I am not a good spy. (New title. Better.)

I went to a party. It was really completely lovely with food and special fruity wine and ridiculous games and everything.

But I overheard a conversation and I think it is giving me anxiety dreams.

The party was held by a friend of mine who works in the theatre (I do have other friends. No I do. No I do. No. I do.) and so inevitably it was a bit like a who's who of budding young theatricals.

And as I was sitting on the lawn with hub, runkling my feet into the summer grass, I heard them discussing Big Brother.

"I just don't understand where they get these people!" said posh-sounding first person to posh-sounding second person.

"What I think," posh-sounding first person continued, "Is that they should put a load of really intelligent people in a house together, provide them with newspapers every day and see what happens."

"Yes!" said posh-sounding second person excitedly, "It would be rather like an extended version of Front Row!"

"Exactly!"

And on they blathered, poshly.

I can't get this damnable conversation out of my head. And I fear I am not doing it justice. I would like to provide you with a full description of the perpetrators, but I can't because I was eavesdropping.

That'll learn me. Next time I shall be suitably kitted out with secret cameras.

PS. Hub's tattoo...