Someone tried to tell me today that Christmas is only a week away. Clearly, they are lying. I know for a fact that there are still a couple of months to go. Because, really, if Christmas really was a week away, that means that the last posting date is Tuesday, and that would be all wrong given how organised we are. So, to the joker who tried to convince me that a mere seven days stand between here and Christmas morning: no luck, sucker, I'm on to you.

Also, je suis vraiment fatigué. Too many parties last week, not enough sleep, and I seem to have inherited Chris Brennan's low-level cold. It's like a normal cold, except rather than making you feel like shit for a few days, you feel a little under par and sinusey for a few weeks. Joy.

In other news, I have a warm glow inside at the comments left by readers in response to my good lady's column in the magazine. And tonight I am making char-grilled lamb cutlets with cumin and thyme, plus sprouts, roast potatoes and glazed parsnips. If this cold holds, I won't be able to taste a thing.

It was very blustery and bright at Canary Wharf on Saturday; you can just see the old ball and chain peeping into view at the left of the frame, carrying a shopping bag blown almost horizontal.