I think the reason Timmy can eat so much is because his mouth is the same size as his bowl. I may have to wire his jaw shut.

But despite having to feed cats about seven times a day, I'm still in Brighton. I was planning to be home by now, but as it turned out, Lisa needed someone to drag her out of bed by the ankles this morning, make her a cup of tea, and then physically shove her out the door and towards a work-related course she's being forced to attend this week. She was mildly reluctant to go, and no one else had the sheer brute strength required to persuade her it was a good idea, so I felt I should stay on a little longer.

As for the weekend, well I met up with my brother, and he gave me the results of the survey on my future flat. Basically as long as I can live with the damp problem in the bedroom, the asbestos in the bathroom, and the dry rot next door, then everything will be fine, and I'll be able to live there happily for many years to come. Providing I'm not electrocuted by the power point in the kitchen which contravenes building regulations.

But fortunately my brother's not one to let a bit of asbestos dust dampen his spirits, so in the tradition of all good slumlords, he's pushing ahead with the sale. Hurrah! I should be in within the month. In hospital, that is. The flat will be mine in three weeks.

Anyhoo, the other exciting news of the weekend belonged to Lisa's aunt and uncle, who yesterday celebrated 57 years of marriage (which I believe is the Heinz anniversary). It was enough to put anyone in a romantic mood, and Lisa's mother duly rang us up last night full of optimistic good cheer, and told us we won't make it to 57 years. Which is true of course, because when Lisa's eighty-nine I plan to carry on a family tradition and shove her under a wardrobe. It's what her grandfather would have wanted.