In a breathtakingly well-managed segue, I'm worried about the effect which speaking foreign all day is having on my neural pathways. I'm basically (epically under-)paid to speak German all day, which is an utterly random non-job, which I envision as slowly pushing of the sides of my brain information that I spent £thousands at University accruing. Not dissimilar, I would imagine, to the effect of a boot stamping on a human face forever. But I digress (bitterly). For example: I'd love to be able to remember how, exactly, one justifies humanitarian intervention in a civil war. I'm fairly sure I could point you in the right direction, but beyond that you'd be on your own, bar perhaps a 'can-do' attitude and a few encouraging gestures toward the demilitarised zone.

However, all is not lost. I spent yesterday afternoon at the figurative knee of a retired QC, listening to stories and generally absorbing the air of reassuring calm which surrounds those who know what it is to be eminent. There was also cake.

(Thinking about it, I'd really like to know where my diary picked up this Noel Coward manqué narrative voice. I'm fairly certain it's not how I talk. Fairly.)