Day 102: I Am Disappointed In Marks and Spencer

It used to give me proper pleasure to see "Five items or fewer" by the express-basket-till. It was guaranteed at M&S and Waitrose. I mean you'd expect Tesco and Asda to say "Five items or less" and that, but not M&S. Not them. They seemed to care, even when things were bad. B.T. (Before Twiggy, and that strange Irish woman who appears to be having boring sex whilst talking about chocolate pudding), they did nice food and that and had polite people at the till, commenting on your very wise choice of pant-purchase. ("If you pop round there there's some lovely pants* for a pound.") It was reliable, was M&S, even if you only bought pants and food from them. You believed that they had Standards that they would Maintain; that they cared; that if you were in grave danger, somehow they would be able to help.

Now they're all up themselves and modern and that. I nearly bought some very high heeled bright red patent shoes from there yesterday, but realised I looked like a pig on stilts auditioning for an am-dram production of The Wizard of Oz, so I bought a coat instead. (This is not a joke. I wanted a very long, very fitted, very plain black coat. Not a swing coat, or an ill-fitting coat, or a double-breasted coat. A painfully plain coat, reminiscent perhaps of Omar Sharif in a blizzard, to be worn with long boots and red lipstick whilst squinting into a sudden squall.) And I got it at the Marks and Spencer for £110, which is a Good Investment, but not Daft, along with some white vests (not thermal ones; you know, the strappy ones to wear under things in a peepy way), some grey 'sweat pants' for wearing to the Gymnasium, and TEN PAIRS OF SOCKS FOR SIX POUNDS TO REPLACE ALL THE SINGLE SOCKS. (Do forgive the shouting. It was Thrilling, to say the least.)

I was quite excited. I mean it felt right, what with me being middle aged and all, to buy an overcoat from M&S. But then I went to the food hall to buy some food, and walked past the express-basket-till, and saw this abomination. And my heart fell. Standards are obviously slipping: I won't be surprised if my coat falls apart by Christmas.

* For Readers From The Americas: "Pants" are knickers. Underwear. Things that protect your ladygarden from the chill, or builders seeing things they shouldn't when you are overcome by a sudden gust of wind when wearing Stevie Nicks-style skirts. "Panties" is a horrible word (and goes with moist, soiled linen, thinly sliced and portion, not necessarily used together, although the combination could be fascinating).

Day 102: I Go On A Brief Holiday

To Kenya. (It's very loud. Careful.)

Oh, you've probably already been. Seen it. That sort of thing. But look, it's Saturday afternoon, it's unseasonably hot, I've turned my sofa into a daybed and I need to fall into a fitful slumber.

If you don't like that, try the sensationally delusional website of the ex-porn model Heather Mills. I'm loving the tabloids at the moment, which is something I thought I'd never say. Now look, I avoid politics, religion, music and commenting on current affairs and that because that's what everything else is for, and I'm sure no-one gives a toss about what I think of George Osbourne. (I will however say this, as I always do whenever I get a chance: he was at school with my brother, whose only comment was: "He was saying he was going to be Prime Minister one day when we were at school. Good to see he's just as much of a twat now as he was then.")

But Heather Mills, Heather Mills. St Paul of the McCartney is a bit of a twat, granted. A bit embarrassing and that. But he's not a wanker. I don't think about him that much, because I don't give a toss, really. But it's not that likely that he pushed a pregnant Heather into a bath when off his tits on 'marijuana'. I very much doubt that he actually and literally refused to let her have a bedpan. (Although bearing in mind what a spaz she is, he could be forgiven for doing so.)

She, however, is obviously a self-publicising, delusional, deceitful, manipulative, greedy, disingenuous cow who's about to be hoist by her own petard. (You know you're in trouble if Max Clifford says he wouldn't represent you "for all the tea in china".) And if The Sun want to repeatedly and consistently refer to her as "the ex-porn model Heather Mills" at any given opportunity, then that's just fine by me.

Day 102: I Hurt

Not good ideas:

1. Chain-drinking cheap white wine and eating peanuts.
2. Drinking warm Carling Black Label whilst kicking snogging adolescents and shouting CAN YOU STOP FUCKING SINGING IN MY EAR
3. Drinking pints of Staropramen, when I don't even like it
4. Drinking Jack Daniels and coke, which I don't like
5. Coming home and drinking whisky (not nice whisky) and coke (free with disgusting curry the other night), which I don't like
6. Doing Pilates as the squirrels were stirring in their nests, doing aeroplanes and falling over.

Day 102: I Have A Spare Ticket For The Raconteurs At Brixton Academy Tonight

Anyone want it? Well, if you don't ask, you don't get. The spare ticket, that is. Or something.

Day 102: I Receive A Magical Gift

God, my legs. On their birthdays, most people drink gin and smoke cigars. For some reason I thought I would go and see Anuja-The-Personal-Trainer (after a bun with a friend in Croydon, and before telly and strangely revolting curry with old friend who is addicted to Strepsils). As a speshul birthday treat, she made me stand on a half-ball thing and do squats whilst she threw things at me.

As a result, I was in Agony this morning. Had to go to the Post Office though because, via a long-distance phone call conducted in the garden last night in whispers (and some French), I had Ascertained that the "While You Were Perhaps Out I Made No Real Attempt To Ring The Doorbell Or Leave This Package With Your Neighbour Who Was Sitting On His Front Doorstep As He Always Is" card left by the postman was the passport to a magical Gift.

And it was indeed magical. It was a Kimono sent from Canada via Gloucestershire. And it goes with the bottle of single malt sent from Canada via Scotland on Monday. I am to sit in my armchair in my Kimono (a fragment of which I show here), drink my whisky, and smoke a small clay pipe. Better go to Canada and say 'thank you', I suppose.