Last night, dinner with a beautiful photographer of my acquaintance. It was the first time in nine years we'd dined alone. Despite many social visits to each other's homes with children in tow. She started to unfold her complex private life. For which, read love life. By the fish stew, I was so confused by the reality, the possibilities, and the people in the wings just-in-case, that I came home grateful to be solitary. Correction: relatively solitary. My NYC pal's still around, though she booked out for a few days this morning. It was so lovely being alone, I stayed in pyjamas till five. This window of content, alas, soon closes. On Thursday, a friend from Ireland arrives. I love my mates, but why half term which is precious me-time? It's like the Hot Sheet Motel. Before yesterday's dinner, I had tea in town. With an elegant Russian. A geisha expert. She'd invited me to the Ritz. But on arrival, I was barred. "Sorry Madam, no jeans allowed." How quaint;-) We ended up in the Fountain Restaurant at Fortnum's. Which I'd read had been revamped. If so, the change is miniscule. It still looks like a bad stage set from the 1970s. Alison Steadman took the table next to us. If she'd gone into role as Beverly from Abigail's Party, not one eyebrow would have activated. The punters were strangely huge. My hostess, inevitably svelte but not underweight, looked a size zero in comparison. And I, just pleasantly plump:-) Tonight I realised I hadn't sent my children Valentines. Because they're not here:-( Will they remember, I wonder?