All set to leave house, leaving Thomas to take rugrats to various institutions and me to catch 9.20 train to London.

Allowed self plenty of time to cross capital and get to house of politically correct fashion designer and cross-examine her for Sunday supplement about views on impending war.

As I bent to kiss head of middle one, I noticed something crawling in it.

Closer examination revealed more things crawling in it and also in lovely golden tresses of oldest.

So I delayed journey, thinking I could probably get train half an hour later and still make it in time.

Spent the next half-hour in the bathroom with supply of hair clips and nit comb.

I pinned their hair into sections and, as I combed each one, I removed the clips (a variety of fluorescent, star, heart and flower shapes) and, for lack of anywhere better to put them, I clipped each one into own head until delousing complete.

Fortunately, each head yielded only two or three nits, so I declared them fit for school and ran to station so as not to miss another train and whole interview.

Temptation to itch head while sitting on train was overwhelming but I resisted it, figuring the sensation was psychosomatic and if I concentrated on questions to ask politico fashion designer it would stop.

It did, although paranoid as ever, I couldn't help thinking that several of the other passengers on the train were giving my head odd looks, as if perhaps they could see it crawling with the tiny creatures that I imagined I could feel.

But their attention was soon shifted from self by the arrival, at East Croydon, of a passenger with such a bizarre hairstyle nits would have been scared of going anywhere near it.

Passenger in question was woman, who looked roughly same age as self (about seventeen that is), whose hairstyle was rather at odds with the austere navy suit she was wearing.

In it were several plaits through which appeared to have been threaded bright red pipe cleaners which had been twisted out in spirals, making the woman look not dissimilar to Medusa, with snakes writhing out in every direction.

We parted ways at Victoria and I went by tube to fashion designer's house, still imagining people were giving me odd looks, although many of them were friendly odd looks.

Designer greeted me wearing a long towelling caftan embroidered with Arabic-looking motifs and the words: 'No war for oil'.

She ushered me into her kitchen and offered me some fair trade Rwandan tea with soya milk, before we began to discuss the caftan (worn out of solidarity with oppressed muslim women the world over) and the need for people to dress according to their beliefs.

After we'd finished and the photographer arrived to snap her wearing 'Women's Lib meets Palestinian Lib' mini skirt and poncho ensemble, she thanked me for coming and I thanked her for the disgusting tea (I didn't actually tell her it was disgusting of course, much too polite) and she shook my hand and said I had made a fantastic effort for Comic Relief.

As I hadn't made any effort at all, I wondered what she was talking about and scratched my head in an effort to think of something to say in reply.

Having resisted scratching it all the way there and through the interview, it was the first time I realised why people had been giving me smiley odd looks.

The assortment of fluorescent, star, flower and heart shapes which I'd absentmindedly removed from rugrats' heads and stuffed in own, were still there ...