I might have had reservations about a dodgy dinner date on Tuesday, but I was more than happy to spend last night with three middle-aged men...


Four, if you count my brother.

That little ditty was first released thirty-four years ago when I was not much older than Amelie, so it gives you an indication of how The Piglet Song might sound in 2045.

Anyhoo, what with it being only seven months till Christmas, I decided to celebrate yesterday by taking the day off work and heading up to London to see Rush (don't say "Who?") at the O2 Arena. Obviously I'm far too young to be familiar with much of their work (the first twenty years are a blur), but my brother's a big fan, and what's more, he can still fit into the t-shirt he bought at Wembley in 1988...


Like Michael Jackson, that t-shirt was a bit more black in the 80s, but other than that, it's worn pretty well. As has my brother. You wouldn't believe he's pushing fifty with a short stick.

But enough about music, let's talk pickled babies. Having spent eighteen quid on a train ticket, I didn't want to Rush straight to the O2 yesterday, so I decided to get closer to the heart by visiting the Royal College of Surgeons at lunchtime for a few jars...

That's a girl I picked up at the Hunterian Museum in Holborn, and is just one of thousands of pickling jars on display. It's like a branch of the W.I. run by Rose West. I'm not saying it's unsettling, but at one point I sat down and watched a ten-minute brain surgery video, just for some light relief. Let's face it, it's not every day you see a testicle the size of a coconut, and a severed foot with smallpox. At least, not where I come from.

Unfortunately, I've only got a half-day off work today, and I'm due at the Sussex Eye Hospital in less than an hour for my own brand of surgery. So like most NHS patients, this will have to wait...