I realise that the entertainment value of my blog has increased significantly since I stopped coming here, and the number of comments seems to have grown by a factor of three, but sadly all good things must come to an end. So I'm back. Hurrah! But only for the day. I wouldn't want it to become a habit.

Anyhoo, the exciting news of the week is that the schedule outlined in my last post is coming true before my very eyes, and as of this morning, my brother's insultingly low opening offer for the one-bedroom flat in Brighton has been accepted. Which either means the vendor recognises that we're a tough-talking, no-compromising flat-buying force to be reckoned with, and to even consider haggling over the price would be futile... or there's something dodgy about the flat and he's desperate to offload it. I'm sure it's the former.

But for now I'm just a survey and a solicitor away from filling this kitchen with Weight Watchers ready meals and tins of tuna. Yes, I know it's a little small, but it does come with its own fire extinguisher, and let's not forget that Lisa is fire extinguisher trained. So I might let her cook me some miracle weight loss lasagne.

On the downside, it doesn't have any windows, meaning I may have to bid farewell to my lovely cow-duck-and-chicken-festooned kitchen curtains. Which would clearly be a wrench.

It's a good time to be moving to Brighton though, as the local Bears are on the verge of getting a Celebrity Big Brother. Sadly it's not George Galloway, but even so, I wouldn't mind living next door to Dennis Rodman.

In other news, I had an interesting Friday the 13th, when I discovered this page on the BBC website at about 7pm, decided it was fate that I'd stumbled across an appeal for sketches from a comedy group I'd never have heard of were it not for the fact that Dave links to them, and due to the similar number of letters in 'Mulled Whines' and 'Bearded Ladies', we're side by side on his blog, and I'd found the page just five hours before the deadline date... and therefore decided to spend the entire evening typing out a sketch in radio format.

Unfortunately, being Friday the 13th, I naturally had a malfunction in the BBC's radio script template, resulting in the loss of half the sketch, a swift retype, a lot of crisp-eating, irritable muttering, and a final submission via e-mail at 11pm. At which point my MP3 player blew up. And to think some people say there's nothing in this superstition thing...