So long, Mr Blair,
I'd like to say I care
But care is not a word
From you I've ever heard.

So let's just say 'farewell'
And hope that time will tell
Whether you were great or small -
It's a question for us all.

Only fools and horses...

Better to be a racehorse than a lady on Ladies' Day at Royal Ascot. At least the horse's shiny perspiring coat is well-earned, and it doesn't need a daft overpowering hat to draw attention to itself.

"There's so much I could say to you but the words don't seem to come. Like drumsticks that can't find a drum, the words don't seem to come."

I half expected Jean Claude to telephone me after my London Live appearance. But the other half of me that didn't expect it was right. My mother says you should never trust a man with two first names - there's usually one for each face.
I pointed out that John Stuart Mill must surely be an exception, but my mother replied that she would not be easily fooled by anyone so keen to search for the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

I just don't get it - pregnant women who think it important to reveal their extended womb to the rest of the world as if we all want to see what they've been up to in their private lives. What next? Showing us their swollen ankles and exposing their haemorrhoids? For goodness' sake, women, have you never heard of subtle understatement? Cover yourselves up in crisp white Egyptian cotton baggy collarless shirts and tell us your news if you must with a faint blush and a coy smile. If nothing else, it's a far more hygienic alternative.

Nana's talking of entering me for Wimbledon next year - she heard Sue Barker saying they were looking out for fourteen-year-olds and my mother encouraged the idea by pointing out that long legs run in our family. The trouble is that it's all based on a misunderstanding.

We were watching Queens Stella Artois tennis final on television, the three of us, and I happened to say "I'd quite like to do that". And before you could say 'Rafael Nadal' my mother had already planned her finals outfit for watching me in the box reserved for family members. I shouldn't really have corrected her and spoilt her dream. I should have let her go on thinking I wanted to become the first British Wimbledon finalist with a good dress sense. But it wouldn't have been true so I had to explain - I had no desire to be a Wimbledon champion; it was shouting "Out!" with a definitive arm gesture that I'd thought I'd quite like to do.

When I saw myself on television for the first time I noticed that I have developed a habit of laughing nervously at the end of some of my sentences, even when I haven't said anything remotely funny. I don't know how long this has been going on, but it will have to stop or I'll never be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman.

"I learnt by the example of my grandmother the importance of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. And although it is not a disposition which comes as naturally to me as it did to Nana, yet I like to think that there is something of her influence visible in my character despite my occasional protestations to the contrary."

There could not be a better sales representative than Nana, especially when she is wearing her big black sunglasses which she says make her look like Katherine Hepburn. Then, when she takes them off and the buyers can see the steely determination in her gleaming blue eyes, well none of them stand a chance, frankly. Nana, my Meditation 3 of Section One. Third time lucky, she would say. And she would be right. But I'm the lucky one.

First T.V. interview on Wednesday.

My incredibly talented mother and publicist has organised for me to appear on London Live. We'll all be there- me, my mother and Nana. The team is ready for them. I only hope that London Live are ready for us...

I was about to say that Charlotte Goldman is a bitch, but why offend an innocent animal and a particularly loving and faithful one at that? So I'll stick to my original description of her, the one I gave her even before I knew how hard she was trying to ensnare Jean Claude - a mosquito, a tiny creature, insignificant to look at, noisy in intonation, a nuisance, always looking for someone to feed off, with a rather unpleasant bite which doesn't last long and most important of all, very easily squashed.

'When fourteen-year-old schoolgirl Harriet Rose was asked about her sudden rise to fame since publication of her book The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose, the enigmatic author had only one response - to wiggle her little finger.'

They all used the same shot of me, the local press. A close-up of my face as I wiggled my little finger at their cameras. It wasn't an intentional pose. I think I must have panicked at the sight of all those flashing lights outside my school gates. I had been reading about an ancient Greek philosopher called Cratylus who became so disillusioned with language that he decided to remain silent altogether and merely wiggle his finger. He must have come into my mind when the press began to hurl their questions at me. I uttered not a word to the men of the press. Yet still they judged me. Each one certain of his own interpretation of my silence.

I learnt a valuable lesson that day - sometimes not saying anything is saying something. There's a meditation in there somewhere....

I always prefer reading books that have a happy ending, such as Kant's Critique of Pure Reason or, even better, his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals - I love that one.

I could read Kant's Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals a thousand times without tiring of it. I recommend it to anyone wanting to apply themselves to philosophical matters such as the importance of morality and why we should not tell lies or make false promises. Honesty, you see, is extremely important to me. So, in order to be completely honest with you, I feel you should know that I once told a lie, a very big lie, about a very important matter. But I want you to know that at the time I felt I had no choice.

The worst part of the lie was that I told it to my father, whom I loved very much indeed. And now that you've learnt of my lie, I shall understand entirely if you no longer wish to read a book about me, although I know that if I were you I would want to know more about the circumstances of the lie before I made any rash or unfair judgements. Which is why I wish to divulge the following:

I was twelve at the time, young enough, perhaps, to be forgiven, but old enough, frankly, to know better. My father, recognising that I could be relied upon to tell the truth in all circumstances, asked me a direct question. I, realising that my father would believe my answer, dared not hesitate before answering for fear that he would read the truth of that hesitation. I gave my answer in a manner that could not fail to persuade him of its truthfulness. Once my father had heard my reply, there were no more questions. In fact, it was the last question my father ever asked me. And I had answered it with a lie.

"Am I dying?" was the question as he lay in his hospital bed.

"No" had been my lie.

"I once believed in love
I thought it was all true
But I was so naive
I once believed in you."

Jean Claude phoned again this morning. Coincidentally I was in the kitchen squeezing a French style citron presse at the time. Coincidences are curious like that, as I'd said in an early Meditation - two seemingly unrelated events with a common theme, the occurrence of which makes you wonder if there's a Plan, a Great Unknown Plan, or GUP for those of an abbreviating nature. That I should have chosen to make myself such a French style drink at the very moment when a French man was pressing my numbers on his telephone keypad surely speaks volumes about GUPs. Indeed, should any more proof be required, I need only tell you that Jean Claude and I were not only brought together by an extraordinary series of events of potentially life-threatening proportions, we also discovered by chance that we share a deep interest in Rene Descartes and his celebrated 'Cogito'.

But alas, there was a further dimension to this morning's set of coincidences - Nana answered the telephone before I got to it. I could hear her voice booming down the receiver before I'd even left the kitchen. "You had your chance, Sacha," she was saying, "and you blew it." Of course Nana had a point. And on balance her intervention in our GUP - Jean Claude's and mine - was probably for the best. I expect he's shrugging his broad shoulders by now as he mutters "C'est la vie," through barely moving lips.