On Friday night, for the third week on the trot, I walked out of a theatre at the interval. This time I'd gone to see The Alchemist. With my broken-toed mate. Who returned to NYC this morning. I wanted to give her a really good night out. To make up for the injury. Which happened when our dodgy shower head fell onto her feet. Ten minutes in, I was fighting revulsion. The acting was great. But one of the leads had a saliva problem. He didn't speak, he sprayed. When he shouted, big gobs of spit literally fell to the floor. I was pinned back in my seat for fear of stray winds. At halftime I ran for the foyer. With Hopalong in hot pursuit. "I've had enough," I said, "Haven't you?" In pouring rain we repaired to the Oxo tower where raspberry and white-peach bellinis restored our health. And then we had a slap-up supper. Which just about, I think, counted as atonement;-) Tonight, I saw The Queen. The film, that is. The Diana bits were really sad. I've always thought my misery at the time was down to mass hysteria, but clearly I just have a heart that's touched by the trivial:-o Sunday night, it's Bruce at Wembley. I placed two joke bids on ebay for really good tickets. And got both sets! This week's people carrier to the hallowed halls of fame, will be a spark-free zone. Though I suspect there may be a surfeit of denim...