All of us are lying in the gusset, dear reader, but with apologies to Mr Wilde, some of us are looking at the bras. This was my thought as I tripped lightly from Number 10 on Friday. I had greatly feared that after shoving my former boss Darling into his granny annexe, El Gordo would shake off DRIP-like, well, use your own metaphor. But it was not to be. The DTI is gone but in its place arises the snappily christened Department for Business, Enterprise and Regulatory Reform, headed by my lord John Hutton - a man so grey he puts John Major in the shade and whose entry in Who's Who reads only 'Toady'. The PM was elated. Well, he doesn't do elation but one of his facial creases was pointing slightly upwards, but that may be because he's managed to get El Tel, Alan Sugar and a couple of other old reliables to run the country while he's searching under the sofa cushions for loose change left by the Blairs. Funnily enough the next item in the diary was a short trip across Parliament Square to Terry Scouse's Circus, otherwise known as the Tesco agm. Anyone who feels democracy of any sort is a good idea after attending an event like this deserved to be there. While Wal-Mart rents out some ghastly megadrome and stuffs it with cheerleaders, Morrisons hosts its effort on a whippet track, and JS holds a sort of cheap-suited revivalist meeting, Tesco's effort has become a care in the community clinic, crammed with loonies dressed as turtles, crusties cramming their pockets with sandwiches and one willowy shire-dweller threatening to have a public miscarriage there and then unless chairman David Reid rolled his tanks off her herbaceous border. In fact, the sole good reason for attending this ghastly affair, a free bottle of plonk, had been swapped this for a bloody gift voucher. It's the wife's birthday next week. Hope she likes Value Quorn.