The agonies and ecstasies of Strictly Come Dancing, and underground scrawls from Thursday.
We never miss an episode of Strictly. Or at least, Char doesn't. Whenever I lift my eyes from my sketchbook/laptop/innovations catalogue whilst it's on it's always to look at her face twisting like a Spitting Image puppet in precise accordance the the BBC producers designs. It's the full gamut of human emotions: unbridled joy at the poetry of a tight celebrity fox-trot, unbearable anguish when a mean-spirited three is awarded. But then I guess my face is almost as varied as I go from mocking sneer to desperate fear when the programme ends and Char bounces up and insists we pace around the room together to imaginary music.