Things in Britain may be looking up. Not for the economy, of course, but there is, at last, the faintest glimmer of enlightenment at the end of a very long tunnel of bad taste. I refer, of course, to the collapse of Clinton Cards, generally regarded by people of discernment (me and Miranda) as purveyors of pink poo (dressed up as greetings cards and other assorted detritus). This may be a reaction to having to launch the Tiny Tatty Teddy and Mummy’s Little Pudding bears in the ‘Me To You’ gift range, an exercise so devoid of worth (and in PR-land that’s saying something) that I almost considered a career as an estate agent “to give something back to society”.

Society said not to bother, as it happens, so I’m still here, currently wondering why our variety-specific five-a-day campaign failed to take off. “Plums are best by the pear” may not, after all, have been the greatest slogan for a healthy eating initiative fronted by Linford Christie. As a result still only 22% of us get our five-a-day and that includes Jaffa Cakes and Fruit Pastilles. And illicit Glen-Iffy vodka (which qualifies because it’s packed full of potatoes) in Scotland.

Karoline (with a K), our glorious leader, has had a pathological hatred of anything even remotely celtic ever since a scottie did a wee on her Jimmy Choos at Henley. Now she fears a minimum booze price-fuelled invasion of tartan-clad alkies, train-hopping their way down to King’s Cross and desperate to get “mad wae it on Bucky” (I think she looked that particular phrase up on the internet). Personally, I’m not averse to the occasional clootie dumpling, as they say, especially if there’s some springy heather around so that I can lie back and think of column inches.