Beetroot stains are a bit of a mare when you haven't got a washing machine. A problem I should have considered before ordering my scoff tonight. But I was blinded by the light. Around Tower Bridge, that is. Which is backlit like a giant wedding cake. In the other direction, Canary Wharf winked lasciviously, a study in multi-watted phallic glory. This struck me as very odd. Because I'd pitched up at the Blue Print Cafe after a night of global warning. From the Deputy Mayor of London, no less. Further down the towpath, at the GLA's Thameside bubble, she'd told us that 75 per cent of the world's energy is used by cities. "And most cities sit on waterways." She was hosting a book launch. A valiant call to arms before melting ice-caps gobble up our low lying land masses. Including the bridge, bubble and phallus... The book is written by a mate who was sporting an Oxfam-chic striped jacket, Prince of Wales checked shirt, and a chequerboard tie. Thankfully nobody in the room was epileptic. And the book sold out. Dining with another dear friend, we gorged on the view. "I remember when you first brought me here to Butler's Wharf," I said. "It was a wilderness. You were sorting out the finances. To get the development finished. I always think of it as yours." He nodded glumly into his sea bream and radish: "So do I. It's just a bloody shame I don't collect the rents."