Sunday afternoon, what better time of week to re-texturise my face. Freebie sample from The Body Shop (in return for 10 of my pounds for an Olive Body Scrub, which is the best smelling one, no contest, and thank heaven it's finally available), the Re-Texturising Peel is fabulous. Buy one. Smells of rose, sticky as you like, spread it over your face, leave to dry, then p e e l off in one delicious piece.

Continuing the not very regular at all post of stuff I've put on myself today, after aforesaid miracle peel: Estee Lauder DayWear SPF15 (clean, nice, smells of cucumber), PhytoNectar Orange Blossom Shampoo which smells of luscious orange, Phytosesame Conditioner, Olive Body Shop Body Scrub, Bionsen non-aerosol, aluminium-free deodorant (this is important fellow ladies, as aluminium may be linked to breast cancer), Molton Brown Coco de Mer body lotion for a final honey flourish.

Terribly fragrant, darling, and smelling good enough to eat.

Is this the most hated start known to man or email?

Vic - hi - I know you're snowed under at mo…... but I've just noticed something kind of important so thought I might as well let you know now.

More tube. Once in a while a blind man gets on at Oxford Circus or thereabouts at about 9.30am, then travels westbound on the Central Line. Every time I've seen him, he engages in conversation with whoever is sitting in the door-side seat and questions them relentlessly about their day, their work, will it be a good day, finally asking what their name is before he gets off the train. The person in question is usually happy to chat for a minute or two, then gets increasingly uncomfortable as he persists. The person looks around helplessly, tries to concentrate on their book. One time, one person got up, got off, then went into the next carriage. I wonder what I'd do.

This might be voyeuristic. I love the rare occasion when I see someone reading the last page of their novel on the tube, how they close the book and the look on their face.

I was going through the barriers at my tube stop tonight, when the guy behind me did that oh so crafty thing of swooping a ticket in the direction of something intrinsic to the act of passing through the gates. I turned to give him my best stare. Then I caught his conversation with his mate:

'When did you get out?
'What?'
'When did you get out? Was it Pentonville?
'Nah, Belmarsh.'

I didn't intervene. Such is my neighbourhood.

Argh. That's the fourth time today I've looked at the time and it's been xx:11. This has been happening every day for the past week - why!?

Thinking about newspapers left on tubes. When does a cast-aside one become the property of another? I narrowly missed an Evening Swastika, which was swooped on by the woman next to me. She didn't pay for it, de facto it wasn't really hers. So why the huffy shoulder twitching rustling when I tried to get a look?

I spent months walking past a pub conversion, when it was in its embryonic state. Every day I thought please let it be a pub. It turned out to be three probably very nice flats, with wooden blinds and opaque lights, not a bar or bottle of wine in sight.

On the way home tonight I saw the Star of Bethlehem before me - a pub sign glowing in the evening light. Bastards. Not content with their flat conversions, the wily foxes have added a pub sign to the outside to further antagonise me.