Square eyed from watching the changing of the guard at Downing Street yesterday, I wandered into the loo and was brought short by a hideous growth on my face. A giant herpe had taken root where, previously, there was just a series of chaps. By chaps, I mean dry cuts, rather than Robin Cook's cowboy accessories or gratification in male form. My punishment for self-neglect! There was an upside, however. When, over lunch, my companion attempted to swipe some of my chocolate cheesecake, I slapped her hands: "Don't take the risk! I may have contaminated it with my spoon." On a national scale, contamination is now superseded by the promise of change. Wiping away a tear as Tony went, I reminded myself of the many good things he's done in his time. Alas, they reduce to nothing when placed alongside Iraq, a bit like one of my gravies which always start off well, pungent and voluminous, but from the second I add cornflower, start to deteriorate so that, within seconds, all that is visible is a sad gloop at the bottom of the pan. It must be said that I also cried when Mrs Thatcher went, and I couldn't stand her till that moment either. Today, lunch in the Salusbury Diner with a local mate. The last time we broke bread together, we ended up having such a row that our fellow diners were frozen into attitudes of petrified excitement. This time, she's paying, so the dice are in her favour. To help things along, I shall disguise my disfigurement with the judicious application of slap.

Last night, teetering on tiny kitten heels, three of us left a discussion on the work-life balance, determined to set the scales in favour of life. "I know a great bar," boomed our group leader. "The only problem is, it's a five minute walk." At this, I turned pale: "Perhaps we should get a cab?" "Yes, let's," said our other friend, "I'll pay." Disembarking at an hotel in St James, we found a bar so full and noisy I was able to groan aloud as my aching feet marched its length. Settling for a more sedate part of the establishment, we started working our way through the cocktail list. During a lull, the gay Canadian barman sidled up. "I have a real treat for you ladies. It's my own creation: What a woman wants. My clients say it's better than sex." Did any of us have a long enough memory to make the comparison? It mattered not. We ordered three glasses immediately. "I don't suppose," I said hopefully, warming to the theme of substitutions, "You could supply chocolate too?" Ten minutes later a sublime concoction that included Baileys, Frangelico and cream, arrived at the table, along with a bar of Toblerone. The girls watched suspiciously as, slipping it from the box, I carefully ran my fingers across the foil: "You're taking this too far." But I was merely counting the triangles. Four each. Back outside as dusk finally fell, I made the most of our longest day by enjoying it from the back of a taxi home. Sometimes the simplest of moments are the most sublime:-)

On Tuesday my Big Apple mate arrived. She has won her fight for US citizenship despite the intervention of her octogenarian husband. Who insisted on joining her for the interview. Having taken forty minutes to process across the hangar-like waiting room on his Zimmer, he shouted at the official: "I have come to see my wife's oppressors!" A showstopper by any standards, and sufficient to have him barred from proceedings... Fortunately my pal can name quite a few presidents and knows who wrote the Star Spangled Banner, so she's in. On Wednesday the house painter, Ulysses, turned up at five. "I thought you were starting this morning?" I said, noting the only tool in his hands was a roll-up. "I'm busy," he said, wearily, "But I promise to start on the 25th." Again he refused my offer of scaffolding, assuring me his ladder stretches three storeys. "That's all very well, but I don't want to risk a dead man in my garden," I said crossly. "I can't die," he assured me, "I have two small children to keep." Clearly Zeus is acting as his oppo. Yesterday, a seminar at The Oval. On the pitch, men rolled balls in the sunshine. Entombed in the vast, low-ceilinged rooms of the conference centre, I yearned to feel that same air on my face; to hear their banter, and the occasional thwack... Lots of fresh air this weekend, thank goodness. We're off to the Cotswolds:-)

Yesterday, my first new date in four years. Lunch at the Wolseley. I knew I'd scored a hit when he ordered the oysters. This man is feeling fruity, I thought, and being of a certain age, any help is welcome. This perception was borne out when, resting in Green Park between outings, he lunged. And very nice it was too. Though odd. Because at Writers' Group on Friday, we'd discussed the first kiss. The almost painful excitement of will-he-won't-he, and the electric charge as heads knock together and mouths meet. Add to that mix the fear, from lack of practice, that you'll end up with your tongue in their nostril or dislodging a bit of gnarled brandy snap that's invisibly lodged in your newly flossed teeth, and what you have is an almighty adrenaline high. But there was none of it. It felt as if I'd been kissing the man all my life. Is that good or bad? And were the nose-numbing Bloody Marys to blame? Afterwards we went to Chelsea for an evening of popular classics at Cadogan Hall. Here, we held hands and each took it in turns to nod off as the room was overheating, the music was mellow, and there's sod all else to do when you're at a concert really, unless the violinist is so hot that you can't take your eyes off his finger movements. A short dinner and a second snog followed. Will there, I wonder, be a second date? Walking home, I ran into the owner of our local nightclub who's recently had a health scare. "Everything's fine," he said, "But it sent me into a spin, thinking of all the things I should have done and wanted to do. Then I realised I had done them, or was planning to." I gave him a hug, glad he's better, and glad that he, like me, has no regrets, even if, occasionally, he, like me, has made a total tit of himself;-)

More detail then, to keep the flow going... Tonight, a birthday party at the Commons. I am ready-primped in anticipation, but the overcast skies and a lunchtime pizza with my tragedian eldest, who at this minute is answering GCSE questions on new poets, has temporarily stemmed my enthusiasm. Because I'm over-full and middle-of-the-day sleepy. It was easier to 'get in the mood' when young. In those days, friends got ready together. We passed round the vodka, tried on each other's clothes, danced to Sunday Girl and told jokes while comparing lipsticks. Now we lock ourselves away, grappling with skin tighteners, wrinkle fillers, magic shading and stomach suppressants, emerging like Dorianna Grays to listen to The Archers before hitting the town. My particular problem today has been scrubbing red shoe polish off my arms. It's a long story. To do with a handbag I bought off eBay. One of two. Signing for the parcel, my eldest said crossly, "Why is it that whenever we're broke, you throw money away? We've had a delivery every day for a fortnight." I explained the principle of reverse psychology to her. "It's like being on a diet," I said. "The more you tell yourself you can't have food, the more likely you are to gorge on any old rubbish that comes along." She looked at me in horror: "Is that why you've not pushed me over revision? In case I stop revising? Is it reverse psychology?" I nodded proudly. "Oh no!" she howled. "I thought you didn't care. And I haven't done any..." I await her results with trepidation.

Today I had a conversation with one of my dearest friends which, I think, explains the silences here of late. We were discussing her latest putative peccadillo, a builder in the city who may or may not put out. As they are both married, this is a subject that must be danced around carefully, like a handbag on the disco floor. Halfway through her dissection of his problematic marriage - his wife doesn't understand him - I announced that I was bored. "I do not care," I said, "For this uninteresting detail." "It's not uninteresting," she replied, sharply, "It's just that you've reached a stage in life where you've heard everything before and news no longer feels new." Bloody hell: how sad is that? It set me thinking. When I was a young reporter, every story however small, excited me, be it a golden wedding or the woman in Savage Gardens who was accidentally boarded into her own home by the council. Then came the day when even tragedy lost its impact. Zeebrugge, Lockerbie, Hungerford - the detail changes, as does the basis of the emotions and the information that follow - but the story is broadly the same. As I listened to my mate's tale of misapprehension and misadventure; watching the blundering lorries of middle-aged sexuality, one pink, one blue, rushing headlong at each other on the same carriageway with the drivers' feet hard down on the accelerator pedal, I'd suddenly hit the 'off' switch. I'd lost interest in the detail... This is not good for a writer. I must push myself back into the heart of everyday minutiae. The question is, how?