I'm lying low at the moment, gentle readers, for reasons that will become clear. The week started quietly enough with a sortie to the M&S agm to enjoy the spectacle of Stuart Rose's geriatric groupies pin down their CEO with their searching questions over why you can't buy outsize bloomers in the Bournemouth branch or why this year's event catering isn't a patch on 1973. There was at least a bit of gentle prodding over the 2% sales run rate, which is either apocalyptic or absolutely stellar, depending on which fearless analyst you believe. And Rose did squirm a little over his famous "weather is for wimps" quote. It might be that you weren't expecting people to do their shopping in boats, as I remarked to him afterwards, but most of the country was no damper in June than the seats after his incontinent fan club had departed. It wasn't much better at JS's jamboree. At least they'd stripped the padding off the walls at the conference centre following the Tesco loonfest, but I wish they'd replaced it with something wipe-clean, so sick-making was the sycophancy. Probably the best bit was the vacant grin of one shareholder as he asked why King Justin was less charismatic even than Rose. Needless to say this was regarded as blatant lèse-majesté, and the 17% hike in the civil list was voted through without a murmur. Back at DRIP, the phone rang. It was dear Sir Ken, sounding ever more like Compo from Last of the Summer Wine and announcing he was parachuting in Sir Ian Gibson from Trinity Mirror to take his place. Well, Ken, if you can't get Morrison into the newspapers you might as well ... you catch my drift. Nothing for it - off to the club to drown my sorrows. Nine pints of Doigt de l'Évêque later and I hatched a scheme to do something Freeman would never do - close some Tescos. It was only my little hoax, Tel. Just 14 stores. Let's bury the hatchet, eh?