On Friday night I took the kids to the opera. La Traviata at the Coliseum. Dreadful. The leads were flat and couldn't act. The libretto is up against Borak for comedy script of the year. The set was pure IKEA. But we had fun. So much so that the girls suggested selling the house, buying a small place in Islington, and using the leftovers to get seats in the stalls for future productions... Funnily enough, I was in Islington yesterday. To see Tom and Viv at The Almeida. I stopped at every estate agent's window on Upper Street... Tom and Viv: weird genius and nutty muse. Who gives a monkeys? We escaped at half time and went in search of: a) martinis (me) b) seats (the mate with two broken toes) and c) blokes (the friend who's been on heat all month). By the time we'd found a bar on the Green offering all three components, I was on heat too. She's clearly at the infectious stage. Over dinner we got hit on by an entire family, led by the 23-year-old son. It culminated with the mum, as film-star gorgeous as her boy, joining our table. Wrong result! Afterwards, we tried to recall relationships begun from bar or club encounters. Zero. The odd snog, yes. Relationships? No. Heat girl said it was so bad, she was trying Guardian ads. This could be a winner. Many years ago one of my older mates ran an ad with the strapline: 'Pick on someone your own age' It worked. They're still together;-)