Wednesday: Manage with an unbearably heavy heart to postpone until tomorrow my scheduled cosying up with Keira Knightley, who recently starred as goldfish lover in Domino. Aim at least to land her as a patron for the Goldfish Action Group.
Judge it best, however, not to ignore summons to the Charity Commission.
They are all very friendly, but opaque. Information has reached them, they say, from our bank - or from Frank in finance, direct from his sick bed - of some confusion in GAG's accounts, which I had uncovered. I point out that I've never known the difference between net and gross, and that my only connection has been doing profit and loss sheets in Frank's absence.
Attempt at dizziness doesn't raise a smile, and I am left wishing we had the fifth amendment here. Instead, I direct all their questions to David, the chairman, major funder, potential closet donor to Tories and source of all confusion. Heave a sigh as I finally emerge - then I see David pacing the waiting room with what can only be a lawyer in tow.
Thursday: Nagging questions about David spoiling my Keira preparation.
Trying on fourth suit when phone rings. It's Anka, ex and mother-to-be of my child, but Mrs David. "How could you?" she shrieks. "Your petty desire for revenge will ruin him. And me. You'll never see the child." Try to point out I'd said absolutely nothing, but by then speaking to a dialling tone. Do 1471, but number withheld.
Summon Vorderman, Neanderthal flatmate, for sartorial advice - hardly Trinny or Susannah, I've lost the plot after Anka interruption, but not so much that I would agree to wear orange tie with yellow shirt and green suit. Opt for boyish look - tight jacket, baggy jeans. Met on doorstep by David, minus lawyer. Doesn't utter a word but headbutts me. Fall over parapet wall and into basement area where bins are kept. First thought is that jacket ruined by debris of last night's takeaway, and Keira rendezvous blighted. Then realise there's no feeling in my legs.