Dreamt last night I was in bed with the wife of a junior minister. A bit too damned realistic - I was halfway down the Victorian guttering of Pumsey Place when I realised it was true. The said lady was none other than the delightful Veronica Pumsey QC, still snoring away on her side of the ancestral pit. Never sleep that well when I've had a skinful. Don't drive that well either, it seems - the ministerial Jag was neatly parked, lights on, driver's door open, on the manorial croquet lawn. Quick drinkie with Terry Green and about 60 hacks last night. Apparently he's come into some money. Never mind, I thought, I'll make an early start and get into the office before lunch. Should've twigged this was a Bank Holiday Monday. Bugger. Club's shut. Can't go home, Mrs P is having Cherie over for an Ann Summers party. My insignificant other from the Whole Foods press office is on a trip to an ethical tofu refinery in Guadeloupe. What to do? Dear reader, there are only three things you should never try: incest, country dancing and, well, shopping. A loathing of your subject area is not actually an advantage in your professional life, but look at John Fingleton - his job seems to be emptying his in-tray into Peter Freeman's first thing each morning and running for the hills. Anyway I made the mistake of trying to pop into Boots for some Pro-Plus. Had to join a bloody long queue - 90 minutes of standing in front of Janet Street-Porter for what turned out to be wrinkle cream is no joke. Still, she gave me material for my first report to Darling. It's going to be called Effing Bastard Evil Supermarkets. Something like that. Retired to DRIP,only to catch Grocermeister Leyland on TV again. Hope he doesn't ever suck his tie. With the colourings in that, he'll have behavioural problems for the rest of his life.