A pleasingly large proportion turned up (and much more: most interesting find, twelve embracing artist's mannequins in a plastic bag. No idea whose.) But the surly, blue bum-face I wear as a cherub turns out to be even more squashed and brittle than I remember. I tried to work it open with some vaseline but it simply unravelled. And now my clothes look like the kind of evidence that might send Bill Clinton to the chair.
Tonight's subject line, meanwhile, refers of course to the tag-line Warner Brothers have been using to advertise the HOLY SHIT BATMAN suicide of Heath THE JOKER Ledger out OF NOWHERE months before his WHAT!... which I learnt about from Miss Meikle over the phone by the Thames at eleven... So eat THAT death, you "Britney six moths to live" byline writers (I don't actually know what a byline is. I don't actually know what I'm talking about. But all the stars are bursting. God damn.)
And not since Diana died have I so stingingly, instantly felt: "Now this is going to be interesting..."
But poor Heath.