What to tell this year? After landing in London I spent a night recuperating at the Ritz, and the following night had dinner with a very gracious lady who shall remain nameless. It was of superb quality in every way, and I would just like to say that, despite the jibes from some quarters of the British press, I found Mr Bush to be a charming man, although he didn't look as if – how can I put it tactfully? – he didn't look as if he was altogether comfortable wearing a formal dinner jacket. I really thought that an open-necked check shirt, and a 37.85 litre hat (as our European friends would have it), would have suited him much better.

I noticed that the new Archbishop of Canterbury was on the guest list, and I made sure I kept well out of his way. In Dr. Williams' case, the word 'primate' seems peculiarly fitting. I know it sounds awfully passe, but I still prefer my Archbishops of Canterbury to be more 'God' than 'Guardian'.

As we were escorted to our cars to be driven back to our beds at the end of the evening, I just caught Cherie whispering to her husband, "Your American friend looks like a bloody organ grinder's monkey in that suit." Cherie has a very waspish tongue – a lawyer's tongue indeed. Tony flashed a rather clenched smile, and they got into their car.

Mr Bush was obviously charmed by me, and asked me to drop by and meet his family, "…next time you are in Texas, Miss MacDonald."

I have not, in fact, ever been to Texas in my life, nor had the least desire to go there. Despite what you might hear in the Works cafeteria, the horny-backed armadillo and I have little in common. But apparently that is how Texans talk. They just assume that everybody has been there.

Apart from checking that things were as they should be at the Grimsby Works, and getting the Christmas Annual out, I had one other engagement: an appearance on the BBC's 'Question Time' program, with, in the right corner, Peter Hitchens (a rather 'wet' young man I think – even I prefer his outrageous and provocative brother), Edwina Curry, and me; and, in the left corner, Ken Livingstone, the horrible little man who is trying to keep my Hilman Minx out of the City of London,  that unspeakable Scots idiot 'Baghdad' George Galloway, and my old sparring partner, Tony Benn. This night was sent live to air in front of an audience in Manchester, an audience obviously expecting and relishing blood on the studio floor – and they were not disappointed. It turned out to be one of Tony and my most spirited encounters, and I hope that all my British readers enjoyed it.

I thought I had the best of him by the end of the show, but then I always think that. But, like two opposing barristers, Tony and I go back a long way, and we can have an enjoyable conversation in private, so when he graciously invited me to dine with him at the Moss Nook, I happily accepted. Make no mistake about it, he is dead charming, and I felt like a schoolgirl on her first date with a brilliant young duke. Unfortunately, there were subtle glances from other tables, and the word has got out. Now Conrad and Boris, bless their blue Tory hearts, think that I have turned bolshie.

Now I have a secret to divulge: Miss Gribble, whilst practising an address which she was due to give to the Society of British Labour Historians (entitled 'Revisionist Tendencies in the Gorbals Branch of the Labour Party, 1950-1959' I believe), accidentally left a tape recorder running in the cafeteria. It caught a certain young miss from the typing pool gossiping away nineteen to the dozen, and giving away more than I ever would! I even took the trouble to make a transcript of the tape.
Susan