Pleasure, talk to me about it. This Sun...now, this is what you call weather. Hotter than Sicily; forget being in London, the latitude's shifted, it's Palermo on the Thames.

Just like all the neighbours, it's drag a chair out into the backyard, Sunday papers, cool, cool drink, and let the Sun rustle up serontin and endorphin levels to something approaching acceptable, kind of day.

Need a storehouse of the stuff to eke out, something to keep me tuned up during the days I'm stuck in that cock-pit of misery - the office. But that's nearly a whole day away, so who cares.