Yesterday I met four adults with viral conjunctivitis. It struck me then that my blocked tearduct is a variation of the same. I googled up information. It lasts for weeks! How horrible is that? Two of the harbingers of doom are new friends. We popped by their house. On the way home from lunching at my mum's. Cashew nut curry. Deee-licious. The house was lovely. Galleryesque. And our hostess was pie-eyed. After a lunch party. She took me into her confidence. "My husband isn't just an arsehole, he's a c**t." That got my attention I can tell you. I occasionally had foul thoughts about my ex. But never enough to utter them aloud. Yet so many women whose marriages remain sound in middle age, spout thus. Is it necessary to hate as well as love in order to be happy? Discuss. On Friday night, the youngest and I went to the opera. Apollo and Hyacinth. Written by Mozart. Aged 11. And performed by schoolgirls at the methodist church in Hinde Street. Utterly fab. The eldest, meanwhile, was at a 16th birthday party. In a Hampstead restaurant. Hired by three of her Asian classmates. I picked her up at half eleven. With two of her friends who were sleeping over. "It was brilliant!" They'd all stuffed their faces, danced, taken pics, and flirted with some scuzzy boys. Despite the only drinks being fruit juice or milkshakes. It made me think of Big Brother and the Shilpa effect. There's a lot to be said for an abstemious lifestyle.