IN these dark and tumultuous times, we all need a shining beacon of hope. Step forward my hero of the week: Eleanor Walton.

Eleanor had gone to the races dressed in a white jumpsuit. Unfortunately, only a couple of hours later, someone spilled red wine down her pristine outfit.

Rather than cut her day short or rush home to change, Eleanor and her friends grabbed four glasses of red wine from the free bar. They went into the loos and tie-dyed her jumpsuit in the sink using the wine as dye to hide the stain.

A few minutes under the hand drier and voila, she had an almost-new outfit. Think Jackson Pollock portraying a dusky pink sunset over a snow-capped valley. OK, I may be over-egging that slightly but, in truth, it didn't look half-bad.

Most people can relate to Eleanor's plight. It reminds me of the time a waiter accidentally dumped a plate of curry in my lap. Amid much profuse apologising, someone rustled up a spare pair of chefs' whites and I was able to enjoy the rest of my meal looking like I had also cooked it.

That is bested by a friend, though, who dined in an upmarket restaurant wearing tartan flannel pyjamas. It was her third outfit of the night. She'd started out in a posh frock, then ended up wearing a wine bucket.

She recounts one of those comedy, slow-motion moments where the maitre d', who had been purposefully striding across the restaurant, unexpectedly found himself soaring through the air after tripping on an errant handbag strap snaking out from beneath a table.

Attempting to regain his feet, the poor chap grabbed the nearest thing to hand. Cue the largely melted contents of an ice bucket being jettisoned towards my friend leaving her as drenched as if she'd gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

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Help was at hand. Earlier that day, one of the waitresses had bought herself a pair of pyjamas from Primark. She offered them up to my grateful friend who was chittering with cold.

My friend returned to drop off the freshly laundered pjs a couple of days later, along with a thank you note and gift. Talk about a dinner to remember.

Goldilocks and his new bed

YOU might have heard we have a new Prime Minister. As the latest incumbent of 10 Downing Street settles into his new pad, Boris Johnson is already facing criticism for reportedly spending thousands of pounds of taxpayers' money on furniture, including a bed.

A new bed for Boris? It sounds like the title of a children's book. Which is somewhat appropriate as a man-child rocks up to run the country.

You can picture the scene in the furniture shop with our political Goldilocks trying out all the beds until he finds one that is "just right" as in the fairy-tale with the three bears. There is a joke about Brexit, BoJo and making your bed in all of this, but I'm simply too weary to deliver the punchline.

Let's say the image that springs to mind is a lumpy futon that has been chucked out beside the bins and peed on by a passing dog.

Relax … don't do it

REGULAR readers of this column will know I have a penchant for dabbling in what could be loosely termed topical lifestyle concepts. Or as my long-suffering husband prefers to call it: whatever-the-latest-nonsensical-fad-is-sigh.

Already there has been a merry dance through Danish hygge (candles, fancy blankets, mugs of hot chocolate), Scottish coorie (same but with a kilt on) and Finnish kalsarikannit (aka "pantsdrunk" – enjoying alcohol at home, alone, in your underwear).

Now comes niksen, a Dutch relaxation technique which can be used as a method to combat work-related health problems, such as stress and burnout.

The principle calls for the floating, rather than the focusing, of our thoughts. In short, permission to daydream. On paper, it sounds straightforward and blissful. Yet, as I have learned, doing nothing is not as easy as it looks. In fact, it is exhausting.

Sample floating thoughts: "Beautiful tree. Fluffy clouds. Oh, a plane! Where is that going? I wonder who is on board? That TV series Lost, the one where the plane crashed on a desert island, what was the ending about? It's been nine years and I still don't understand.

"Were they in purgatory that whole time? Was it a netherworld? Did they escape or die? Could I survive on a desert island? What if I survived the plane crash but lost my glasses? Would I build a raft like Tom Hanks in Cast Away or wait for rescue?

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"What other films are set on a desert island? Robinson Crusoe. Swiss Family Robinson. Lord of the Flies. The Blue Lagoon. Oh, that makes me want chips. How long have I been doing this Niksen lark for now? That was a long two minutes … Enough, I'm off to get pantsdrunk. And eat chips."