Rita on her 70th.

Today the rain made my hair look like that of a greasy recluse. It was incessant and monotonous. I imagine somewhere in St Andrews a taxi driver is telling his mates about the greasy looking weirdo who tried to awkwardly refuse 30p change, passing it off as a tip, having already answered a question that was directed at his friend through his hands-free earpiece and who was apparently going to a 70th birthday party.

I was, though, quasi-invited to a luncheon with some delightful women in a delicately furnished and airy house. I was let by an attendee who either thought I had the wrong house or that the stripper had let himself go a bit since his advert.

My eyes dried and unblurred to wine on the table and my nose perked up to that increasingly unfamiliar smell of home-cooking (there's cooking at home and then there's home-cooking). After a few general pictures of everybody, and despite of my annoyingly over-polite "no, no I'm fine"s, I was promptly served a feast of a bit of everything. Delicious.

Although I think this is why I think grandmas are to blame for Britain's childhood obesity.