Brighton 2009, the "barbecue summer". The sun beats down. Our garden plants are fat and juicy looking; laundry dries in minutes with a lovely linen scent. Even seagulls are torpid, weakened from the lack of black bin-bags of food to scavenge.

Everyone is back from a not very wet and therefore news-wise boring Glastonbury; Mandleson has just decided that no-one will buy the Post Office now, so he's reversed that decision to sell it off. Good thing too, as the National Express company has just "handed back" its contract to run the super-profitable London-Edinburgh line, as they can't make money out of it.

Martin hands me a pint of Pimms. Cheers, everyone.