The last forward planning meeting is over. That does not mean there will not be others, or that the last forward planning meeting achieved anything at all, but it does mean something of a fresh horizon for yours truly, a time 'for reflection' as they call it (I don't like this term, but it is now almost universally used to politely suggest you are hardly on the right side of the fence, but I'll take the opportunity anyway) . Of course I decide to reflect in the pub, at least to start with, round 11am. For some reason, the landlord has taken to playing Mark Knopler records whenever I appear, and this is lovely, but also slightly unnerving, for there are some very poor MK records as well as some pleasingly good ones, but hell, I'm just gazing out the window at the passing girls and busily 'reflecting' anyway.

I return home to read the 'London Review of Books'. This is somewhat of a first for me. I have never found myself in a position to do such a thing before other than out of pretension. Now I settle down like a dog in his basket with the lovely thing, and read about Tolstoy and Edward Heath and the history of cosmetics. It makes me think; there are things to do at different times of your life, and if you get the sequence wrong you can make a right balls up of it all.