The man Tony turns to when he's hard pressed

relevant expertise. But Mr Campbell is often there, too, for understandable reasons, and it is to him that the Prime Minister primarily turns when there is a tricky issue under discussion or when Mr Blair is clearly in need of trusted advice.

It is not that he displays lack of confidence in the Civil Service officials who are paid to do this job, more that he so obviously conveys such complete reliance on Mr Campbell above all others. It has been a noticeable feature, for example, of all the negotiations in Northern Ireland in the the run-up to tomorrow's referendum, including the last-ditch talks before the agreement on Good Friday. It is an odd responsibility for a press secretary - as Mr Campbell would have been among the first to remark in his previous incarnation as a mere mortal.

Northern Ireland Secretary Mo Mowlam is most anxious to retain her present job in the forthcoming Cabinet reshuffle, whatever the outcome of present political events. She has made no secret of conveying this fact forcefully, either, even though she does it in an engagingly typical way. ''I want to hold on to this job now,'' she told me in an interview the other day. Then she paused, recognising her error, looked at her research assistant and said: ''Er . . . What are the words I have to use? 'But of course it is the Prime Minister's decision and I will do whatever he thinks will be useful for the Labour Government'. There.'' She smiled triumphantly.

Iain Dale, the proprietor of Politico's bookshop in Westminster, of which I sometimes write (not because I have any shares in it, but because it is such an excellent establishment) has a terrific collection of political knick-knacks, fridge magnets, badges, funny postcards and so on. But he has just had to turn down one badge that he was offered at two a throw: a tiny heart on a card, bearing the explanation that it was ''a Heart for Ulster'' - yours to keep as a commemoration for years to come. Only in very small letters did he realise he was being asked to raise funds for the Ulster Unionists. And thought perhaps it would be better to steer clear in the circumstances.

ONE of the most remarkable features of the Chelsea Flower Show - well, for me, anyway - was the reconstruction of the Angel of the North, the sculpture on the A1 at Gateshead. The horticultural department of Gateshead Council, no less, has recreated a version of this called The Angel and Beyond. It weighs more than a ton and has 22,000 bedding plants incorporated in the main structure, which makes my summer bedding plans seem straightforward, not to mention simple. More to the point, why can't my local authority show a little more initiative than hanging baskets round the lamp-posts? I have written to ask and will report.

(On an even more personal note I was distressed to learn that a delphinium called ''Julia Langdon'', named for a much-loved aunt by a firm called Blackmore and Langdon, is no longer available. ''No call for it these days,'' the young man, a member of the family firm, said heartlessly. ''Is your aunt still alive?'' I asked sternly. ''Yes,'' he said. She may not care. But I do. )

In the last week I have also been to the Chelsea Physic Garden for the first time. ''There's a 300-year-old olive tree in there,'' said the taxi driver. I said that was nothing for olive trees, in terms of age. ''It is in this country,'' said the taxi driver, departing in disgust.

The garden is just down the Embankment from the Royal Hospital Grounds and can be quite difficult to find. One Tory MP, the immensely grand Sir Peter Tapsell, who was attending the same party and hadn't been there before either found it very hard to track down. But that was because he told his taxi driver to take him to the Chelsea Psychic Garden.

magic man Uri Geller, who used to do tricks on the telly bending forks, has been back in the news, still causing controversy. I met him once briefly. He was a friend of the late Brian Inglis, the journalist, who had a great interest in the paranormal, and he used to perform small services for friends through his reputed talents: straightening forks, that sort of thing.

On the occasion that I recall, one of Brian's friends had broken her watch. She had, in fact, got into the bath wearing it, whereupon it had stopped. It was passed to Mr Geller for repair. He took it away with him because it was apparently not susceptible to instant repair. He kept it for three weeks. He returned it, shaking his head and declared it irreparable. My friend, who was very fond of the watch, suddenly had a great idea. She went and bought some new batteries and the watch started. She never told Brian. He would have been disappointed.