Today I had the misfortune to be on radio discussing the impending divorce of Mr and Mrs McCartney. On listening back to the codswallop that passes for public debate these days, I realised I had referred to our only living legend as a silly old fool on about five different occasions. Correction, given the length of the interview, five consecutive occasions. I am not perturbed by the words so much as their repetition. We are all fools at some time. Age is no bar to that. It was ist of me to presume otherwise. Indeed, I cannot think of a headier combination than age and foolishness. This is just as well as I then went on to lunch with a friend and her octagenarian ma who sends food flying in all directions when diverted by conversation. Her glasses hang on a chain around her neck. Consequently, she is often to be found looking out at the world through bits of spinach and prawn shell. To complete the hat trick I returned home via the Royal Free Hospital. There, I fed a smoothie to my favourite nonagenarian. Her swallow has come back. But one swallow does not make a summer when you've had a stroke:-( Have I done any work? Well, yes, a bit. And a huge pile of ironing first thing. Be assured this slow-down is not a sign of my going to the dogs. That happened yesterday. At Walthamstow. A posse of us went greyhound racing. With only six runners on each card, there's a good chance of being quids in. But as we wandered out in the neon-bright dark, every one of us was out of pocket:-o