I'm just sat in Mum's conservatory while she flies around on her zoflora-sodden mop and I'm having a glass of bubbles whilst the door to the garden is open. The Gypsey Kings are singing Bamboleo and I'm in great danger of the fashion police issuing a warrant for my arrest as I sit here clad in running bottoms, a dodgy yellow t-shirt and flip flops that have recently become way too big for my feet. I am a very visual writer, am I not?