Standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square on the phone.
It dawns on me that, according to the statistics, there are around a quarter of a million people in Cape Town listening to me speak. This is odd.
There are loads of South Africans standing in a long queue waiting to vote.
I have a picture. In some parts of the world this is box office.
Don't be afraid to ask. Yes, you can have another one.
An e-mail arrives from someone who responds when you speak the name Chris and this person Chris has very kindly written the following...
"I wanted to come and say hi to you but was too shy. Did take a picture of you and sent to some fellow readers though, sorry.
Hope you participated and didn't just work."
I assume Chris was standing in Trafalgar Square with me but a few hours earlier. I'm amused.
Scanning pictues to see if I can spot Chris and bingo! I have found this Chris person in the crowd. I can't believe my luck.
Can you spot him? This is like the gay Where's Wally
[Surely 'where's willy?' Ed.]
The sun is out in West London, it's glorious and we're sitting in the park having sushi.
Make that 'me' not 'we'. There's nothing worse than colleagues who insist on working when the sun's out.
Phone up Katie who I know has the day off so that I don't have to munch my Nigiri all alone.
And cue a chorus of Stradivari.
I thank you.
I'm at my desk and it appears that there's work being done. Except that the iPod I have on is the fatal flaw in what appears to be a productive picture.
I stagger onto the Tube. The effects of getting up at 4:50am after having only got into bed after midnight are taking their toll.
Being the most perfect housewife since that Bree Von Dutch from Desparate Midwives (?) because I am cooking tomorrow's lunch in the kitchen.
This includes grilling turkey, chopping spinach, boiling some pasta and stomping on the floor to piss the neighbours off.
I hate them. The neighbours are two guys, who're straight and all they ever do is watch Sky Sports News.
Oh yeah, and they seem to refuse to tie their fucking black bags which means the rubbish falls into the outside bins and we have to clean it up.
And we've asked them to think about tying the bloody bags and do they listen? No!
Lazy fucking football-mad, slovenly lay-about tossers.
In a previous post about the neighbours who live downstairs, I may have given the impression that the two gentleman weren't quite up to the standard that we, above them, expect.
Sentences such as "the fucking arseholes below" or "those dip-stick wankers" could have given you, the reader, the impression that were less-than-enamored with the pair downstairs.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
In fact the two fine, upstanding gentleman who - we are so lucky to have live below us - are giving, generous, charitable and probably good in bed.
I say this just in case you were in any doubt due to any previous statement you may have read.
(FYI: Sally, my housemate, just went down and they've given her a roll of loo paper cos we've run out and no-one can be bothered to go to the shop).
Oh yeah, and they don't always watch Sky Sports News.
Because of where they've situated their TV, I can tell that they watch The Apprentice too.
What a cultured pair!