Well the bad news is I'm £73.50 poorer, but on the plus side I now have two brand new tyres on my car... which is still parked outside Lisa's flat, making an appealing target for any returning stalkers and slashers. I also can't help feeling slightly suspicious that the replacement tyre centre turned out to be only a few hundred yards away. Frankly if the boss of ATS isn't sending out his staff to sabotage the tyres of nearby residents in an attempt to drum up business, then he should be.

But fortunately it takes more than a puncture to deflate me (not strictly true, but I'm trying to be resilient), so with a spring in my step and an AA card in my pocket, I succesfully bounced back (which is more than my slashed tyre did when I kicked it) and managed to keep all nine flat-viewing appointments I had yesterday. And the good news is, we may just have found the flat for me. Although obviously I'm saying that without consulting my brother, who's actually buying the thing. But give it a couple of months and I could be living here...

... well, round the back of here. It's a one bedroom flat with no separate kitchen, and costs £130,000. Which for Brighton is quite good. God, I'm depressed. But hey, it's not my money. I only have to find the rent. Anyhoo, it's conveniently situated directly opposite the school attended by Chris Eubank's children, meaning he can pop in for coffee every day when he parks outside in the Hummer, and is only 50 yards from a children's daycare centre. So when Lisa and I have kids, they can walk to nursery on their own. It's also close to Lisa's work, Lisa's mother, the town centre and the seafront. So frankly I could sell my car. Which is now worth at least £73.50.

Further down the list of potential abodes... a lot further down the list... was the property which the owners had cunningly billed as a two bedroom flat by describing the open area outside the kitchen as 'the living room' and the living room as 'the master bedroom', thus enabling them to get a second bedroom out of the cupboard at the end of the hall. Unfortunately there were three Indian tenants living there, one wouldn't let us into the bathroom, one wouldn't let us into the bedroom, and the whole place smelt of curry. So I don't think we'll be putting in an offer.

But having viewed nine flats in one afternoon with the assistance of my mother, and being more tired than Charles Kennedy since the start of 24-hour drinking, I'm due to hit the streets again tomorrow, this time with my brother and sister-in-law, for what's currently looking like 14 viewings in 6 hours. Which is one in the eye for the estate agent who said she wouldn't recommend seeing more than four in one day. Anyone would think I was keen to move down here...