Last night a Beechams saved my life

Not literally, you understand. (But neither did the DJ).

There can be few things lonelier than being alone in a Premier Lodge with a lousy head cold.

I knew I wasn't *really* ill, and there were sympathetic people on the end of the phone. (Do mobiles have ends?). I was warm, and comfortable, and had enough paracetamol.

But still. It's enough to make you thank your lucky stars that you have a home to go to, and thank them even more when you get there.

Which doesn't explain why I felt the need to drink a bottle of red wine when I finally did. Perhaps it's to block out the memories of the Hello! magazine I bought at Glasgow airport (being ill = allowed to buy celeb mags, but doesn't quite {unless *really* ill} block out the shame of doing so).

joella

PS Does Rachel Hunter really think we think her tits are real?
PPS Although the same person, can Jack Ryder ever be as good looking as Jamie Mitchell?
PPPS That poor Iraqi boy with no arms meets David Beckham... quintessential 21st century moment, no?