Highlights of my week

These are the questions currently burning through my grey matter (hate that word grey, you will see why in a minute.)

1. Why is it that when I really concentrate hard on speaking French, it backfires on me in a spectacularly embarrassing way?

2. Why is it that when you try and do a good turn for someone, it comes back to bite you on the bum?

3. Why am I getting grey hairs?


Yesterday I went to pick up Issy from a birthday sleepover in Grasse. Many of the mums I have got to know in the last two and a half years speak no English at all, which is great for me, forcing me to practise my rusty A level French which has, in my humble view, come on in leaps and bounds since I moved here. It’s not so great however for the 11-year-old fluent French speaker stood at my side. Sometimes I practise what to say in certain situations in my head and it comes out beautifully. So much so that the other person assumes I have a far greater grasp than is strictly true and rattles back at me so fast that I am literally lost in translation.

I find when in doubt saying d’accord a lot, nodding sympathetically and laughing every so often usually saves the day and gets me out of anything I don’t really understand pretty effectively, except when someone asks me a question (at which point I just look like a stumbling village idiot) or says something fairly serious. So as Christine told me yesterday that Issy had been doubled up with stomach ache that morning, it didn’t look good when I nodded and laughed. I did realise my mistake some 10 seconds later once I’d hurriedly translated mal a ventre, but it wasn’t quick enough to prevent the accusation of being an evil, unfeeling mum being levelled as soon as we got in the car.

Then today, out walking the dogs in the village, I spotted the cat lady sitting at her window and had a lovely long chat with her which quite simply flowed. I used words I didn’t even know I knew and cat lady didn’t nod back and say d’accord so I have to assume she understood me. I also seem to be brilliantly fluent with at least two glasses of wine inside me which is a very good argument against any sort of detox. Not that I am considering anything of the kind.

I’m over being a good Samaritan too after an invisible cast iron post too it upon itself to smash into the car bumper last week. Liv spotted two of her mates on the bus in front of us at Opio, who face a long walk in the dark when they get off in our village so I told her to text them and tell them we would meet them below the perfume factory and give them a lift home. Sadly, the movement sensors weren’t working on the car on this particular occasion so I didn’t have any prior warning of the low fire hydrant until I clumped it in reverse, splitting the bumper on the back of our already very bashed up jeep. Still, at least the boys didn’t have to walk back in the dark. See above for the beauty I used to drive, sans any bumps and grazes, before I moved to France. I was so sad at leaving it behind that I have a whole photo file dedicated to it, and still visit it occasionally on Mel's drive when I'm back in the UK.

Perhaps more annoying than all of this is the discovery of the odd (OK, rather more prevalent than I would like to admit) grey hair making an appearance cunningly disguised as a highlight. Given that my roots are now two inches long, it’s rather obvious that the light reflecting strands at my roots are not the honey blonde I covet but a rather dangerous steely colour. They tend to show up most when I’m driving and checking my rear view mirror, then annoyingly disappear by the time I’ve legged it to the bathroom mirror to dispense with them. Is it true that for every one you pull out, another three grow back? If so, I should have a shock streak by next weekend. I have a feeling I might need more than rear sensors to prevent any further car incidents...and if you see the driver of a black jeep paying rather too much attention to the rear view mirror and not enough to the windscreen, do yourself a favour and give her a very wide berth.

Un petit histoire about our French roots

Something funny happened at the apartment today, and it made me realise just how much we will miss it once it's sold. Then I thought, really it has been so instrumental in our move to France that I should share a bit of the history with you and perhaps finish off with the funny bit.

In 2003, feeling a bit flush and as usual, the money burning a hole in our pockets, we decided the time was right to buy a holiday home. We had looked at Marbella four years earlier but the horrific multi-lane motorway that passes within inches of the coastline and which necessitates walking to the beach through underground tunnels not dissimilar to the Bullring at Waterloo put us off. Then we bought a beautiful 400year old Grade 2 listed cottage in Herts which needed major renovation so all second home plans were shelved indefinitely.

Eight years ago, we resumed our search and ended up putting an offer in on a beautiful but bijou and very overpriced fisherman's cottage in Padstow (or Padstein, as Rick's burgeoning business empire has led to it being renamed.) By the time we drove from Cornwall to our friend's house in Devon, and realised that the entire house would comfortably fit in their kitchen, we had withdrawn our offer and it was back to the drawing board.

We had a simple conversation...where we would chose to go at least half a dozen times a year and never get bored (or have to endure insufferable rainy weather?) The answer was the South of France, a shorter hop by plane than the five hour drive to the West Country and within three months, we were the proud owners of a beautiful off-plan budget-busting apartment with spectacular views, as you can see above, of the bay of Cannes and the Esterel hills.

We spent so many holidays there in and out of season, made friends both French and English, and not once did we ever feel ready to go home. Not even after spending a very rainy cold Christmas and Boxing Day holed up watching French TV and taking it in turns to oversee the girls riding their new scooters around the underground car park. And the best bit, the bit we hadn't even known about as we signed on the dotted line, was that when it rains in Mandelieu in winter, it's likely to be snowing in the ski resorts a 90-minute drive away, so no reason to ever feel depressed about rain again.

Fast forward seven crazy years, and the apartment and the fun we had there was in no small way responsible for us selling up and upping sticks to move here permanently in 2008. A decision none of us have ever regretted, although the girls do now make the mistake of thinking that the streets of London are paved with gold rather than dog poo, litter and fag butts.

Now that the time has come to sell, mainly because we live half an hour away therefore making holidays there a bit redundant, we have decided to max it out whenever possible and spent last weekend there, walking the dogs on the beach, admiring the view and enjoying the fact that there is no internet so we actually have to make conversation and go out instead of working.

Unfortunately the hot water tank was on the blink and after the bath I so looked forward to ended up being a lukewarm puddle, we made a rendezvous with Savelys for this afternoon. The guy arrived and said it was probably best to service the boiler and give it a good clean. I was busy writing a feature when he mentioned that he had found a DVD on top of the boiler. He left it on the side face down and dusty while I carried on working obliviously.

An hour later, the problem was cured and I signed off the work and said goodbye. As I was clearing up the dust I noticed the DVD sitting there, and flicked it over expecting it to be one of Issy's Legally Blonde movies. I was 50% right....it was Des Blacks et Des Blondes and in case you are in any doubt about the content, there was a busty blonde pouting on the front wearing very little in the way of clothes. And it wasn't Reece Witherspoon.

I rang Handyman in a state of shock crossed with hysterical laughter..I am so glad I didn't realise while the engineer was still there, imagine trying to react to that in French! He feigned surprise and begged me to bring it home...naturally it ended up in the bin...and the only reason he is off the hook is because the title was in French (although I guess the dialogue is the last thing on anyone's mind.)

My lovely friend Jess sent me a message yesterday telling me about her great friend who has just moved to Nice for the next few years, and who knows no-one here. I rememember when I arrived here and didn't speak to a soul outside of our house for the first three months. It's so horrible and you think you'll never make friends so I urged her to pass on my details so we can meet for a coffee. Her name is Mrs Goblet (actually it is much more glamorous than that but Goblet is definitely in there) and I somehow think we are going to get on famously. Ellie, if you're reading this, get in touch!

Soho style

And so to London for a bit of business, some light shopping (very light Iain, I promise although Liberty was a very dangerous five minute walk away) and a very chi chi place to rest my head in the Soho Hotel. Now I have stayed at some fantastic (and a few not so fantastic) hotels in my time, and this one is right up there with the very best.

More about that later...on arrival, BA got me in half an hour early, a joy on a flight that is supposed to land at 9.25pm. However, noticing that there was no driver with my name on the board, I hung around for five minutes then hopped on the tube. I was at Boston Manor when my mobile rang, it’s your driver at Terminal 5 Miss Hockney, where are you? Obviously BA is never early, let alone half an hour early on a flight as short as the Nice hop. The morale of the story is an early flight is not always to be celebrated if it means you end up on the tube instead of in the back of a nice comfy chauffeur-driven Mercedes. The upside was walking through Chinatown and seeing all the fantastic colurful lanterns festooned along Gerrard Street ready for Chinese New Year next week as my picture above shows.

Arriving at 11pm, I gave my name at reception to be told that someone had just checked into my room and had ordered room service! (I found out that this was my celebrity interviewee who shall remain nameless to spare his blushes and was totally mortified the next day when he realised.) At this point things then took a rather gorgeous upturn...my hastily reassigned room was the size of an apartment, with every luxury and mod con you can think of, a super kingsize bed, stunning furnishings and a presentation box of two Miller Harris Soho Hotel lip balms (that’s the girls’ presents sorted then.) There was even an aromatherapy spray to cover your pillow and ensure a deep, uninterrupted sleep. Carrie, the manager, really has everything covered.

The interview went swimmingly the next day, although Lembit Opik was loitering in the foyer looking rather furtive (maybe he had spotted me and was worried about that peculiar tabloid habit of phone hacking) and designer Jeff Banks (from my fave 80s TV treat The Clothes Show, remember?) was sitting at the table next to mine in the restaurant (what is it about these celebs who need to be in my orb?) On the way out, I bumped into my old editor at The Sun, Kelvin Mackenzie, and we had a lovely chat about the phone hacking scandal and life in France, which he has a particular soft spot for having once owned a house in Valbonne. Then my PR pal Lisa spotted me and grabbed me for a chat while she waited for a meeting with the head honchos at ITV1’s Law and Order. It was a veritable media village, like the one I used to inhabit, rather than the medieval village I now reside in.

The night continued in the same wonderful vein, with cocktails at the hotel bar, dinner at Quo Vadis a mere 50 steps across the road and then bizarrely, just as I was planning on being sensible for once and turning in for the night after a nightcap at the bar, I was whisked off to Bungalow 8 for rather too many glasses of Perrier-Jouet and some very interesting shots. Suffice it to say that the aforementioned early night went straight out of the window and the next day as I dropped my bags at the desk to wait for my car, feeling rather more fragile than usual (sadly the bags under my eyes had to remain with me) the lovely twinkly concierge Jamie couldn’t hide his smirk as he asked: ‘Good night last night? A few drinks?’ Oh the shame....

So if you are heading to London anytime soon and money is no object, or someone else is paying, do yourself a favour and book the Soho...you don’t even have to leave the lobby to have a good time. And the breakfast is to die for.

I am now watching Michel Roux’s In Service, based at the Pommery champagne house a few hundred miles from here, and wondering whether I can possibly swing a little press trip to the chateau for a tasting sometime....

What January blues?

What a mental couple of weeks. Whoever thinks January is dull and boring needs to move into our house....it has been non stop since we got home at New Year. Last week was la Plagne, on a gorgeous Disney job interviewing snowboarders and freestyle skiers in the middle of the Alps.

Before I get loads of hate mail, I should point out that it did entail a 16 hour round trip by train (with breathtaking scenery from my First Class carriage)and a rather hair raising ride up the mountain followed by a rather nerve-jangling slip backwards down the hill for 15 minutes in a fierce snowstorm. The trip also necessitated me standing in very bright sunshine at the top of a snow park watching lots of talented teens do 360s, back flips and other death defying feats while nursing a hot chocolate. It was sunny but so cold that I had to fit in the odd ski down to Belle Plagne alongside the experts (well, ok, quite a long way behind them) to get the circulation back in my fingers and toes. Just so you know that the life of a former Fleet Street hackette involves more than just watching the celebrity world go by....

Came home to warmish sunshine and lots of social engagements which is never a bad thing either in January (did someone mention detox?) including some rather strenuous but sunny tennis and a very convivial supper at Helen and Neil's.

Last week was Livvy's stage - and she chose to work with mama as a trainee journo. I'd like to say she chose the soft option but as the first part of this blog proves, my life is anything but. Not for her a 3.30am start at the local boulangerie to bake baguettes and croissants or a stint at a hotel cleaning bedrooms and toilets. After establishing that her hours would be 9 - 4pm with an hour for lunch (an hour!) she would surface at about 8.50am in her pjs, selectively not hearing my instructions that she needed to be at her desk, PC at the ready, at 9am sharp. One morning when I asked her to do some research for me, she asked if she could do it from her bed.....at which point I realised that a. I might have made a monumental mistake not forcing her to work in the real world and b. that I'm obviously not a very fearful boss.

Once we had established that working for me involved getting dressed and not leaving her bedroom in its usual turmoil, she was actually pretty sharp, and did wonders with a feature I gave her to write as well as some research on a Hollywood teen star. On Friday, I asked her what she thought of her week. 'Hmmm, you have a pretty nice life mum,' was her verdict. So I had to point out that it has taken 20 years of hard slog to get to this rather lovely, privileged position.

Just watching the news while I write this and Andy Coulson's resignation is still the story du jour. We worked together at The Sun when we were both showbiz reporters and you'd struggle to find a better, more thorough and committed operator than Andy. Can't help feeling he has been made the scapegoat for an awful lot of Fleet Street misdemeanours....and having resigned once already over this scandal at the News of the World, it all seems a bit double jeopardy to me.

And so to the saddest news of the week which is the Lambs leaving for pastures new (no pun intended.) We have had three farewell lunches this week...see above...two of which stretched into darkness (and not just in our hearts either.) Some fab laughs, photos and memories that will endure.... So many people have left to go back to the UK that it feels a little like being the last few survivors on the Titanic - Will and Madsy and the four little Lambs, like Sara and Adrian, will be much missed.
But after almost three years in la belle France, I have found that real friendships withstand distance and time quite readily. There are friends in London that I see more of now than I did when I lived a few miles up the road and it was all too easy to cancel or rearrange longstanding plans. No-one does that now that we're 1,000 miles away! The pool, wine fridge and 300 days of sunshine obviously have nothing to do with it.

London beckons once more so off to pack and get my beauty sleep .......

London's calling

Well it's January, that gorgeous time of the year when you know you're still three months from spring, night falls at 4pm, you have no money AT ALL and the last thing you want to do is join a gym. Seems like a bad idea to be making resolutions on top of it all and depriving yourself of the only things likely to get you through the next few weeks (those being chiefly chocolate, carbs and wine.) So I am making no resolutions at all this year. Especially as there is a family pack of chocolate eclairs that I'm still working my way through as well as a few leftover bottles from a little drinks party a few weeks ago. The only reason they are lying untouched is because we have been in London for Christmas and New Year.

The highlights were a white Christmas (well an icy one,) London's New Year fireworks and the parties, of which there were many. All the friends we stayed with have been to stay here with us and wanted to make us feel really welcome, so they all threw parties in our honour on arrival. However when you have all your worldly belongings, two kids and two dogs in the back of the Jeep and you are moving on average once every 24 hours to a new destination, any interest in parties starts to wane and is replaced by a desperate yearning to get to sleep before 2am, watch at least one Chistmas TV special and not retire to bed on one bottle of Chablis minimum.

The highlights were two uniformed police officers arriving at Clare and Nick's soiree at 3am to tell us to turn the music down, only to be offered a glass of port and a plate of cake crumbs by a slightly inebriated hostess, which they politely declined. One of them was barely out of his teens but still recognised Joy Division, which restored my faith in the men in blue and the youth of today in one fell swoop. Most impressive of all was that a bunch of 40-somethings can still party hard and loud enough to upset the neighbours and I am wearing that as a badge of honour. I did think they were strippers at first but thankfully kept that thought to myself.

Equally impressive was Belinda and Grant's pre-NY eve karaoke party at which Grant, who most days can be caught at the House of Commons talking a lot of sense in his role as Housing Minister, gave what can only be described as a faultless rendition of the best rap song ever, Rappers Delight. It's nine minutes long and he gave the Sugarhill Gang a run for their money without missing a beat. Respect. Grant, I am listening to it now stone cold sober and I still don't know how you did it. It's enough to make me want to vote Tory. Much Champagne was imbibed and a certain handyman, who had made me promise not to drag him anywhere near the mike, was the first up on the floor waving his pink wand in his hand, and the last to leave. Hmmm, he doth protest too much.

The Barcombe village drinks party was also enlivened by the strength of Sarah's home-made prosecco, pomegranate, gin and elderflower cocktails. A lovely drink providing you do not need to get up for a week. Many poor souls had to cook their turkey a mere 36 hours later. And last but not least, Norma and Tony's NY eve party in London, where Katie's iPod playlist ensured that everyone was up on the dancefloor all night and it seemed like a good idea to carry on until 4.30am, at which point I realised that we were leaving for Calais a few hours later. At least I didn't have to drive (Iain had to justify his secret sloping off for a 1am bedtime somehow, the lightweight.)

I will gloss over the hideous journey from France to Lewes (21 hours, most of which was spent queueing for a ferry after the Eurotunnel joined the shameful ranks of Eurostar and many UK airports in being unable to handle passengers due to an electricity failure.) And the 14 hour journey home on NY Day (seemed like such a good idea at the time but no, NEVER AGAIN) which has negated any need for a silly NY resolution like avoiding alcohol. Christmas shopping in Brighton two days before Christmas day when most people have spent a week snowed in was also not a good idea for future ref. And thinking it would be fun to take the dogs (180 euros in vets fees and train tickets) only to spend two weeks being covered with grimy footprints every time we let them out of the car for a pee.

Thanks to everyone who gave us food and shelter as we trundled around the snowbound UK looking like the Clampits and getting stuck daily in motorway gridlock. I have worked out that we spent as long in the car as we did out of it. So Bar sur Loup it is next Christmas.

Next week it's La Plagne to interview the best young snowboarders and skiers in Europe for Disney. Now that's what you call snow.

Close encounters

There is no end to the distractions of working from home. The girls are at school and Iain is at work, which should mean peace and tranquillity and no excuse for writers block. Not so. I have just discovered Oscar, the mentally deranged pug, loudly chewing. Given that he inhales every meal whole in 15 seconds flat and then proceeds to race around the kitchen hoovering up any stray biscuits that happen to bounce out of his or Tallulah's bowl with lightning speed, I go over to investigate knowing only that it cannot be food he is eating.

He has stolen Issy's favourite dog-eared toy puppy that she has treasured since babyhood from her bedroom and has pulled out both beady eyes to indulge in a light snack. Having lost the tussle to continue (digging beads out of a pug's slobbery mouth is only marginally better than picking up poo) he is now consoling himself by licking the upholstery on the chaise longue.

He rates high on the cute factor, but there's no doubt he is one bone short of a doggy bag, or as I heard it called today, a Chewy Vuitton. We are taking him and Tallulah to London for Christmas (oh happy days on a 14 hour car journey) and Clare has begged us to bring Hotel for Dogs along as it is his favourite film. He joins in with the action scenes, standing at the side of the TV waiting to chase all the hounds when they run off camera and occasionally headbutting the screen in his excitement. Ruby and Charlie are desperate to video him in full audience participation mode and start a new YouTube sensation. Spot the difference above...one thinks he has a career looming in movies, the other has no eye, dear.

Highlight of the week was a close encounters experience at Helen and James's annual Christmas carol service on Tuesday night. Following a tuneful rendition at their little chapel, complete with authentic snow flurries and a fantastic feast of curry and mulled wine for around 70 people, the kids decided to light chinese lanterns and let them float into the night.

As we left later that evening, we were amazed to see a cluster of them still alight, hundreds of feet up in the valley (the lanterns, not the kids.) We were slightly puzzled by the number of local gendarmes and pompiers gathering in the village with their own blue lights flashing as they set up a roadblock but thought nothing more until Wednesday morning when we heard radio reports of a UFO sighting in Bar sur Loup! Some of the villagers not at the festivities had reported strange supernatural lights and fearing an alien invasion, called the police, who were following up all leads with gusto.

Riviera Radio and Nice Matin gave the story further credibility, with Nice Matin quoting a terrified local who described ‘a stationary orange light about ten times bigger than a star hovering just below the cloud line. It lasted for seven to eight seconds then a second light arrived before disappearing. Three other lights then appeared.’ Yes, that would be the lanterns....

With C-day looming, I have further distracted myself by shopping for presents on the internet as I am still struggling to commune with the idea that the big day is really not far away. I thought I'd read the letters to Santa that I forced both girls to write to give me some ideas. Livvy's was extremely helpful, with full url web address links for the gifts she wanted, complete with colour codes and prices. So much for the old fashioned spirit of Christmas reigning supreme. Issy's was less specific and I think she must have forgotten which of Santa's elves would be reading her letter when she sat down to write the paragraph about how immaculately behaved she has been all year and will continue to be next year!

Bonnes fetes to everyone.....

Feeling hot hot hot

So, on a day when I have many jobs to do, I have managed to achieve precisely very little. Every other Monday is the same scenario and for this, I have the lovely Issy to blame. Her two week school agenda means she starts at 10.20am and finishes at 3.10pm. Hardly worth her going in (she agrees but has yet to persuade me completely) so I find I get home from Grasse just before 11am and then have to leave again at 2.45pm to pick her up as the buses are too irregular to trust outside peak hours (or indeed at all when Tam Tam do their usual and just forget to turn up or stop in Bar sur Loup.)

So today, instead of rushing back to write up an interview with Robert Redford for The French Paper (lovely craggy man with a wicked sense of humour) I found myself wasting time Christmas shopping at Fragonard and Galimard in Grasse as I have just realised that with less than two weeks to go, I haven't yet bought a single present for anyone. Then I tried to download a picture from Cannes Christmas market yesterday of a dog looking totally peed off in a handbag - it just pipped the chihuaha in the fake leopard print jacket to the post. Dressing a dog up as a cat is a no no in my view. Sadly my new Blackberry torch that has replaced my clapped out Storm is refusing to send it so you will just have to use your imagination...

Then I decided to make a shepherds pie with a difference for supper tonight. Iain usually cooks all the meat in this house as I haven't eaten it for over 20 years. Forget alligator eyes or kangaroo's bits, mince and mashed potatoes are the two things I would struggle to eat if I was on I'm a Celebrity....at a famous London Italian restaurant many years ago, I disgraced myself by spitting a mouthful of lumpy mash into my linen napkin very indiscreetly before dashing madly for the loo, so averse am I to any kind of potato lump. My mum blames the Smash we were force fed at primary school, apparently I have never been the same since.

Trouble is, the handyman cannot help himself loading everything from spag bol to shepherds pie with enough chillis to blow your tastebuds (and everything else) out of the water. Anything that doesn't have at least three whole chillis in is deemed 'bland' or 'a bit tasteless' which is rather infuriating when you have laboured over a subtly flavoured fish pie or a spaghetti vongole, where the absence of chilli is purely deliberate. The fact that my Italian neighbour Rosine has just given us a year's supply of fresh chillis from her garden merely compounds the problem, with the poor girls having to drink two litres of water with every meal Iain cooks now.

So I wasted 90 minutes making a flavoursome and entirely heat-free shepherds pie before realising that there were only four tiny potatoes left in the fridge. Knowing that this new carb-lite version of an English classic combined with the lack of 'flavour' would be enough to cause a cretin person (I meant to type 'certain' but that must have been a Freudian slip) to throw a minor strop, I decided to mash the leftover veggies from yesterday's roast with the potatoes to bulk them out. A cunning plan and one which I hope will work as the last time I did this for a fish pie for Sunday lunch with friends, I added rather more olive oil than necessary and blended it for so long that it looked like cat sick when I served it up. All in the pursuit of no lumps. The best compliment that day came from Serge, who diplomatically remarked that it tasted so much better than it looked!

Enough about my cooking prowess, writing about food has reminded me that it is now almost lunchtime which means that there is definitely no point reliving the lovely chat with Mr Redford today as by the time I have made and eaten my lunch, it will leave just an hour until the school run. I remember in the way distant past BC when I used to get so carried away writing and fulfilling deadlines that I would still be tapping away on my PC in a completely dark house, in the days before small voices would disturb me begging for supper.

The only thing that makes me feel slightly better about my lack of dedication today is the memory of my gorgeously talented journo pal (CM you know who you are) who did precisely one and a half day's work a week on her weekly national newspaper column. This involved reading all the week's papers in bed on a Wednesday afternoon and writing opinionated and highly entertaining topical copy all day Thursday, after which she would have five and a half days of complete non-taxing bed rest before having to do it all over again. She made the mistake of entertaining us with this tale of career dedication one night over a very boozy dinner as her horrified husband did the mental maths and promptly sacked the cleaner, the au pair and the gardener. I think it was the same night I fessed up to driving the car the wrong way down the A13 shortly after passing my driving test...a fact I had kept to myself for many years before that dinner party. It was almost worth nearly killing myself and a dozen other horrified motorists to watch the faces round the table that night! Although none of those faces could begin to match the horror of the ones on the A13 as they hurtled towards me at 70mph in the fast lane, just as I slammed the car into reverse and sped backwards onto the roundabout to continue on my way, this time on the correct carriageway.

In other news....the car is working again (hurrah) following €1000 euros of umming and aahing by various mechanics and a few minor repairs at two garages last week. So Christmas in London is back on (double hurrah.) And our first meeting of Premier Mardi, for working women to network and exchange ideas (not gossip or tittle tattle, and there was no eating of cake either) went swimmingly.

I will leave you with the entertaining faux pas I witnessed on my erstwhile boss Piers's talk show last night. A very revealing interview with Elton John, where he spoke frankly about his near death experiences with drugs and his habit of downing a bottle a day of Johnnie Walker suddenly cut to the ad break and the show's sponsor...Grants whisky!

Tomorrow is another day.