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 On a national scale, contamination is now superseded by the promise of change.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.