I'm off down to Brighton tomorrow after a self-imposed rest-break (which is different from a trial separation) of eleven days - a week and a half in which I've been able to effectively make the most of my time by... um... well, sleeping mostly. I've also gone against Lisa's strict instructions not to do any writing this week, by secretly spending yesterday and today producing a work of fiction about the Foundation Street car park and the A1214 out of Ipswich. A piece of writing which may never see the light of day. Well let's hope so anyway.

I'm also bravely battling through the pain of an ear infection, prompting Lisa to start e-mailing me in block capitals so that I can hear her, and generously wishing me better by Friday with the sympathetic words "I DON'T WANT YOU MISSING ANY OF MY RELEVANT POINTS". In return I've assured her I'm not well enough to make my own cups of tea, and demanded the return of a Polo donated by the kind (but frankly ridiculously named) Mrs Bruno, which was meant for me, but found its way straight into Lisa's mouth at lunchtime today. So I think we're all set for the weekend.