I love weekends which last until Tuesday afternoon. With a bit of luck I might even make it home before the next one starts. But as we speak, I'm still in Brighton, recovering from an evening of culture at the theatre, where Lisa and I took in the delights of 'Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat'. Obviously you need a certain type to convincingly portray a saintly Biblical figure, so they played it safe and went with serial love rat Darren Day, who's not averse to dumping his girlfriends via tabloid headline.

But cheating scum or no cheating scum, the man can sing, and I was clapping away (and shamelessly swaying) with the sadder members of the audience by the end. I was also moved by the touching message in the official programme, which stated that the bloke playing Jacob "would like to dedicate this peformance to the memory of his gran". What better way to remember an elderly loved one than to put on a false beard and dance around at the back of the stage while your sons slaughter a goat.

Sunday evening was equally entertaining. Lisa and I were treated to an audience with Lorraine's parents, who regaled us with anecdotes about cheating men and the failure of long distance relationships. It was a successful meeting though, despite the lack of gourmet sausages, and apparently the official verdict is that I was "warm". I knew it was a good idea to wear that fleecy top.

This afternoon, after being forced into the dodgy pub which doesn't stock Bacardi, and gets its orange juice in cartons from the corner shop next door, I went to Asda for skimmed milk, only to find they were completely out of it for the rest of the day. Honestly, you can't buy anything in this town. I think I'll go home.