Darryl being the exception since he announces that he's never played the song before other than, possibly, after Cait O'Riordan jumped ship in New York, beset with the impulse to cleave herself to her paramour [Elvis Costello]. It's weird having a camera pointed at you all day, but you soon get used to it.Andrew takes a moment this afternoon to remind Terry of the Japanese hotelmaid's question one morning, after knocking on Terry's hotel room door and Terry opening it: "Flesh towers?" We run through a few things, again Jem's not around. When I arrive, early - because it still feels as though there's a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in - there's a guy crouched at the foot of the Christmas tree by the back door with a screwdriver, putting a plug on the lights, which he hasn't yet strung over the branches.We're here early to run through a few things, because, in a couple of hours, Katie Melua's going to turn up We've got a documentary team filming us at the moment. "Transmetropolitan" we have a go at too, and that turns out to be easy.

And then we have a desultory sort of go on "London You're A Lady". Some of us agree it's probably not one of Shane's better songs, lyrically, though the melody is unbeatable and it's heartfelt.It's now Wednesday. When we've more or less got that one down, and taken a moment or two to listen to it on the iPod (and to wonder how the hell Shane's going to get his teeth into all the words, bearing in mind that it was recorded almost line by line, since his voice at the end of one line overlaps with the beginning of the next), we move on to "Sayonara", which is altogether a much more relaxed affair and not much to worry about, other than what we call Andrew's pressed roll on the snare drum, when Shane sings "motherfucker kiss the ground".We have a go at "Waltzing Matilda". We've done a few versions of this over the years, with three verses, or five, and it's a long song that, in rehearsal, with Shane not around, lacks the focus of the words and the narrative and sounds laborious and boring We sort of give up on it. A posse was sent out to intercept her on the way to the airport.

That evening, back in - what was it? 1985 or something? - Philip and Jem and I (was Philip in the group then? - I never know these things) ran through the chords on the way down to Philadelphia, or Washington, or some bloody place.In any case, there's Darryl in the rehearsal place, today, wincing in a crinkly, defenceless sort of way at the swift passage from chord to chord, having no inkling what do with each one as it goes past. He's instantly referred to as The Caliph, and it's difficult not to imagine him, for the time being, without a silk turban and shoes that curl over at the toe.We're not going to see The Caliph until tomorrow, when Katie Melua shows up, too, to rehearse "Fairy Tale of New York" We have no idea about Katie Melua I live in a cultural bubble in the United States We want to protect Kirsty MacColl's memory, that's for sure. Consequently, and prejudiciously, I find myself imagining a sultry, predatory young woman with an agenda and records that sell well, and I know I'm not going to like her. It's a mystery how he gets there without help, since Joey [Cashman, his manager] had not accompanied him, so we're told It's a further mystery how he gets back. This new one takes pictures, and I think you can watch telly on it. His lack of familiarity with it means that, occasionally, you get unexpected calls from him, only to find he's hung up before you can answer.And then enter, Spider Stacy - in a pacing, restless sort of way; Jem Finer, who looks more and more like a character out of a William Joyce cartoon, the boffin uncle or something; Darryl Hunt in a jacket buttoned up to his throat; and Andrew Ranken, who exudes a sort of bovine calm wherever he goes We don't expect to be seeing Shane MacGowan He's in Morocco, or on his way back from Morocco. I miss the old one, which had acquired the scuffs and dents that one might see on a field telephone, and which last year was always going off on top of his amp, sending hums pulsing through the speakers, as it received, I don't know, football results, or alerts about theatre-openings.