2002-11-26 - 4:13 p.m.

Do you ever wake up feeling like you�ve had your entire supply of bone marrow siphoned off whilst you slept by surgical ninjas and you spend the entire morning trying to move about three inches whilst they steal off into the dawn and sell off their wares to coma victims� families and owners of dog food factories? I was meant to spend the entire day writing my scintillating feature for a certain liberal daily newspaper, but since making a coffee left me in need of f lie down, it�s been less than productive. I�m only managing to type now thanks to a high strength multi-vitamin.

I don�t feel ill, just like I�ve been filleted.

I need to buck up, too, because the party season starts here, with a posh nob bash at The Canadian Embassy, not an obtusely named dive bar in Hoxton, but the real one in Trafalgar Square, as reward for the destination feature / paraphrasing of guidebooks that I did on Montreal in the summer. I�m hoping for lots of minor European dignitaries along the lines of Princess Stephanie of Monaco, perma-tanned Euro-suaves like Roger Moore and as much Ferrero Rocher as you can snort, but more likely it will just be me and several other freelance hacks glugging down warm Leibfraumilch (or its Canadian equivalent) and lying to the PR droogs.

Speaking of Roger Moore, I�m forever hoping for a dinner invitation at an event attended by Sean Connery. Just as we�re being shown to our tables for the main course, I�d whip out a concealed Dictaphone, run over to where he�s sitting, and jam it into his face. He would say, �Do you expect me to talk?� And I would say, �No, Mister Bond, I expect you to DINE.�

How we�d laugh.