A sad day: the memorial service for my father Alistair Sampson's great friend Alan Coren was held at St Bride's Fleet Street. Sandi Toksvig made me cry for the loss of a brilliant comic, but remembering my favourite Coren lines made me chuckle. One gem came after a news item about spies getting older: "Bond tensed in the darkness, and reached for his teeth."
My sister Tilly and I were thrilled when we realised the picture of Alan on the back of the order of service was taken outside our family home - the great man on Dad's Sinclair C5, grinning under a brolly. When Tilly and I were children, the Sampsons went on many family holidays with the Corens, who would lie on the beach playing unbelievably clever literary games, ones in which the infant Victoria and Giles would quote the first lines of 19th-century Russian novels - or argue about the influence of Dostoevsky on Hemingway.
The Sampsons would spend hours arguing about who wanted what for lunch.
Who the hell's Nick Clagg?
This is the first conference season for 17 years I'll have watched on telly, rather than attended. I've worked out that I have spent 53 weeks at party conferences. That is more than 1/36th of my life - 371 evenings eating cold mushroom vol-au-vents and drinking warm white wine. A girl can have too much of a good thing.
The Daily Telegraph's Andrew Pierce, who comes over for dinner, agrees with me how delighted we both are not to be going to the Lib Dems' annual gathering this week. But we disagree about what Nick Clegg's problem is - though when my friend Ian chips in with "Who the hell's Nick Clagg?" the principal issue of lack of profile is laid bare.
Andrew thinks the Lib Dems made a big mistake not going for Vince Cable. I don't. If he had been leader proper, rather than a stand-in, the press would have belittled him and the public would have ignored him. There simply is no place at the moment for a third party in British politics - or at least in the coverage of British politics - no matter who is leading the party.
Just about fit to collapse
Incredibly busy week for stories, including the bailout of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae, the astonishing bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers, the sale of Merrill Lynch, the near collapse of AIG, plummeting stock markets, the collapse of the holiday firm XL, and the hunting down of some prat called Mark Owen-Lloyd. He was the E.ON executive who thought it funny to quip that high oil prices "mean more money" for his company - when millions of people won't be able to afford to heat their homes this winter.
Weeks like this make the job very exciting - and mean there is precious little time for life outside of it. Lovely Tim Ewart bounces past my desk one evening and asks after the kids. My scratchy reply? "Don't ask me. Ask the nanny." Not very nice.
Don't sleep much that night, obsessing about Milly's first day at nursery the next day. It feels like she's leaving home, and she's 26 months old. Ridiculous. This is a bit early for empty nest syndrome.
The wrong retail therapy
Try to cheer myself up with a super-quick lunchtime shopping splurge. I think a grown-up job like economics editor means I should dress the part. Won't admit to my husband John how much I've spent on smart new suit, but it does the job of lifting my spirits . . . until I pick up the FT and see the Home Secretary resplendent in my new jacket. Is there anyone I'd less like to see wearing my clothes in public, I wonder. Can't think of anyone. Once again in very bad mood.
Hit the ground running
After a weekend of overindulging, I vow to get running, so set off for Queen's Park first thing Monday. As I'm contemplating the Wall Street crash, I fall foul of a wobbly paving stone and crash to the floor - turning a full somersault. Had no idea I could still do a somersault. Before examining the damage, I haul myself under a bush, peering up and down the road to check if anyone has seen my humiliation.
Hobble home wondering if I can sue Brent Council for the wobbly paving stones - and my loss of dignity.
Daisy McAndrew is economics editor of ITV News
