We flirted, earlier in the week, with Agent Provocateur, the celebrated manufacturer of ladies lingerie and things. The context then was G20 protests and infiltration: this time it is one of their popular products that prompts an odd but, I hope, appealing connection: suspenders. We have several of them in the programme and most are to be found up Wembley Way. A "suspender" first struck at Hank Roberts' expense. He is the geography teacher who blew the whistle on the bonuses being paid to the Head at Copland Community College which made a Lib Dem's claim for a trouser press look exceedingly modest. The LEA, wisely, took a look at Hank's complaints and now the "suspender" has suspended the Head, his Deputy and the Bursar - school talk for a bean-counting money-man. Finally the "suspender" took a look at the school's budget itself and promptly suspended that. Talk about the twang of firm governance! Lewis dons a mortar board and battles through the cloud of chalk-dust to see where all this will end. Not an apple for the teacher in sight but lots of people in sports jackets with leather elbow patches, standing in the corner it seems.
Old Mother Hubbard, you will recall, went to the cupboard to fetch her poor doggy a bone. But when she got there, the cupboard was bare. This comes to mind as I tell you the latest twist in the 2012 Olympic saga. First Seb and the gang went to the private sector to ask for cash to help build the village. The private sector said "Sorry, Recession. Our corporate cupboard is bare". So Seb and the slightly desperate gang then went to the Government and said "You know that precious contingency reserve we've got for really serious emergencies? Well, we've just had another one". Seb then explained the private sector problem, Ministers said "OK" and another £300m slipped from one column to another and, lo, the village is saved. My point is, come 2010, 2011 (or even the first half of 2012), there is bound to be "something else" that Seb and the now seriously desperate gang are going to ask for, only to find the cupboard as devoid of beer-vouchers as poor old Mother H found her's in pursuit of canine vittals. I so hope they know what they are doing but, in an effort to reassure ourselves and you, we will be asking Tessa "nothing Old Mother Hubbardish about her" Jowell.
Baby Peter might have been spared a terrifying, lonely and savage death had the medical profession delivered. I don't mean coming up with some miracle cure or magic pharmaceutical concoction, nor an act of heroic surgery or even the laying on of curative hands. No, I mean just doing a little extra in their jobs. That is the blunt and awful conclusion of the latest, and probably last, official report into the little chap's tragic demise. Liz takes a deep breath and takes you there.
Many deep breaths required around the newsroom today as the simple yet horrid truth emerged about the death of another little boy. He was having fun at the funfare when it all went fatally wrong. Marcus, a tough old nut at the best of times, is gritting his teeth and dealing with the story as the great journalist that he is but also as the loving dad that he is.
Some light relief is needed - news is a ghastly mistress, sometimes, isn't she? How about a celebration of some of "the few" who flew in the colours of 601 Squadron, The County of London, rebuffing the Luftwaffe and giving Blighty a breath of a chance in the 1940s? Yes, I like that.
And what about the clean-cut, clean living Jonas Brothers - an American pop ensemble who have launched themselves onto the silver screen? They are God fearing fellows, I know, so I am sure their work will be well received or the skies will open and rain, lightning and a plague of frogs will fall upon the critics. Yep, we'll have some of that, too.
Finally, London's papers - my money is on wall to wall funfare disaster - but the Standard might go on the Mayor of Moscow's extravagant expenses claims.
Robin is in hiding... as is our spring-turns-to-summer weather. We'll unearth him before 6.30 for an explanation and a prediction.
Lucy is with me again which I like very much. She seems less unhappy to miss a wander along the red (or blue) carpet tonight than she did, truth to tell, last night. Perhaps Ricky G and Ben Stiller had something over the boys from the Sunday school? Dunno.
Anyway, I will be here and so will she... unless an angel descends from on high and tells her he brings tidings of great joy and that she's off to Leicester Square. Hope not.
See you at 6.
Alastair and Lucy
