When I complained to one of my colleagues I was suffering a touch of Bank Holiday jetlag, he called me a tired old hack.

The other reporter on my rapid response pod observed that I didn't look that tired, but the implication was clear. My reintroduction to the working world is always fairly brusque.

On Saturday, I weaved my way through a few thousand Tamils in Westminster to visit the Cabinet War Rooms, and Churchill Museum off Whitehall.

The Tamils were trying to get the British government to take more than a passing interest in the ongoing conflict in their native Sri Lanka.

There were plenty of families with young children turning up for the demo, so fortunately the policing was reasonable and relaxed.

There were some fascinating exhibits in the underground bunker, including a letter, circa 1938, featuring the signatures of Neville Chamberlain and Herr Hitler.

After a couple of hours underground, I felt slightly claustrophobic and it's not surprising that Churchill only stayed the night on a few occasions, prefering not to brave the portable toilets (there was no proper plumbing deep down below street level).

When I got home, I pulled out my copies of the Churchill biography by Roy Jenkins, and The People's War: 1939-1945 by Angus Calder.

Both books are very readable, but I settled down to the Churchill biog following my trip to the museum.

After being briefed by Churchill himself in his autobiography The Early Years, I skipped the first 400 pages of the Jenkins doorstopper and launched into a chapter called The Relentless Writer, a title I aspire to myself, but probably don't deserve.

According to Jenkins, who lived in Oxfordshire for many years, Churchill more or less lobbied his way into the role of Prime Minister in the run-up to the Second World War, when he was approaching 65.

It must have been quite frightening to be on the receiving end of a broadside from Churchill down in the war rooms. I better get back to work before I'm on the receiving end of a good talking to myself.