Rhodes on a title for Camilla, electric car risks and saving lives with pasties

The relentless march of electric vehicles brings a new range of mishaps for motor insurance companies. Direct Line, for example, is offering to cover drivers for injuries suffered by people tripping over their recharging cable. And how about cover for driving away with your cord still plugged into the charger – at a suitable hike in premium, naturally? New technology means new profits.

Whatever the Government says, I will continue wearing my face mask in crowded places such as shops and malls, and I dare say you will, too. A mask may not offer much protection against Covid-19 but every bit helps. It goes deeper. Wearing the mask is a sign of solidarity, selflessness and compassion towards one's fellow humans. And most importantly in these perishing mornings, a mask keeps your nose warm.

I was never tempted to wear any mask more daring than the standard white job. And if the Christian Wakeford defection has taught us anything, it is not to trust a politician wearing a Union Jack face mask.

The Daily Telegraph reports that the nation is warming to the idea of Prince Charles's wife being known as Queen Camilla when he ascends the throne. Time will tell. From the moment Charles separated from Di and took up with Camilla, the Palace fib-machine peddled the whopper that, when she became the wife of the king, Camilla would be known as the Princess Consort. The latest suggestion is that she'll be the Queen Consort. I would bet a small amount that, whatever the Palace suggests, Camilla will be known to the ordinary people neither as Princess Consort nor Queen Consort and probably not even as Queen Camilla. As the king's wife, won't she simply be the Queen?

Loved the tale about Millie, the dog stranded on mudflats near Portsmouth, whose rescue involved the use of a tempting, freshly-fried sausage dangled over her by a drone. If a pooch can be lured to safety by food, why not humans? How many of us in this lardy-arse nation of ours, if stuck on a cliff or cut off by tides, might force ourselves to make that last crucial effort to grab the rescue rope by the careful deployment of a Gregg's pasty? Come on, big man, you know you can reach it. . . .