So I was having breakfast one morning with Sachie Sitwell (start a paragraph with a bang, I say), and after he'd finished his coffee he put down The Times, drew himself up, and said, 'And now I must go upstairs and shave, which bores me so much I could yell.' I am completely on his side. Strewth, cobbers, what a bore. Somehow it's even worse now I use an electric razor: in the good old days the little ceremony of preparing the deck, as it were - the hot water, the new blade, the brush, the lathering . . . not so bad; but just standing around trying to find something interesting to focus on while moving a piece of machinery over the jaws - not the same glamour at all. The one good point, if that's what it is, is that I now often forget to shave at all; since I relatively rarely go out first thing in the morning - at least to anywhere where an unshaven visage might be recognised - I tend to put the whole thing off; with the result that I find myself in the car on the way to the opera, and, yes - stubble. Happily nobody seems to notice, or if they notice they don't actually point. I even got away with is this week at The Turk In Italy, when even my friend and wife didn't notice. Now that's a first.