Of course I can do Goddess...

I was fed up on Friday - snow-bound and suffering the usual inertia - so I decided to be a good wifey and hit the kitchen. For the next 3 hours I cleaned and cooked and so it was when MDH returned for the weekend, not only were the home fires burning but work tops were shining and laden with goodies including the piece de resistance, a delicious tower of fairy cakes displayed on my lovely new Kath Kidston wannabe cake stand. As I liquidized my own recipe parsnip with chilli and lemon soup and heated the pizza which, owing to its generous and irregular chunks of vegetable topping, could have passed for home-made (but actually came from Aldi), he expressed gratifying pleasure, tinged with just the merest soupcon of surprise, then spoilt it all by asking when I thought I'd get round to vacuuming the stairs! Forget "He's just not that into you"; in my experience, even after all these years it's much more likely that "He still just doesn't get it".

Jonathan Ross, Jeremy Clarkson, Carol Thatcher - we'd be better off without the lot of them and a few more besides. And Carol, if you're beating yourself up about the apology- don't. It's all about ratings (ie money) and you don't bring in any of those on your own account. If the Government needs any more evidence that self-obsessed, indulgent and absent parents raise mal-functioning offspring, the Thatcher twins could make an illuminating case-study. Talking of which, thank you to Jenni Murray and Weekend Woman's Hour for giving Sharon Shoesmith the platform on which to lay bare her total and absolute unsuitability to command the role from which she was so justifiably sacked.