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Pat's barrage of filthy, misspelt texts has left me somewhat exhausted. So much so I had to take to my bed after work this afternoon. I was woken by the doorbell. Thinking my daughter had forgotton her key I stumbled to the door to discover Pat, dressed like a cut-price extra from Moulin Rouge. Disregarding her highly flammable outfit I let her in, put the kettle on and attempted to gather my thoughts. Pat took slow, gliding steps about the kitchen, performing a bizarre act with my best earthenware mugs and a packet of herb tea. "Take sugar?" she burred in a totally un-sultry manner. I shook my head. Meryl was due round in an hour, how was I going to get out of this one?