In other news, publishing insiders today predicted that we are now less than two weeks away from the publication of Douglas Lindsay's much-anticipated KIDS, AND WHY YOU SHOULDN'T EAT MORE THAN ONE FOR BREAKFAST, the final book in his ill-fated Blog Trilogy. For some, and insiders believe this includes UK Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gideon Osborne, the book can't come quickly enough. In simple terms, Her Majesty's Treasury are desperate for the tax revenue resulting from the anticipated billion-plus downloads.

'God, man,' said Osborne this morning, from his two-up two-down in downtown Dundee, 'there's all this stuff about the UK economy turning round, and this positive indicator and that positive indicator, and all sorts of people are licking their own balls in excitement about how brilliant it is. But consider this. We are now £1.3trillion in debt. The country. The UK. One point three trillion. That, my friends, is a shitload of cash. Trouble is, when you get to that kind of level, it's just Monopoly money. It's hard to grasp. I mean, it might as well be thirty trillion or three hundred trillion. It's just a big number, so it's easier to ignore. So let's put it in simple terms. Having a national debt of £1.3 trillion, rising at over £5,000 A SECOND in a country our size with virtually no manufacturing industry means that we are completely fucked. It's not an empirical term, but it's simple, straightforward. People understand its meaning. Fucked. I mean, me and my mates are always pulling the look-at-us-and-how-brilliant-we-are schtick, but it's all bullshit. I'd eat my own face if it would do any good, but there's nothing we can do. Literally nothing. We're all going to die in poverty. Even me.'

When asked if he thought the publication of Lindsay's new ebook would be a difference maker in turning the economy around, Osborne was unequivocal. 'I've never heard of that fucking guy, but I'll tell you this; they could publish a book called The Harry Potter Code written by the illicit lovechild of JK Rowling and Dan Brown, everyone on the planet could buy eight copies, and it wouldn't make the slightest difference. We'd still be totally fucked.'

Professor Malcolm Connery of the Glasgow Institute of Special Things was one of many in the academic establishment to express sympathy with the Chancellor's prediction.

'Oh yes,' he told me this morning, as he looked out over the glittering glass skyscrapers of Glasgow's business sector, 'there's no doubt that things are tricky, although I wouldn't go so far as to use the Chancellor's vulgar language. Nevertheless, he's right. Under such circumstances, all we can do is batten down the hatches, huddle round the fire with a cup of tea, leftovers of yesterday's soup and some three day old bread, and wait for the end.'

Kids, And Why You Shouldn't Eat More Than One For Breakfast will be published as an ebook in mid-January, by Long Midnight Publishing. A book worth waiting for.

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We barged in, all family-of-four completely out of place in a posh hotel, and were immediately hit by the nauseating scent of aromatherapy candles. Impossible, after all, to feel well without the smell of lavender or bergamot in the air. The baths are appointed in the usual Roman manner, as if it’s impossible to have a spa without doing it in the style of those who invented it.

We changed, we let loose the dogs of war, and the kids charged off towards the water. They touched it, they realised instantly that it wasn’t heated, and they retreated quickly to the sidelines for a massage and the half-time oranges.

Soon after, as we were all coming to terms with the temperature of the water, we noticed another feature of the whole Roman bath/Wellness clinic ambience. There were naked Germans everywhere. The saunas attached to the baths had a strict no-clothing guideline, and there were some people coming straight from the sauna to step into the thermal pool, forgetting along the way to put on appropriate clothing.

As Two of Two and I were standing on the steps at one point, a woman walked down past us into the water, wearing only a thong. Without going into too much detail, she was clearly in possession of the right body to be seen in public wearing only a thong. However, to my horror/amusement/paternal pride, the wee fella starts ostentatiously pointing at her with a huge smile on his face. I, while being pleased that he’d noticed, started doing the finger across the neck, Awooga! Awooga! Shut up! Shut up! Abandon ship! sign. He stopped pointing, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘She’s a nice colour.’

It was like Cary Grant had entered the building.