Up with the lark. After a night tossing and turning. It was the dodgy Yemeni meal last night. In a Paddington backstreet. With the ex and the progeny. After simultaneous parent's evenings had confirmed we distilled pure brilliance together. As he paid, I said, as I often do, "You were the best husband, and you're the best ex-husband." And I made a mental note not to complain that a member of his new dynasty has drawn on my sitting room wall. Indeed, I keep seeing fingermarks and scrapes everywhere. It must be the light at this time of year. Or maybe it's that I'm squinting all the time. From two weeks at the Mac. And I can't yet give up the ghost. One chapter remains. And then the checking. And tidying. No rewrites, though. That's up to the person whose name's on the book jacket;-) Talking jackets... On Sunday night I was hiding in the back of the people-carrier to Wembley, when one of my mates called. "You're seeing Cliff Richard?" she shouted, agog. "I hope you've got rubber soles!" Surely, I thought, she's confusing her bands? Rubber soles? "From all the synthetic fibres! When the women run for the stage, they're sparking..." My companions in the car were certainly sparking. Though ironically so. I think. During one of Cliff's particularly ghastly homilies followed by a song called Soldier in the Field of Love, one of them texted me across the row: Are you a soldier in the field of love? My laugh echoed around the arena. Power to all our friends...