I'm strangely drawn to the fair city of Brighton (is it a city? Probably not. Forget I said that then) like a bluebottle drawn to the stinking carcass of a dead animal. Not that I'm likening Brighton to a dead animal (unless we're talking gerbils under the fridge) - I just mean that its lure is overpowering. So after three days in Shotley Gate, I'm off back down there this afternoon to lay my eggs in the rotting flesh of the south coast. Ok, I'm not sure the metaphor stretches. Can I start this blog post again? Thanks.

Despite the fact that I haven't yet repaid the debt to sleep I incurred last week, I'm going back down to Brighton this afternoon. My aunt is having a surprise 70th birthday party on Sunday (well, she doesn't know she is, but trust me, she is), so what could be more surprising than me turning up with some dodgy woman she's never met? It's therefore important that Lisa attends, in order to raise the status of the event from 'surprise party' to 'shocking party'. And Lisa will be playing the recorder too. Which will be a surprise to her, but I'm sure she won't mind. She feels strongly about musical performances at family parties.

I'd better be off then. Oh, and we'll be on the M25 during the Big Brother final, so anyone who shouts the result through my letterbox before we have a chance to watch the video will incur the full unexpurgated wrath of Lisa. Believe me, it's not worth it.