Suffering from slight dis-cogitation, my daughter, who has a degree in English, was struggling to find the word for rear-view mirror and came out with hindsight mirror. This is a completely perfect concept and I want one. Now. Or do I mean back then?

It would be brilliant to be able to flick a glance up to it and think, ‘Perhaps I should have taken the second left,’ or ‘leaving the cat and the roast chicken in separate rooms might have been a good plan,’ or ‘perhaps I should have got petrol.’

As a modification for the future, I’m hoping that the clever computer types will invent a foresight mirror which would be fabulously helpful; if Apple took it on, it would probably be called the iSee (not to be confused with iCy which is the app that monitors Greenland’s weather). It would be much easier to glance up and see the future in a mirror while I’m driving, than try and read my crystal ball on the move (iBall), although if I jam it between my broom and the cat, it tends not to roll away so much.

In full mechanical confession mode, Natasha commented that she always thinks of her wing mirrors as being ears. As she has particularly large ones (wing mirrors, not ears) we decided that they should be called Dumbos. Disappointingly, they do not yet have the capacity to get the rest of the machine into flight. No, I’m not stupid; I know that this is physically and aerodynamically impossible … well, at least until I find a magic feather. Nothing on eBay yet; still looking.

In terms of predicting the future, I’d very much like to know if my event this evening will go well. I’ve been asked to host a charity dinner party for which people give a certain amount to charity and I serve them a large and yummy meal with wine not so much flowing as spurting like the Trevi fountain. I was worried that £50 per head was a lot to pay, even though it’s for a good cause. However, with 11 other people there, it comes out about £9 per friend or about £0.12 per kilo of friend which, on reflection, seems quite a bargain.

My great friend Bobby has sportingly decided to pick up half of the cooking duties which means I am dealing with some of the main courses and pudding. When I started to plan I was torn between sticking with what I know, which at its simplest could be Haricots sur Toast or trying out new and fabulous recipes. The problem with plan B is that by the time the dinner party arrived, with all that sampling coupled to my current exercise regime, I’ll be looking fit but distinctly porcine; they’ll doubtless nickname me Sty Stallone. Not worth it for sampling food, but for creating cocktails…

Deciding we needed all possible props, the kids will in full evening dress to serve us. Meanwhile, they have decided that for authenticity, they will be expecting a tip. Normally I pay them in chocolate cake or muffins, but I can’t risk a mid-party walkout; so it’s either real money or a share in the Trevi.

Natasha has a stunning black dress to wear as a waitress at the dinner, which she wore on the evening she made her comment about the mirror, leading to her brain slippage being blogged to the world.

In hindsight, I think she regrets it now.