God Bless Starbucks. Not for their frapps, which are singlehandedly responsible for my ever thickening waste. Or for the wraps. Ditto. But for having possession of my keys. Which I left there last night. While sneaking a frapp and wrap. En route to what promised to be a turgid networking talk. And lived up to its promise. No booze! But the punters were fun. And there was a hostelry next door. So my loss didn't emerge until pub closing time. Which is long after coffee shop closing time... On the tube home, my anxieties were diverted by a young man who instructed me on the rudiments of systems mapping. My eldest, bless her, was up to let me in. Spare keys to hand, I called a cab to take me back to Liverpool Street. To reclaim the car. It was a sober ending to a sombre day. Earlier I'd counselled a friend whose boy, my shortest Godson, had broken down after 48 hours at uni and was being shipped home:-( Then the washing machine died in a frenzy of strange noises and burning smells. And I myself nearly died at the start of a strategy meeting with my mega-client. Having mounted an Eiffel Tower of steps with effortless ease, I broke out in the most horrendous sweat as soon as I sat down. I looked like Peter Sellers in that scene from the Pink Panther where his prosthetic nose starts to melt as he's playing the organ. The loss of keys after this ignominy, was small bananas... At least it's given me legitimate cause to return to Starbucks;-)