Teddy Bear's picnic

I GUESS I am like all go-ahead top newspaper execs.
I shout quite a bit, moan quite a lot, drink quite a lot, smoke too much...
and lately, at the tender age of 48, I have been going to bed alongside a big cuddly teddy bear called Fenway!
No, it's ok. I am not about to have a nervous breakdown, I think that started two years ago. But walking through BHS the other day with Wren she suddenly gasped, pointed and said: "I want one of those."
The upshot was that I bought the bear, originally called Benji, as an early Xmas present for Wren, but as she cannot have it until the appointed day it has been staying in my flat with me and, well, he IS pretty cuddly and I didn't want to leave him in the front room where he might become overcome with cigarette fumes and stink like an old ashtray.
So somehow he has found his way onto my bed.
That's my excuse, anyway.
He is called Fenway for obvious reasons, a tribute to our lovely holiday in Boston earlier this year. He has a woollen scarf around his neck and also a British passport attached to him.
I must admit I'll miss him when he is gone.

Last night The Prince and I managed to get time off for good behaviour and joined Roberts, Smashy and the Blair Witch (that's a new one, I know. One of our sports writers as it happens).
At one stage Roberts disappeared upstairs and seemed to be gone some time. First Blair when to check on him and when he failed to materialise, too, we thought maybe a black hole had swallowed them both.
Finally, traipsing up the Yard stairs, I uncovered the reason for the delay. There was Roberts, proudly taking charge of five Mojitas. And on a school night, too! Downing mine, I decided to go before the whole thing got wildly out of hand.