I should be in the Richard Steele tonight. Listening to my favourite trumpeter. But, laid low by aches and extended flatulence I remain indoors. Tending the progeny. Who yesterday starred in a Sunday newspaper. When their father's tale of Himalayan derring-do was finally published. Generally I don't do sour. Though I do of course stretch to ironic. And waspish. But there was a line in his tale that stuck in my throat. When the three cooks who'd supplied fresh meals throughout their great endurance, made them a cake. Iced with the historic words 'we are family'. Que? I rather think it's me who provides the family. Day in and day out. It's him that provides the light relief. And the second family. Oh all right. He's clearly a good father. But. If I had false teeth I'd have swallowed them in rage. Jealousy. Bad grace. And sadness, that I don't stretch to that sort of jolly... Yet. Though I'm working on giving up the Martini habit;-) As it happens, swallowing teeth is a possible at the moment. Because they're going to rot. From the bloody acid my tummy's throwing up. I went to the doctor today. It's a bug apparently. That's why I'm bloated and bent in two. A contortion that could win me work with the Cirque du Soleil. Thankfully cocodamol and high octane bile busting drugs are already masking the discomfort. So I'll be fit for purpose tomorrow. Meeting Conservative Women. Yes, you've read right. Research. Over tea in Victoria Street. How weird is that?