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As the final episode of Countdown ebbs irreversibly through the VCR, Morris realises that it could be time to move on.

First he has to persuade his mum to give him his passport back, and help deliver a baby.

It's the most commonplace things about Shropshire that I think I've missed the most. The landscape, the air, the people and, of course, the bakeries.

I've travelled all around the world, tasted delicacies from exotic kitchens, seen unimaginable vistas, befriended all manner of folk, danced with seventeen shades of death, and remained relatively unmoved.

Yesterday I went to Market Drayton and ate some freshly baked gingerbread that had been amusingly crafted into the shape of a footballer. It moved me to tears.

Not only did the gingerbread crumble with the delicate softness unrivalled even by the silken thigh of the goddess of softness, but it skipped that fine line between sweetness and spice that only a tenth dan gingerbread baker, benefiting from over 200 years of gingerbread baking lore could achieve.

I fell to my knees in the middle of the street and shouted my thanks to the late, great Roland Lateward, grandfather of gingerbread making, entrepreneur and regional winner of the 1789 "amusing cake" Olympics.

You might think to yourself that I was over-reacting to what was, after all, just some flour, sugar, shortening, cinnamon, ground ginger, baking powder, salt, baking soda, vanilla extract and eggs.

If you could have been there, if you could have tasted what I tasted, you'd have been there next to me, on your knees, stopping traffic, shouting till your lungs ached "Thankyou, Roland Lateward, Thankyou."

As I explained to the police later on, and again to Mother as she came to get me, with gingerbread of that quality, no reaction could ever be categorised as an overreaction.

I spent today watching the last of my Countdown backlog. While I was obviously misty eyed as the final credits rolled on the last tape, it also gave me a sense of release and freedom, as there's nothing else really urgent keeping me here.

The world needs me.

If I close my eyes I can imagine the chatter of thousands of desperate souls wishing aloud that a man would walk into their lives and show them exactly where the juicy peach of happiness really is.

I am that man and Shropshire is that juicy peach.

Mother is still refusing to tell me where my passport is.

I know she means well but as I've explained to her, the world needs me.

She might need me to protect the house from burglars, terrorists and Devon folk, to cut the grass, clean the gutters and unscrew jar lids, but the world needs me to bring it enlightenment, show it the error of it's ways and point it in the direction of Shropshire.

Still, even if I can't go abroad, there are still plenty of places that need to know about Shropshire.

When you think about it, there must be people in other parts of Great Britain that see Shropshire on the television all the time but never think to come here. Why is that?

If you were sat at home in one of the lesser counties and saw the solid majesty of the Wrekin, or the coming together of the many creative strands that is the Ludlow festival, or the sheer unadulterated marvellousness of Ironbridge...

... would you not immediately run from your house and head for Shropshire to start a new life amongst these marvels?

Why? I just don't understand.

I have come across a few during my travels who, like a man in the desert dying of thirst refusing a nice cold glass of iced water, have spurned my message, ignored my important information about Shropshire being the best place ever and gone on living their blinkered little lives.

Maybe I need to be more direct.

I tried one last time to get Mother to give me my passport. I convinced Trent to dress up as a policeman and demand that my Mother provide some identification for me.

To be fair to Trent, he really got into character, and made good use of the traditional "evening all" greeting accompanied by the bobbing of knees and nodding of head.

Unfortunately Mother knows that we don't have any local bobbys that are six foot three American Indians who look a bit like Derek Griffiths in his Playschool heyday.

She sent him packing; literally! She made him some sandwiches, a slice of cake and a flask of tea for the journey back to his barn, which was particularly thoughtful of her since it's only ten minutes walk down the road.

Toby came round to see me today, he tells me that Sophia is expecting their child very shortly, she would have come too but she didn't.

I can see that Toby looks up to me as the man who turned his life around.

My gut reaction was to emphasise that all the changes he has made in his life have been thanks to his own determination, resolve and application, but he won me round and I found myself agreeing with him that yes, I was solely responsible for his good fortune lately.

He's got a good job, a good home, a beautiful partner, a baby on the way, and he lives in Moreton Say.

What more could anyone want? He is very lucky he met me. But then I'm very lucky I met him - he was my first real success and I feel quite paternal towards him. He's like the son I never had with the girlfriend I never had.

Toby tried to offer me all sorts of stuff to show his appreciation. He offered me money, he offered me a car, he offered to set me up with a friend of Sophia's, he even offered to name his firstborn child after me, but I refused.

I don't need more money, I can't drive, I'm not interested in Sophia's friends and although Morris is a bold and noble name that any child would be glad to carry, I declined that offer too since Toby's surname is Minor and Sophia's surname is Dancer.

One thing Toby did say in passing was that Mr Magson is on holiday again, somewhere in the sub-continent, and he has a casual vacancy for a stationary clerk. I offered my temporary services and so I start tomorrow.

It's only a temporary position. I'm just here to help Toby out and get a taste of my former life.

I just wanted to briefly drink once more from the crystal waters of the office stationary lake, to see the lady of the lake hold up a heavy duty Excalibur paperclip for me, so I could once again take my rightful place on the throne of A4 laser copier paper as prince of paperclips, king of consumables.

There is actually quite a large backlog of work here since Toby got promoted.

A string of unsuitable individuals ill-equipped for the heady, high-level responsibilities of my old job have tried and failed to keep up with the cut and thrust of juggling the many facets of maintaining an organised stationary and consumables section.

I feel it may take more than a week to get things in shape here and working as well as it was when I left, but I've already filled a whiteboard with spider charts, gant charts and cross-referenced progression plans.

It wasn't entirely my fault... although I will admit that some of my proposed changes to the stationary budget were quite radical.

I've become accustomed to thinking on a grander scale since my travels abroad, and it seemed like a good idea at the time to think ahead and order cutting edge technology and to order in bulk.

Apparently by the time the finance section noticed my order forms and started cancelling them, I'd already spent the next five years worth of stationary budget, all the company profits for the next two years and the best part of the kitty for the staff Christmas do.

On the bright side though, they won't be running out of paperclips until sometime in the 30th century.

I also stayed late last night, very late, and reorganised all seventeen of the offices so that in each room, each desk forms part of a larger circle of desks facing inwards like an office based Knights of the Round Table.

This way there will be no more staff facing walls, no more managers sitting isolated away from their staff, and no more arguments over who gets the window seat. Now no one gets the window seat.

I did have to remove a few desks to achieve the circular seating structure, but I think anyone who worked in my new environment would agree it is much preferable to the previous accommodation arrangements.

Toby's boss didn't agree, he sacked me, and worse still, he suspended Toby for employing me.

Apparently the company had me on their books as a marked man, never to be employed again, but Toby put my name down as Maurice Letford so the computer didn't pick up on the name.

I feel quite bad about that. I'm sure they will see the funny side in a few days and reinstate him.

Walking home with Toby, with the birds playfully darting around overhead, the grass dancing in the summer breeze, the distant contented moos of the Muller cows, the Shropshire sun shining softly on the silage shafts it was quite hard to be depressed about it all, although Toby was having a good try at it.

I'm going to help Toby break the news to Sophia and perhaps explain to her about all my stationary innovations and the lack of management forward thinking.

Now I've never actually met Sophia in person before and I was a little trepidacious at the prospect of seeing her perfect Felicity Kendal nose balanced under those dark blue eyes, but when she opened the door I was shocked.

... Not in a bad way, just shocked at how large she was, and how she was still utterly beautiful.

I wanted to tell her she was a vision of fruitful womanhood, an earth mother, a splendid consummation of hormones and oestrogen wrapped up in a bountiful baby factory. I wanted to tell Sophia that she was ripe and marvellous.

Before I got chance to tell her any of this, she pushed me firmly but gently aside and asked Toby to get the car.

She was, it turns out, in labour.

It's all very exciting. I'm in the car with them both now and we are nearly at Whitchurch Hospital.

I insisted that I come and help, bringing a new life into the world can't be easy and I'm sure I'll be able to offer some advice and guidance at this crucial time.