60-something, whatever, no time as busy packing.

16.46 Phew, what a marathon, but at long last everything is pressed and folded in tissue paper and laid out on the spare bed. Hard work, but as my mother used to say, Pamela, if you pack properly you will never have to spend your holiday ironing (have packed travel iron just in case though). Have managed very nice capsule wardrobe with last summer’s basics plus a couple of extras from the Sales. Navy as the base colour (slimming) with a few touches of soft apricot. Have even found a turban that co-ordinates as sun wreaks havoc with my hair… oh my godfathers, my hair! My roots! Cannot go to Albufeira with roots showing, which they don’t now but hair will inevitably grow an inch while I’m snoozing on the plane – must phone Maison Kevin, I know it’s Friday but I’m a good customer and they will fit me in, I know they will.

16.48 Disaster. Total disaster. Kevin has swine flu and they’ve closed the salon as a precaution. Could get Colin to run me into town, if he were here, which he isn’t as he’s out ‘giving Roderick a hand with his lawnmower.’ Can’t go to Albufeira. Must go. Will spend entire holiday in turban. Will pretend have earache.