Here are the results from the Lancaster jury

I go to the doctor's ready to receive a well-meant homily about my drinking, and more worryingly, the results of a liver test.

My attractive doctor crosses her legs in the same skirt she was wearing last time I saw her. A picture of Denise crossing her legs in her mauve miniskirt fetches up unbidden in my mind, before I snap back into a serious patient-professional pose with my fingers crossed attentively on my thighs. I have been highly satisfied recently with the Skirt Hem-Thigh Interface Standards attained within my local NHS and I have written to the Head of Boxes, suggesting that it should be added as a Key Performance Indicator.

We leave the topic in an amicable truce. My concessions are that yes, I do have a psychological dependence on alcohol and that I will "think about" what she's said.

We then turn to the substance of the matter: my liver test. She breezes through the results. She shows me some figures and compares them to the expected ranges in the next column. I'm about median for everything, save on one parameter in which I am one unit above the expected range. "But I've seen that in people who don't drink at all, so there's nothing to worry about there."

"I hope you don't think I was lecturing you," she says. "Not at all. I appreciate it's something that a responsible health professional would want to discuss," then wondered whether that sounded patronising.

In the afternoon, I take my youngest, Melanie, to Kendal to have her eyes checked. The opthalmist is wearing a black knee-length skirt with three buttons at the waist, below which it splays into a vent or a very wide pleat. It's a good idea but the material is wrong, too thick, possibly too much wool, and it isn't sharp enough to hold the boxiness of the skirt. It wavered slightly at the hem and revealed a centimetre of black underskirt. A straight pleat would have been better.

Afterwards, me and Melanie walk into Kendal and have a late dinner in Wetherspoons. Usual Wetherspoons stunt of advertising beer which is isn't for sale. Both Sporran Warmer and Red McGregor (it was Burns Night yesterday) were off. "You could turn the pump clips round" I suggest. "They're stuck on with sellotape", she replies. An hour later, the clips are still on display, yet neither beer is on. Melanie is good company, drawing and luxuriating in her free time, as was her dad.

A huge blob of a waitress comes up to take our plates away. "You did well with that," she says to Melanie. I jump tactlessly in. "I don't know where she puts it that one. She must have hollow legs." Blob thinks. "You don't know where she puts it." Oops. I've drawn attention to her size.

The train pulls up at Lancaster and we witness commuters red in tooth and claw, end-of-day robots programmed for a competition for seating. "Can we get off?" I exclaim, adding "for fuck's sake," casting my moral advantage onto the ballast.

I've had to put the captcha back on for commenting I'm afraid. It took a spammer from Brazil all of fifteen minutes to start graffitying.