Salut, salauds! I've been a little under the weather this week, but before DRIP is deluged with sympathy bouquets perhaps I should point out that the weather in question is the Bajan sunshine.

Yes, all that inter-departmental grind of finding new and ever more costly methods of stuffing up the grocery sector certainly takes its toll, but happily there was just a little cash left in the public coffers for a touch of teambuilding with two or three Caribbean ladies I met in a Bridgetown bar. Well, they're retailers of sorts, I suppose.

Distance does put a new perspective on things. Notice how quiet Tesco has gone, for example? Surely they're not simply lost for words following the Grauniad's 'apology' this week (sorry but it's your fault)? You don't have to be overly cynical to conclude that Cheshunt, along with most sentient beings, has decided that Freeman's planning tweaks will never happen and that 'ombudsman'means 'bollocks' in some ancient Norse tongue. Audible even from the West Indies was the whining of the ACS, who would skip their mothers' funerals for the chance of a good moan. So let's explain Freeman's decision in very simple words. Imagine it's Mayday in the picture-box village of Nimby-on-Speed, where the ACS believes most British people still live. The village fête is in full swing, and next up it's a display of synchronised chutney knitting by the W.I.

But what's this? The Cirque du Soleil have come to the village, flattening the Norman church to erect their tent! Boo hiss. Except the Cirque du Soleil are really rather good. A little slick, perhaps, but very professional - in fact, they give the same show as they do to those lucky city-dwellers. And the tickets are quite a lot cheaper than the Nimby Morris Men.

Now, do we think DRIP should run the Cirque out of town? Or would that just leave the clowns?