There ain't nothing like a Dame, and other stories

Dame Mavis retired this week. I miss her already. She took her office and former office staff out for a slap up meal in a very fancy pants restaurant in Covent Garden. We made some bad speeches, but amended with fabulous presents. I went with Aubs armed with a £300 handbag budget and mistaken belief that we could have our pick for that. Oh no, do you know that a bog standard Chanel handbag costs £1200? I didn't. I was appalled. I wanted to lamp the liposuctioned princess in the shop buying a couple, shake her and say 'for Goddsakes woman, that's immoral'. That may sound like handbag envy. It isn't. They were really not £1200 gorgeous. I prefer the Accessorise autumn collection.

Mavis got a lesser name label, we tried Prada Gucci, everyone you would think of as a really fancy handbag label, found we could afford a purse, retired to Coccinelle. She thought it was from Marks and Spensers as it turned out. I didn't have the heart to correct her. I'm sure she'd take it back, get a nice winter coat if her hubby ever tells her what the receipt says.

I realised in lamenting her departure that it wasn't that she was irreplaceable professionally. There's lots of very good , very inspiring civil servants. There just aren't that many who are as human as her, who you can shop with, giggle, get drunkenly inappropriate with. Who you can swap 'wine stains on the boobs' anecdotes with. She was fun. I'll see her again, but miss that at work.

Talking of work, it's nuts. Like really nuts, working all hours and having half the Cabinet peering over our shoulder, nuts. I'm shattered, suffering light deprivation and barely getting to talk or sleep or see daylight. Writing, cooking, reading, such pleasures are now crammed into what section of the weekendend I can, guilt free, cordon off for myself. It isn't a full one. I'm hating the hours, the pressure. Loving the work, loving the team. This week was the worse so far. Home between 9-11. In when I'm normally still sleeping.

Out of the hideousness came Gerard. I've joined another internet dating site.(this one's for boys - and before you all go on about being greedy in keeping my options open,I should mention I've had a bad date with a Tory and rubbish sex with a virgin who 'learnt from the telly for you' since last December, hardly binging!). Gerard is a 38 year old divorcee. He writes the best messages in the world. Apart from looking sexy, he's very bright, endearingly quirky and has totally got my attention. I'll keep you posted.

If you're wondering at this juncture what happened to the Bali Boy. Nothing happened really. He he just made the usual bugger all effort, and I decided to let it go but be his mate several weeks ago. Before the bombings in fact. He didn't bother to feign faux guttedness, just said 'whatever you want'. We still chat on the phone, it's fine, but time to move on.

There a number of men on Dating Direct who haven't got my attention despite their best efforts and a number whose attention I've failed to attract. Flatteringly the former outstrips the latter.

I shall of course whirl you through some of the highlights and lowlights, things I am learning about internet dating, and give you a compare and contrast of the girl site / boy site experiences at some point. Next time I get let out of the cage in fact.

J xxxx