Luckily, the recently 'retired' anti-terrorist plod Bob Quick was there drowning his sorrows and so the full details of my nocturnal activities will forever remain cloaked in the tightest secrecy, give or take a newspaper splash or two. But to set the record straight, we were just chewing the fat over some rather amusing MI6 secrets involving Lucy Neville-Rolfe and a hairdresser when in stepped my old drinking buddy Damian 'Thorn' McBride.
One thing led to another and although my memory is a tad hazy, I do vaguely recall some hi-jinks involving Damian's Blackberry and a few bogus emails we cooked up after he passed out on the shag pile. Well, couldn't do any harm, could it? And if it did, here's my apology in the fullest Brownian terms: I slightly regret that anyone was so stupid as to get upset by this innocent action.
Back to Sunday, and at least our creator has a sense of humour. Forget any sign of resurrection on Easter morn: none of our noble supermarketeers would so much as get out of bed to flog a hot cross bun, leaving yours truly to acquire the evening's victuals from a revolting selection of products at the local corner shop.
The Lady V was not overly chuffed with the prospect of having to create a gourmet six-course dinner for eight from an out-of-date pack of naan bread, a frozen Hawaii pizza, two Ginsters scotch eggs and a tin of meatballs in spaghetti. But it was still better than a Jamie Oliver 'under a fiver' dinner - and at least we got the divi.