No way, Jose!

Calamity. It turns out I don't fancy Jose Mourinho after all. Apparently the crush - which had basically given my life shape and purpose for the last few months - was actually directed not at Mourinho, but at his coat. Now it's all warm and Jose has dispensed with its grey cashmere loveliness (revealing a rather unfortunate pair of too-small, slopey down shoulders in the process) the spell is broken, and I am crush-less. I am also left with remarkably little to get out of bed for in the morning (early afternoon, whatever.) There's an empty void where my Mourinho-lust once was, and apparently, not even rampant shopping can fill it. I shall have to find someone else to fancy instead. Possibly in the Observer offices. It's an extreme measure, but it would at least lure me into Herbal Hill on a more regular basis, which I understand is the kind of thing the bosses appreciate. Any thoughts, kind readers? You know the by -line snaps. Could there be a Cocktail Boy among them? (I know JM will be devastated by the news that I am no longer an admirer BTW, so if you see him, resist telling him.)