Do you remember a film called ‘The Man in the White Suit’?  I thought not.  It was made in 1951 and featured Alec Guinness, yet another actor I never liked, and I must have seen it on on a wet afternoon before watching paint dry had been invented and someone had the sense to put it in a bin.   It’s about a man (Clue’s in the title) who invents a fabric that never gets dirty which has the potential to put a great many people out of business.  By next week I want a sensible list of jobs that would be impacted by this.  Turn over your papers and start.

Now with a leap of imagination, of which I am probably the only person reading this is capable, let us move to teeth.  Clutch at the straw that they’re both white, if that helps.  I asked the dentist who was fracking around in my mouth recently why it is beyond the wit of scientists to sound the death knell on the bacteria that cause plaque.

How do you not know what that is, Davies Senior?  See me afterwards.

She says they have but whatever you use becomes useless after a fortnight because the bacteria mutate.  Human beings with their enormous brains are outwitted by bacteria too small to see and we even know where they live?  Apparently yes.  How is this possible?

Step forward Useless the Younger, a man with theories.  He blames it on our abandonment of Spartan practices.  I sense I’m losing you here but, as they say at call centres, bear with me.  For those of you not classically (privately) educated, it was the custom in Ancient Sparta to leave new born boy babies outside overnight to test their hardiness – a pretty efficient method as it goes, although on reflection it could prove be a bit too effecient in winter-time Newcastle.  (Obviously this didn’t happen to girl babies.  Quite unnecessary.  FYI more boys than girls are born – 110/100 – because more boys die.  Bet you didn’t know that either!)

UTY attributes our decline as a race to the loss of this robust approach to child rearing, exacerbated by interfering with the course of nature with things like immunisations.  Too many of us are surviving to breed and perpetuating weakness in the tribe to the point where we are now outwitted by tiny things lurking behind our molars.

I felt it only fair to point out to young Einstein that given he was extremely ill at four weeks old he would not have made the cut.  He shrugged with quite admirable sang-froid, yet another thing you learn at a good school.  I also mentioned that it might be quite a tricky idea to sell to the general public, up there with thoughts on how to pay for care for the elderly but he was not to be deterred.

I shall therefore be writing to whatever august organ is the dental equivalent of the Lancet for consideration.  I’ll keep you posted with any progress.

 

Sounds a bit like an advertisement for shire horses, doesn’t it and clearly not a slogan I would pick were I trying to persuade you to make me Prime Minister?  Not that that will ever happen.  This week’s competition readers:  Think of a worse job than being any sort of politician.

Anyway, even with my legendary energy  I wouldn’t  have time to run a country – yet another week when my Manolos haven’t touched the (red carpeted) floor.  On Monday my choir went on a group outing to see Les Miserables – that’s the musical, sweetie, not a visit to Labour Party HQ.  Possibly knowing we were in the audience the cast really outshone themselves, buoyed up by us all singing along I shouldn’t wonder.  I was inspired enough to suggest that our summer concert cannot go on without a revolving stage, barricades – a first class recycling of the horrid furniture in the Strawberry Hill cafe – and flags.  Flags may not happen because it would involve the male section singing and waving simultaneously; a multi-tasking step sadly beyond most of them, bless.

Wednesday saw me gracing the Marble Arch townhouse of the Dukes of Wellington, popularly known as Number 1 London.  Handy for the shops but the traffic noise! Decided not to extend my visit by listening to what I’m sure was a riveting talk on Prussian China and repaired instead to the Fifth Floor of Harvey Nicks for a reviving tincture under the bad influence of an 80 year old lady who should know better.

On Thursday I decided to celebrate Japan’s Greenery Day by taking Useless the Younger on a picnic in suitably verdant Bushy Park.  Menu planning for this meant that much of the mental capacity of my pub quiz team on Wednesday was devoted to thinking of suitably tinted fare which resulted in us coming fifth (against a strong field).  Thank God at least it wasn’t Purple or Turquoise Day.

To Ditchling on Friday to see an exhibition of the works of the somewhat questionable Eric  Gill.  Who would think that such goings on could happen in so picturesque a setting? Thence to a viewing of Devils Dyke, a location unknown to my geographically challenged companions.  I stayed in the car; it was very windy and how many times can you look at a view?

The day was rounded off with a visit to Charleston, home to another seriously disfunctional family.  But nice decor.  And very pretty garden.  Obviously, and regrettably,  strong, stable and creative just don’t mix.

 

 

As in ‘working my’ .  Never mind your endless complaints about me having ONE day off;  there has not been an unfilled minute of late.  I may not constantly update social media with Testino’s photographs of me in Alexander MacQueen at the Met Ball, arm in arm with Brad Pitt and George Clooney but that doesn’t mean  hours of empty space waiting to be filled by blogging, mes cheres.   I have no craving for fame amongst the ordinary British and as it happened it was choir rehearsal night and that must take precedence.

I have been wrestling with my dwarf French beans, sulking after a cold snap like their inventors after Brexit.  Incidentally what luck for news editors that nothing else at all has happened in the world lately except endless tedious elections.  For the unaware the reason these are so popular with the media is that they are cheap and endless sources of news, they happen nearby, at pre-designated hours and require  next to no work other than a little light oiling of the Swingometer.

On the plus side I did wriggle out of the second meeting of the dreaded Committee of Doom by pleading a previous engagement at Hampton Court.  I went on a very exclusive tour across the acres of roof and was able to send my more amusing colleagues at the meeting pictures showing the long drop to the ground and the words ‘Wish you were here?’

Following my editor’s (never ending) heart rending pleas about deadlines I decided to amaze him by getting my copy in early this month in addition to having five reviews to do for my devoted 75,000 Trip Advisor followers and that is not a Diane Abbott figure, plucked from a hat full of randomly generated numbers.  I had to email the following to the Today programme on Radio 4:

I am well aware that you have to start work at 4.00am but do not vent your spleen on your loyal listeners by subjecting them to the faux dulcet tones of Miss Diane Abbot as soon as they tune in at 7.00am.  You may redeem yourselves by running a ‘Who would you least like to be locked in a lift with?’ competition, with Miss Abbott excluded as a way too obvious winner.

No reply as yet but they are probably busy deciding what the prize should be.  Dinner with Mr Corbyn might be an option.