Cheryl Cole – after the coitius vomitus interruptus incident  – when adulterous Ashley paused on the job to puke on the bedside rug before carrying on to score with another woman - why did Cheryl ever offer him a replay ?

Men in Tights – they are on sale in Selfridges and cost £70 – yes SEVENTY- pounds a pair and are the latest style statement for hip hop and happening men. Don’t  laugh, mantyhose could solve the problem of one missing sock forever. They come in three special butch shades: charcoal, black and beige to go with everything and are 120 denier – tough enough to play football in. If you think your hunk would be comfy in ‘mantyhose’ perhaps he could try out eyeliner for men, too. That’s called guyliner by the way if you want to ask for it in Superdrug.

I had my publicity pictures taken for my book last week. The photographer was lovely. He told me he had worked with Maya Angelou which made me weak at the knees with admiration and awe -  there isn’t a finer woman writer alive in my opinion. I was expecting him to remark on my similarity to Nicole Kidman and express amazement at my perfect lips (they really are, ask my family) but what he actually said, a lot, was “Stop talking!”

I can’t wait for April 1st to see what Londons’s freebie newspaper The Metro will come up with. It couldn’t be any finer than last week’s story about a four feet long rabbit called Ralph that weighs 42lb, more than the average three year old child.  Psychic  Derek Acorah believes rabbit Ralph is responsible for spooky goings-on in his owner’s house because the bunny is channelling the spirits of a ghoul. 

I say get Ralph some rabbit tights so he can be hip, hop and happening.

It was taking a long time –  with him this means he’s asleep or watching Braveheart again - OR that there is  a problem.

I went to find him and he was at the laptop having a great time scrolling through hundreds of photos -  none of them of me. His push bike was photographed from every angle, the dog was snapped in various poses -  awake asleep and covered in mud. There was even a blocked toilet (I didn’t ask) and a shot of his favourite kebab shop.

“Where am I?” I asked.

He looked aghast. I think  he thought I was having memory or existential issues.

“Photographs of me. Where are they ?”

“I was short on disk space so I think I may have deleted you” he confessed.

You know that saying about happy marriages –  that a couple should never let the sun set on a disagreement? Well my version of that is that you should never accept an apology until the season has changed.  We are officially not speaking.

Unless until he finds a  recent photograph of me that makes me look like Nicole Kidman.

My Irish mother gene makes me want to scream at Mariah Carey “Keep your chest warm!” Her dress has got to be on back to front, right ?

Nicole Kidman has taken to wearing vintage Austrian blinds in toilet roll colours to awards, but her husband Keith Urban looked very dishy and sober and adoring - so good for her.

Jeremy Irons is dry as dust and if there was a special award for being an up yourself ageing lothario it would be his in perpetuity. Ralph Fiennes can be his deputy.

The question I most want to be asked in the coming week is “Who are you wearing?”  I plan to reply ‘Robert Dyas’ or ‘William Hill’ because I have gleaned from the red carpet interviews that it’s not what you say but the WIGGLE that goes with the answer that counts.