The Vivienne Westwood exhibition in Sheffield was fab.

I am seriously coveting a tweed dress and cardy from 1986, a red wool suit and, oh a pinstripe suit, a navy coat from 1996 and a corset top and... well, let's just say I how have major frock envy.

The guinness in the Dog and Partridge was top-notch, as usual, and I had yummy tapas in this place called Cubana a few doors down.

Tomorrow I'm thinking of going to see the Paul Klee stuff on show at the Whitworth Gallery now I'm back in Manchester.

Because it'll fill some time on Sunday and I am utterly, utterly bored. Sigh...

I hate them!

Those stupid, stupid, stupid overnight mini suitcase-size things on wheels people drag behind them.

The big ones I don't mind. You can see those a mile off.

No, it's the tiddly ones that sit well below eye level.

The ones you don't notice until you look round to see what you've just tripped over.

The ones people dragging them ram out beside them when they stop randomly in busy airports, usually straight into the shins of someone like me.

They are a health and safety hazzard. They don't look they would hold more than a pair of jarmies and a toothbrush.

What's in them that can be that heavy? Why can't people just carry their case?

Lazy, I call it.