I'm always suspicious of words that have overtones of wrongdoing. Coaching, is one of these. A grubby amalgam of cottaging and poaching. After a weekend incarcerated at the Holiday Inn, Bloomsbury, learning the finer points of this dark art, I was relieved to emerge on Sunday afternoon and reclaim my life. This morning, however, I woke with a sense of elation. And met every single target I had set myself over that 48 hour period. I am revitalised; inspired. It's damned good ju-ju;-) The one image that defines the weekend, however, is not taken from that strange mix of touchy-feely grande dames and tough young HR execs seeking higher powers. That honour falls to Annie Lennox, sorceress-like in her black tailcoat, magicking shivers up and down our spines as dusk fell on Tower Bridge and Traitor's Gate on Saturday night. There must be an angel, she sang, and for a few minutes, there was. I was seeking respite at the Prince's Trust Birthday Concert. Sitting in the courtyard of the Bloody Tower drinking champagne from plastic cups - me, my girls, and their father - our first non-scoff outing since divorce eight years ago. For all of us, happy in our own thoughts, it was, I'd like to think, life affirming:-)