Many thanks to Norwich Writers’ Circle for its hospitality last week. I was in the city to adjudicate on the writers’ entries for the Sutton Cup for Humour. Members were challenged to write the final scene of a pantomime but adding a plot a twist. We had Cinderella rejecting the handsome Prince and marrying Buttons and Dick Whittington’s girlfriend, Alice, becoming his running mate in the London Mayoral elections. My own twist would have been to have Robinson Crusoe discover he had actually been cast away on the north Norfolk coast. Sometimes you can only see one set of footprints.

So. Women reach their sexual peak at 31. Thanks for telling me that when I’m 59.

If I’d known at the time, I might have kept a diary or something. As it was, it happened and I missed it. This was the age, 28 years ago, under Margaret Thatcher, when I would, according to a new study, be experienced enough to be confident in... um... thingy, and also comfortable with my body shape (more or less triangular, I think).