I don't believe it. The six magic numbers which came to me in Monday morning's apocalyptic vision of the future, failed to come up on last night's lottery. I did get one number though, which represents a major step forward in my recent level of success. And besides, in my vision I was standing in front of the TV watching the draw, so in order to fulfill the prophecy I clearly need to tune in to Eamonn Holmes, rather than allow Lisa to phone me at 10:15pm and make me miss the show.

So that's a pound down the drain. It makes me wish Lisa had accepted my offer of a £1 bet on last Sunday's 'Test the Nation - Know Your Planet' quiz. Especially when she didn't know where the Isle of Wight is, and answered that giraffes have beaks. I could have made my fortune.

But nil desperandum. I've got a ticket for Saturday's draw too. In the words of Lisa, "You'll have to play those numbers for the rest of your life now". Which is just the kind of pointless financial commitment I need. But still, I'm used to having a money-sapping albatross around my neck - Lisa and I have been together for two years now.

Anyhoo, it's Thursday, which means I'm back down to Brighton a day early, in order to give me time to prepare for Saturday's magical mystery tour. I've managed to hold out for the past month and avoid telling Lisa where we're going, but working on the principle that she struggles to turn on her computer at the best of times, and is unlikely to read this in the next two days (hence the albatross comment), I can now reveal that we're going here...

Yes, I know it looks like a towerblock on a rundown council estate, but it's actually a very classy hotel. Well ok, it's an inner city travelodge. And they say the art of romance is dead.