The rising water table is leaving its mark on us. Several marks in fact. On our basement floor. And salts on the walls. Pretty soon we'll have the Prince of Wales floating past in a dinghy. Hey: perhaps things aren't that bad after all? Nonetheless, erring on the safe side, I have summoned Rentokil. Who'll inspect the damage on our return from hols. If we ever get there that is, given the panics at Terminal 4. The upside of the latest horrors is fewer overseas medics. Having struggled to both understand and be understood by people in whose hands we place our lives, this is a comfort. Common language and cultural understanding are imperative in dealings with the sick, it seems to me. Standard English covering colloquialisms and confusing social nicities ("I'm very well, thank you, Doctor,") should be compulsory for all NHS staff irrespective of provenance. I suggest a three month induction course that includes nights dancing at Tiger Tiger while drinking marathon cocktails. I defy anyone to hate the decadent lifestyle after that:-) Talking of which, I make no apologies for my excellent raspberry martini at One Aldwych yesterday. It put me in mellow mood. Which was just as well as I returned home to find the eldest on the doorstep. She'd been deliberately locked out by the youngest. Who was in the den, playing music very loudly so she didn't have to hear the bell. It is in the den that we have the wet floor. I have asked Rentokil to deal with her when they exterminate all the other horribleness;-)

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 On a national scale, contamination is now superseded by the promise of change.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

The machinations around refinancing continue and tomorrow I expect good news: a remortgage that pays off all current lending and provides an income for the next couple of years. The state of inertia that overcomes me when we hit a wall, which is every few months, will pass. I will be galvanised into playing the long game instead of looking constantly, and rarely with success, for short term commissions to shore things up. That's the plan anyway:-) In the middle of all the hand wringing, I went off to see Landscape with Weapon at the National. Within half an hour, I was searching for a weapon. To bludgeon the script. Though the writer had done a pretty good job of that on his own. What is it about modern dramatists, that they think vaguely intelligent dinner party conversations can be passed off as high art on a stage? Last week, at The Tricycle, Called to Account, the mock trial of Tony Blair, was similarly lacking in either insight or intellectual nouse. Perhaps it's that we're starved of example these days? Where are the great orators, the men and women who could savage a subject but still leave you on a high, because they finished by progressing an idea, ideal or ideology? These days, parroting has taken the place of debate, and nobody's willing to take an absolute position because, with certainty comes responsibility - you have to explain your position, and actually, most people can't. No wonder I stick to bog standard fiction. I sent my agent the first tranche yesterday. Watch this space:-o

It's been a quiet few weeks on the page. Including this one. I remarked on this at the Writer's Group meeting yesterday. We were moving from sobriety to squiffiness over a late morning snifter. "This whole month has been lost in an alcoholic blur," I said sadly into my paltry thousand words. It's because I'm on an entertaining jag. So much so, the progeny have complained. "We haven't had dinner on our own for a month," the eldest grumbled, midweek. "How am I supposed to get my revision done?" It's because I've got NBF - New Best Friend - itis. It happens every few years. I'll meet, in quick succession, a handful of women who are utterly irresistible, and initiate a courtship process with each and every one of them. This requires an awful lot of eating, drinking and being merry. This year's harvest started with professional networking. No work, but three new friends, one of whom is a social tour de force. Then I started writing again. And found two more new friends. Those with whom I got squiffy yesterday. And of course, friends spawn friends. Suddenly invitations are flying in all directions and every spare minute is filled:-o Each morning, I stagger into action, short of sleep, or in an alcohol induced haze. But now the courtships are over. The relationships established;-) After the Bank Holiday, some will go on to be longterm and nourishing. Others, quick fixes where each side found something in the other to temporarily lift the soul. Either way, it's a good feeling:-)

I'm thinking of giving up entertaining. I no longer get the hit. Today, 16 for lunch. Eleven adults at the table. Five children in the kitchen. One of my oldest friends provided chocolate fondue after the cheese. The meal went on and on. We played silly party games. In between, the kids went to the park, returned, joined us for a round of guessing and then played Hide and Seek. The wine flowed so well we had to sent a foraging party to Thresher. Though that was mainly because I keep so little white in stock. It was a fantastic day. And yet, having just finished clearing up, I still haven't had that adrenaline moment. The hit. Indeed, now I think about it, it's happening less and less. On Friday a fabulous lunch in Camberwell. In the spring sunshine we ate al fresco with an eccentric mix of people from 8 to 80. There were a lot of stories around the table. One guest, a young man, had been abandoned as a baby. And rescued by Mother Theresa. It was love at first sight for my girls. Two other children there had recently lost their mother. To cancer. They sat, open, smiling, friendly. A solid team led by a gentle father. The politically active octogenarian in the group was of a dying generation. Those who escaped Nazi Germany. Having enjoyed the fastest seder (Passover meal) in history, earlier in the week, he was a reminder of how precious life is. There were even two single adult men of a certain age. The hostess gets ten out of ten for that one;-) And yet, no hit there either... Is this, I wonder, a sign of middle age?

Last night, politics in microcosm. Private vs state, Jew vs Muslim, old Labour vs new Tory. Ånd only seven people! Inevitably there was discord. Though discord hedged with social nicities. By the end of the evening we'd broken into factions. With me somewhere in the middle. Shovelling down chocolate fridge cake. And Spanish wine. A bad move. This morning I couldn't walk a straight line. Riojas always leave an after-effect. It must be the tannins. Or something. In this zig-zagging state, I was whisked off for bacon butties by my godson. Who, as ever, distinguished himself by having two breakfasts. We discussed the hostages in Iraq and my efforts as a facilitator earlier this week. He laughed out loud when I described how the delegates, who were supposed to provide lively debate, had all agreed with each other. Within five minutes of kick-off. Forcing me to spend the next 55 irritating them into argument. And how the earpiece they'd unexpectedly provided kept flying from my ear like a caffeine fuelled bat. Afterwards we picked up the girls. Who've been with their paternal grandparents this weekend. Coming home, the youngest, apropos nothing, said, "I really miss X, Mummy. I wish you'd never split up." "Me too," said the eldest. "I've been thinking about him all weekend." The spirit of nostalgia is clearly catching. "Why do you think we're suddenly musing like this?" I asked them. The eldest said, "Because it's spring." Ah yes, spring is sprung, the grass is ris, I wonder where the boirdies is?

On Wednesday my eldest returned from school. "This is the last time you'll see me in uniform, Mum." The next day she took her her first GCSE. It's mufti from now on. An era ends. I was utterly choked. She is a brilliant and beautiful young woman, brimming with life and goodness. Yet I mourn the child she once was... An hour later, the bell rang. On the doorstep a glorious creature in a long dress coat and hat. My youngest. Who that morning had complained, "I've had the same disgusting anorak for four years." I gave her twenty pounds, "See what you can get in Primark." And there she was, like a Hardy Amies model. My baby had become a teenager. A double whammy in the space of an hour... Nostalgia has set the tone this week. On Thursday, the theatre. Attempts on Her Life. It was either totally brilliant or total crap. I had such a stiff neck from craning upwards at a suspended screen in a freezing auditorium, I lost my powers of judgment. Later, we hotfooted it to Canary Wharf. A farewell drink with knacker and co. I regaled a drunken detective with tales from my days on the local rag. Within seconds we'd established one degree of separation. His DI was the man who provided my first front page splash on The Stratford Express. Happy days. It struck me then that most days are happy days, even the ones that appear crap at the time. Indeed, the happiest months in recent years would read as crap if documented. Tonight, seven for dinner. Vegetable pie. Again. It's good for the constitution;-)

Where have the weeks gone? The days. The hours. The minutes. Swallowed when my back was turned, and sitting undigested somewhere. So much to do. So little of it done. And yet I haven't stopped. This morning, a uniform crisis over brekkie. Twenty minutes lost on Hunt the Games Kit. Forty minutes later the phone goes. I'm making the beds. Where are you? A forgotten breakfast meeting! I pull on jumper and shoes and run for the car. Another two hours disappear on ideas. Sometimes ideas become realities. At the moment, they're simply cappuccino opportunities. They have to stop! Instead, it's the writing that's stopped. Just 2000 words in a fortnight. Tomorrow morning, the self-help group is meeting. We're all suffering creative meltdown. After that, off to the Beeb. To chair a discussion. Do celebrity presenters undermine content? As it happens, content is much on my mind. The annual R4 commissioning round is in progress. I've become the Philip Treacy of thinking hats. Straw, wool, feathers and flowers, you name it, I construct it. Post-it notes scrawled with random thoughts, are stuck around the house. So much so I've ordered ten new pads. From Viking Direct. Who sent customers a stonking money-off offer. But forgot to tell staff. Another hour wasted. Sorting it out. Because, where I would once have let the mistake go, I am now founder of the Whine and Cheese Clubs of Great Britain. And as such, was duty bound to follow the issue through. And complain. And get it sorted. But I will bore you with that, another time;-)

A knife edge few days. Waiting to see if the loan got okayed. The kids and I spent the weekend on the Macs. Googling new homes. Kentish Town was the compromise location. Which is a bit like leaving Toad Hall to live on the riverbank with Rat. Through it all, spirits have been high. Finally tonight, I got the call. 6.30. The money's coming:-) A glorious relief as it buys six months grace. And yet so anti-climactic. The war spirit has created a joyful stoicism chez nous. A stoicism that stretches to moments of madness. Like La Boheme at the Coliseum last night. Where the English libretto included classic lines. Such as I've been landed with a prat. We left in a state of distress. Wondering how much of opera is actually dross? If we could understand everything sung, would we all switch back to Dylan? Discuss. On the way home, we stopped at Tesco on Bedfordbury. As we approached the till, a cheery assistant insisted we try the personal check-out. Fifteen minutes later we'd finally processed a basket that took just five minutes to fill. On Saturday, a lovely evening with my former in-laws. Pizzas on Victoria Street. And catching up with gossip. Then a real treat. Billy Elliot. It was absolutely stonking. The use of vernacular was witty. It lifted the nondescript music to undeserved heights. Unlike the ENO. Where banality ruins the finest tunes ever written. The dancing was fantastic, too. We emerged feeling that things can only get better. And so it has proved to be:-)

Sunday night, Madam Butterfly. My first time. I don't particularly like the music. Apart from the arias. But I thought the spectacle might be fun. Glory be. I wept from the moment she arrived on set. Despite her being a tad bulky for a teenager... The woman in the next box howled loudly, thrashing around like a bull elephant with a hyena on its back. Emerging into the night where a golden Prince Albert sits in his eyrie on Kensington Gore, even my mum and the kids were wet eyed. The next night, dinner with a political posse near Millbank. One of their number had bought new shoes. Orange and buckled. They were passed around and admired like rare artifacts. I couldn't help wondering what their male counterparts would make of this. On Tuesday, I took my ma to 11 Downing Street. For a book launch. An anthology to which I've contributed. A Mother's Day special to raise funds for children's charities. The young Browns were there and the Chancellor popped by to see them. Quick as a ferret, my mother was at his side, proffering a hand. She then insisted I do the same. I refused. Inverted snobbery. Misreading the scene, Mrs Brown gently ushered Ma in her old man's direction. With great charm, he shook her hand. Again. "I think we've met already." She saw Tony on the patio. It made her day:-) Yesterday a shared birthday lunch in Islington. Suffused with joy my fellow celebratee and I ordered a huge platter of desserts. "I don't know why we ordered the meringues, I hate them," I said. She popped one in her mouth, "Me too."

A perfect night. Proof, at the Arts Theatre, followed by calamari salad and a mambo king - champagne and raspberry vodka in a sugar encrusted flute - at Asia de Cuba. Historic. And a sign that the past is behind me. Because the bar used to have special significance. But no longer does. It's both weird and sad that the past becomes the past so quickly... My ex husband, however, might challenge that statement. He's ruffled at being mentioned in a piece I wrote last week;-) For some reason tonight, the theatre was only half full. "It's because the play's about maths," said my companion. Who teaches it. And stage whispered at one point, "I'm so glad you got that joke, it's very mathematical." Actually, her reasoning doesn't add up. It's about life and love, set against a backdrop of numbers. And the kiss, tentative, no tongues, and on a step, is wonderfully erotic. Go see it. On the way out we saw the eclipse of the moon. Or a bit of it. Last night, dancing. At Dover Street. The first time in years. After our last visit, we swore we'd never return. It was impossible to move. And filled with besuited lechers. This time we made similar promises. Because the place was half empty. And lacking besuited lechers. I blame it on the truly dire band. Trying, and failing, to dance to their flat rendition of Knock on Wood, I took matters in hand. And approached a manager. "When does the karaoke finish?" I asked. "What karaoke?" "The bloke who's singing. Don't tell me he's a professional?" Well, it made me laugh:-o

This morning, a work call. "Could you write a piece on the loss of innocence?" This was, it turned out, a reference to Daniel Radcliffe in the buff. And the effect this might have had on my children. Who did indeed express outrage - eeewwwwwww - at snaps of his boyish nakedness. In that sense, it's been a tough few days for my youngest. I took her to Faust on Friday. In a warehouse in Wapping. Wearing masks, we wandered aimlessly in the dark. Through five floors of eerily decked rooms. Around us, dramatic action broke out intermittently. Then came the crescendo. Faust, stripped bare. My youngest jabbed my shoulder. "Why are we watching this?" "Hang on a sec," I said. It was the closest I'd been to a naked man in eons;-) On Sunday, lunch with my favourite environmentalists. Conversation traversed the globe - Antarctica, the Galapagos, Tahiti and the Amazon. And kept returning to matters entomological. Stories of rats crunching on cockroaches as sewers burst in eastern climes. And flies that fry your eyes. Forget the jungle holiday, I muttered, chewing on pork with apricots. Which brings me to my tum. It is finally better. But larger than ever. Because I've been gorging. In the mistaken hope the bug would dispatch it all. Yesterday in town, a serious lunch. Two fish courses. Across the table, a grandee pontificated about "hewers of wood and drawers of water". Our subject was vocational education. How to get it on an equal footing with academic achievement. I felt his references were less than helpful:-(

A blogging deja vu. I should be at the Coliseum right now. But due to... etc. And it's entirely my fault! Because I went to lunch at The Cinnamon Club. Where the prix fixe lunch is utterly sensational. And the Cinnamon Bellinis! To die for:-) Throw in a good gossip and... I can't complain. I was warned. "No spice for a month," the doctor said yesterday, "It causes flare ups." So muggins here visits London's finest Indian restaurant... The kids are currently at Marriage of Figaro with my ma:-( And yet, a glorious day... This morning I went to Central Office. Whatever I was expecting, I didn't find it. At one point over coffees, a person of exceptional size mooched by. I got the giggles. My hostess was a woman whose research methodology is taking feminist thinking into whole new policy areas. She looked nonplussed. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that all human kind is in evidence here." It was like the Wookie Bar in Star Wars. Afterwards, I chatted on the doorstep with a young Asian I'd passed earlier. "We're really going to change things," he said. At that moment, my lunch guest tripped by. "I thought I was late!" We had a jolly couple of hours before she dashed to a meeting. And I got talking with two adjacent Americans. They were discussing the Taj Mahal. "We're put off visiting because it's a tourist trap." I let this go. They were nowhere near it, anyway. And were Hillary supporters. "I hope she gets in," I said. "She did a sterling job last time."

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?

Sitting on the bog at 4am, I wondered how it is that my mates get tummy bugs and go down a size, and I get a bug and bloat like a dead whale. It started earlier in the week. A low level ache. By Valentine's night it was an ache and a swelling. "I look like the head's engaged," I warned my date for the evening. "Do you want to cancel?" she asked. I nearly choked. Alone on Valentines? Social death!! In the absence of romance, good conversation will do;-) My partner in crime was a scarily smart lobbyist. I met her and a financier friend for a drink in St James. I was late. Because I couldn't do up my trousers. My belly was tight as a drum. No give. Even when I lay on the floor:-o Flirting was off the menu. Though later, I consumed sushi. And felt immediately worse. Last night, out with the cocktail crowd and my Irish guest. To The Lyric, Hammersmith. For a dreadful production of The Ramayana. "I thought you'd enjoy it," said the outing organiser. "After all, you did set a novel around it." "D'you know," I replied, "I was trying to remember the story on the way here and it was only as I parked that I made the connection." Silence. I'm not sure who felt more stupid. Certainly I was more stupid. Anyway it was awful. And my belly was hurting again. So four of us left at the interval. And went to a Bulgarian bistro on King Street. Where the other two joined us later. By that time I was doubled up with tummy pain. So I bought a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. From the next door shop. And drank the lot. You know the rest.