So it would seem that sambuca shots and sleepless nights are not the fastest route to curing a cold. Oh when will I learn?

Still, no cold was going to stop me from getting to Wardour Street to buy the fabric for my soon-to-be ballgown. Yards and yards of periwinkle blue chiffon, with bluebell silk satin for the lining... Old-fashioned Heaven.

So anyway, I'm walking through Trafalgar Square with a bag of silks in one hand and a baguette in the other, desperately trying to stay ahead of the huge anti-vivisection march, out of earshot of catchy slogans such as 'No more torture, no more lies, every six seconds, an animal dies' - and I get chatted up. I am actually beginning to think of myself as some kind of sleaze-magnet. Ok, sure my dress was short and blowing about a bit in the breeze, but I was doing my best to control it with my baguette-wielding hand, so hardly channelling Marilyn Monroe. I suppose perhaps I ought to be flattered, but this man was out WITH HIS SON. And I am so not ready to become the stepmother of a five-year-old kid with a mohican and a gold chain. So thanks, 'Marcus', but no thanks.