I am sitting here chair dancing to Right Said Fred. All is good. "Fine", even. And you all know what that means. It means bad.

The highlight of tomorrow will be buying a birthday present for my eight year old cousin. Belated, of course. It is unfashionable to buy presents which arrive on time. He is at an inbetween-y age. He sniffs and sticks his nose up at Early Learning Centre products. But Next's socks would be no good either. What a dilemma.

Tomorrow night. No champagne party with music and battenburg and moumins, tent and people and laughing and not sleeping and vodka. Blame it on the weather forcast.

I shouldn't have placed my glasses on the floor, where, of course, I stood on them. I'm thinking a Specsavers rescue mission is needed. With oxygen tank and glucose drip. All this despite the fact that they are worn only one fifty-sixth of the time. This is may be my punishment for my vain-ness. I will take to wearing jumpers without holes for the head. Paper bag-esque.