In London, I punched a man in the balls.

What it was was, I have these new trainers, which were cheap, but apparently of slightly different sizes, and halfway up Charing Cross Road my right foot wobbled, and I shouted 'Woo!' and my left hand went to steady myself in an 'ooh, I can't walk in flats' sort of way, and I accidentally punched a bloke who was slightly behind and to the left of me, the Clegg to my Cameron, right in the Boswells.

I froze, and said, gosh, and I'm terribly sorry, but he instantly straightened up and said cuh, and not to worry and continued on his way. LONDON MAN I SALUTE YOU.

Then later, after a nice lemony drink with my agent, I was asked for direction by THREE sets of female persons, first a trio of Eastern European teenagers, who wanted a big Primark, which I didn't know about, but when I pointed the way to the big Oxford Street TopShop they all jumped up and down shouting ''TOPSHOP! TOPSHOP!' so I think that was fine. Next were two quite posh french girls who wanted to know the way to'a Underground', and finally one more female type person who allowed me to utter that sentence most chaps spend their whole lives dreaming about uttering: 'Young lady, I will help you find the modelling agency for which you have an important interview'.

And there were meetings, which were great, but frankly the street-based was just as much fun AND TO THINK I NEARLY CUT MY HAIR EARLIER THIS WEEK. In the end I did not, and it was the right choice.