Damn this pneumonia. I was so busy thinking of ways to get more sympathy that I forgot it was my pal Helen's birthday today. I wasn't reminded until 6:15pm when she texted to say thanks for the present (which I'd cunningly given her a month early to save on postage costs). Sadly the accompanying card I'd planned to send isn't quite ready yet. It's still sitting on the shelf in Asda.

But I'm sure Helen will understand. And as a gesture of goodwill, here's a photo of her pointing at my leg for no apparent reason.



That should make it up to her. And let's face it, when you've had as many birthdays as she's had, they don't mean so much anyway.

Anyhoo, despite my major bronchial symptoms (a bit of a cough), I've been out most of today, touring the charity shops of Ipswich under the pretence of doing some grocery shopping. I also showed great foresight by buying two pairs of laces for my shoes, then twenty minutes later deciding to buy new shoes.

I returned home to cheering news from Kingster, who had kindly e-mailed to let me know just how limited my life expectancy is. According to item number 85 on this BBC list, the average poet lives 62 years, playwrights 63 years, novelists 66 years and non-fiction writers 68 years.

So if I stop writing plays and turn to novels, I could live an extra three years. Alternatively, if I give up the make-believe and stick rigidly to the truth, I've a fighting chance of making my late sixties.

It's worrying news for my Mum though. She's just turned 64, so if she decides to write a play now, she could drop dead immediately.