WELL, dear readers, I am sorry.

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I am not sure why but I feel the need to apologise if I may have caused offence.

I haven’t dressed up as a Nazi, been racist, suggested a Jewish reporter was like a concentration camp guard, had sex with that woman, used a Latin adjective to describe the police, rigged a bank rate, ruled India, left an offensive voicemail, hit my maid with a phone, kicked a footballer, or even said anything at all about Liverpool.

In spite of being almost famous on the Felixstowe peninsula I haven’t really done anything that needs an apology unless you count swearing something ageist under my breath at a gold Rover driver who seemed to think that turning right painfully slowly required no indication whatsoever on the Beatrice Avenue roundabout.

But I don’t want to miss out on a public apology just in case my position becomes untenable and I no longer have the support of the Prime Minister.

It seems that everyone is doing it anyway and I wouldn’t want to miss out in case the bandwagon leaves without me.

This weekend I found myself leaving my small flat with sea views (distant) in the Edwardian spa town of Felixstowe and travelling to Cambridgeshire to attend the wedding of my friend Lisa who works in the public sector and enjoys cross-stitch and the occasional vodka in her spare time.

Lisa wore a tiara in her hair accompanied by a white satin frock with train and red stitching, embroidered with crystals. Her something blue was a pair of wedges that no one could see anyway.

Celebrating the nuptials, we ate in a very grand dining room. I sat next to a pleasant lady called Hazel who was a vegetarian and instead of lamb enjoyed a pastry-based dish with interesting veg.

During the course of our conversation she told me she usually gets cheese based main courses at weddings and a ratatouille made a nice change.

My plain-speaking-photographer-friend Lucy is a vegetarian and though I sometimes mention she might like a bacon sandwich or the occasional pork pie she doesn’t take offence.

However, when I suggested to Hazel she might be hungry later what with no meat and that during the evening buffet – which, in the event was, unusually, quiche free – she could always suck the breadcrumbs off a chicken goujon, her reaction wasn’t one of laughter helpless or otherwise, although she did smile.

I wasn’t totally sure she realised I wasn’t serious.

Perhaps she thought I was plebeian, perhaps I should have said sorry.

I didn’t though.

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