Cafe society once meant the bright and beautiful who gathered on the Paris sidewalks to share an espresso. In my part of town, however, it's a reference to stressed out office workers dispossessed by their cookers. Scrambling for seats on uneven inner-city pavements, they throw off their Sunday flip flops and wolf French toast while choking on exhaust fumes. Today, I am fumed out. Breakfast coffees with a mate were followed by brunch with my eldest Godson. As ever, he went into overdrive. Eggs Benedict and then an overflowing bacon ciabatta. But only one latte. And one Coke. I inquired after his wife. "She's behaving herself," he said, tersely, "but she's just squeezed a plasma TV out of me." I considered his considerable girth. "Don't worry - I think you've still got a few in there." For tea I had polenta cake with someone who'd just had her first conjugals in three years. She couldn't walk a straight line: "I think I injured myself." I couldn't walk a straight line either, but that was more insult than injury. After a brilliant dinner in the burbs last night, I got stuck in traffic on the way home. An hour to move 800 yards along the North Circ. At 02.40am. Fume heaven! As I climbed into bed at half past four, I was snuffling like a truffle pig:-o