Out in County Kilburn we pitched up at Rob Newman's latest show. Clever, passionate and funny, he is so... not funny. There is cynicism inherent in everything he says. Of course there were laughs. Some were inspired. But he managed, nonetheless, to end on an absolute downer. As if it it's our fault that idealism is dead and you can't buy Fairtrade lager. Perhaps it is - but we're victims too! He gave us the history of the world told backwards. A wonderful conceit and perfect for punters with several degrees including ancient civilisations, world politics, military strategy, nuclear fission and orthopaedic surgery. The rest of us only got forty per cent of the jokes. And pretended, or slept, through the rest. Sitting near the front, I had a view straight up his nostrils. His channels are very narrow. Funnily enough, he once kissed me. Rather... moistly. In a corridor at Jongleurs, in Clapham. It was a long time ago:-( I was encumbered that evening with a drunk who painted well but held drink badly. There was no opportunity to further the promise of romance as I was searching out friends to help me hoist him in the car and dump him at his midden. The drunk that is, not Mr Newman. I'd fantasized that our eyes would meet during tonight's show and we'd both get palpitations, but if it happened, it must have been while I was dozing. And yes, I'm tired. One child has finished school. The other - a joyous 15 yesterday - is enjoying an end of year social whirl. This is their weekend with their father. I waved them out of the door - correction: pushed them out of the door - with some relief. It's been one of those weeks. Tomorrow I have promised myself a lie-in:-)