I won over a thousand pounds in a game of poker yesterday evening. Which was no mean feat seeing as I'd never played the game before yesterday afternoon. The only downside is that it wasn't real money, but hey, you can't have everything. It does mean however that my plan to become a professional poker player by Christmas (which is a plan I've had since about... ooh, Thursday afternoon) is well on track. I've discovered the plethora of opportunities open to the poker professional on the internet, and I like the idea of making a living by sitting at home playing cards on my computer, so I'm sure I'll soon pick it up. How hard can it be?

Of course, as Lisa and I sat huddled around my monitor last night discussing tactics ("do you get anything for a queen and a four?"), and I developed my advanced strategy of betting my entire bank balance on the most rubbish of hands, it came as something of a shock when the computer suddenly declared us the winner and handed over a grand and a half of cash. I knew I shouldn't have clicked on that 'play for fun' table. I could be rich by now.

Still, the knowledge that I'm only a few games of cards away from financial security spurred me on to get up at 4am and drive Lisa down to Brighton in the dark. The advantage of which is that I can deliver Lisa to work on time and be back at her flat before Trisha starts. And what's more, I've even scratched off the correct date on my parking permit. I might pop down to the seafront later and see if I can get into shot behind any politicians being interviewed outside the Labour conference. Unless it's John Prescott, in which case I'm keeping my distance. I don't trust him not to hit me. But look out for me on the 6 o'clock news - I'll be the one yawning in a Bart Simpson hat.