Laura Craik, Ian's Dog Moose - and who should really run the countrynext PM

Well, a bit of a pot-pourri for you today.

First of all, Laura Craik who I thought must be either suffering from extreme PMT or be completely bananas - or both - and who writes a column in The Evening Standard. Not exactly H. L. Mencken or even Alan Littlejohn - but quite competent.

Yesterday, though, she went completely ballistic about getting direct mail. It's certainly not PMT - she is pregnant and people are sending her catalogues "each one addressed to me by name". This is "positively evil" ... "junk mail of the most evil sort." And, guess what? "Someone is making a tidy living selling contact details to businesses prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege."

Fancy that! If that's what a few catalogues do, I wonder how she reacts to something like child rape. Maybe someone should take her aside, put a friendly arm round her bowed shoulders and say something along the lines of "You know what, Laura: you don't have to read this stuff - any more than anyone has to read your column. Grow up and get a life, dear."

Anyhow, back to politics.

A few years ago I won £50 off one of my partners when he bet I couldn't mention his amazingly stupid Labrador, Moose, during a speech to 2,000 sales people in Birmingham. I won, by saying, "This is so simple even my partner's Ian's dog Moose could understand it."

I remembered this last night when considering the question I raised yesterday: whether the country should be run by David Cameron, Les, the dead Guinea Pig or Mystic Mary. On reflection, I think Moose should throw his hat into the ring, except that he's probably chewed it to bits.

I asked Ian for a photograph so we can do a proper election campaign, and as you can see Moose is a cert for the sympathy vote, having just had an operation. First, though, I need to buy some lists from somebody who makes a tidy living out of junk mail - and tell Laura Craik about something called the Mail Preference Scheme which has been around for 20 odd years now.

Unfortunately they have nothing to stop people thrusting copies of the Evening Standard in your face when you're on your way home. But I think I'll survive.