Nice satellite, shame about the illiteracy

GREAT moments in catering. In a chic little cafe this week the waitress coughed over our table, apologised for coughing, coughed some more, took the order and returned with a pot of clotted cream topped with a thick black hair. She seemed surprised not to get a tip.

STILL on grub, is there any difference between that new restaurant phenomenon "pulled pork" and what we used to call grossly overcooked pork?

WE'RE skint. There isn't a spare penny in the Exchequer. Real politics is dead. These days, once you strip away the bumf, bull and baloney you can't squeeze a fag paper between the cash-strapped policies of the Tories and Labour. As the conference season continues, I am reminded of the cynical old distinction between two political systems: Under capitalism, man exploits man. Under communism, it's the other way around.

WHILE politicians of all parties blather about the problems of housing, education, transport and health, how many know in their hearts that there is only one problem? It is the one caused by successive governments allowing the population of this country to rise, in the space of a single lifetime, from 50 million to 70 million. Institutionalised idiocy.

WOULDN'T you feel more like congratulating India on its space mission to Mars if India had first fed, clothed, educated and housed its own people? Indian newspapers celebrated this week's success but nearly 300 million Indians were unable to read the news.

CILLA Black was thrilled to hear ITV was making an affectionate series about her rise to stardom. She was thrilled, too, when the first episode aired, sending the star (Sheridan Smith) a bouquet of flowers. I wonder how thrilled Cilla is now that some critics are hailing Smith's performance of Anyone Who Had a Heart as better than Cilla's 1964 version. "A better, bluesier singer than Cilla?" asked one pundit. We shouldn't be surprised. Smith has a string of West End musical awards and in 2009 she and the rest of the cast of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps sang and danced their way through a terrific musical episode. A national treasure.

ON our trip to Hidcote Gardens this week, the car park was packed with new saloons and well-kept limos. It was testimony to the grey pound, that well-heeled, early-retired slice of society with time on its hands and big, comfortable pensions. They are the richest old folk this country has ever produced and yet they are a protected species, off-limits to the tax-raising likes of Miliband, Balls and Osborne. Why? Because for generations the word "pensioner" has been a sacred totem, conjuring images of plucky old Brits who survived the wars and now exist in frozen back-to-backs, huddling around candles for warmth. So potent is the word "pensioner" that no chancellor or premier would dare look at today's affluent elderly and say: "Right – they're ripe for taxing."

BUT what foolishness am I spouting? Our £200 winter fuel payment will be coming in a few weeks, for which we starving over-60s are all truly grateful. This year I fancy a decent case of claret.

IF anyone doubts that some NHS employees leak patients' details to commercial firms, consider this tale from a reader. His mother in her 80s was diagnosed with advanced macular disease, threatening her vision. He reports: "Within two weeks of the diagnosis Mum had been contacted by three domestic cleaning companies, a private carer company and various companies selling sight-improvement gadgets. All of them actually called at her flat, not by phone." Is this a record?