'Cos Cherrypie Knows How To Throw A Parrrti

Fortunately, demonically-possessed clients such as the one I encountered the other week, are rare. So too are the over-excited variety, most falling into the comfortable middle range of mildly indifferent or slightly pleased, many of whom send sweet little Thankyou cards and, ever so occasionally, gifts of wine ( I'm currently dealing with the acquisition of a key-worker shared-ownership leasehold apartment in Central London, a contract the size of an old family bible - I could have turned the job down but this chap sent me an entire case from the Sunday Times Wine Club a couple of months ago when I sold his house so I'm prepared to put myself out of the comfort zone).

I cannot recall ever being physically lifted off my feet in a bearhug and subjected to a large, moist smack on the cheek by a client. It was certainly a new experience when this happened to me on Tuesday before a waiting room full of highly-amused clients and a couple of colleagues who weren't sure whether to applaud as the emotional (and incredibly strong) gentleman proceeded to loudly exclaim " You are simply wonderful, wonderful, my dear. You have made me so happy I could weep from the sheer joy". Thankfully, he didn't.

The initial shock and embarrassment was quickly overtaken by the incredibly pleasurable realisation that, for the first time in ages, I felt as light as a feather. Jack often picks me up, usually in an attempt to extort money from me, refusing to put me down until I've agreed to some outrageous demand but I don't recall a man lifting me since the free rock festival at Ashby Ville in the late 80s when I bounced on my cousin John's shoulders to the Housemartins and the Q-Tips.

I wouldn't wish or expect it to become a common method of showing appreciation, I much prefer the practical solutions wine or flowers offer, but it wasn't entirely abhorrent and has kept me tittering to myself all week, especially given that I have strong suspicions that the He used to be a She, the type that might have been found frequenting clubs in the Victorian era wearing tweed suits and smoking pipes, albeit it a tall She with very large hands and perhaps a touch of elephantitis.

I am now to depart for Wales again. The weekend will be infinitely different to the last one. We'll be staying with the quasi-in-laws, so will not be expected or required to have any political opinions or, indeed thoughts on anything other than Big Brother and Hello! magazine. Jack & I will amuse ourselves by secretly counting how many times we hear "Paul Burrell", " Michael Owen" and " David McLean" mentioned over the next 3 days. We might escape the obligatory pilgrimage past St Owen's gates now that he has cleared off to Madrid, but it hasn't stopped them on the 32 other occasions so I shouldn't be too optimistic. Jack'll keep very quiet about his upcoming Australia trip for fear his Dad will try and bum some of his spending money off him.

And I will ponder on how my life could so easily have become a "Shameless" reality.

I took a tip out of Cream's book and left you some music to listen to while I'm away