Up too early for a weekend. I should be hastening to a Wealth and Power seminar. But opted out ten minutes ago. It wasn't a blind decision. The fun started last night. Four hours on the tiniest chair in a West London Ibis. Yet another all-singing all-dancing extravaganza. But this time the speaker was charismatic. And hammy. My favourite bit was the Christmas music as he spun out a homily about his childhood in the snow and his "ferocious curiosity". We had to list our goals. I found I didn't believe in any of mine. Am I fearful of making money? Clearly. I certainly don't want it as my focus. Earlier I'd been debating the hoary old question of who pays the bill. I'd lunched in town. And we'd gone dutch. The posse were 3:1 - the inviter pays. "Whether business or pleasure, that's the etiquette," stated the loudest possette. "It's an investment in the future." I too am of this mind. It removes uncertainty. If the invitee says "Thanks" and buggers off, you've lost them. If they say "Thanks. I'll get the next one," you've got a strike. The quietest possette wavered. "Men, particularly, are frightened to pay," she said. "In case the woman thinks it's patronising." Bloody hell - it's only money! Giving is a prelude to, and part of, bonding. An offering of oneself. To pay everytime is iniquitious. To pay when you're setting the stage - irrespective of gender - is a statement of intent.