I don't want to harp on about celebrities (and I use the term loosely), but since writing my last post, Lisa has deigned to inform me that Patsy Palmer's children attend the school directly opposite me, and that she (Patsy Palmer, not Lisa) frequently walks past my front door during term-time in a white flowing summer dress, with a child attached to each hand.

Obviously when I say 'frequently', I mean that Lisa's seen her once, but the point remains - I've been here for over two weeks now, and not once has Lisa bothered to mention that my flat's situated directly on the main route for celebrity school runs. I was already aware that Chris Eubank's kids attend the same institution (at least they did before he was declared bankrupt - they've probably been installed in a ghetto comprehensive for the terminally poor by now), but he tends to stay in the Hummer rather than approaching my front door in a dress.

So I'm not very happy about Lisa's oversight, but let's face it, this is a woman who said to me yesterday afternoon "Can you do toast in your oven?", so she's clearly got other things on her mind.

Anyhoo, on Saturday I attended the leaving do of someone who'd rather move to Newcastle than work in the same office as Lisa. I met some interesting people, including someone from High Wycombe, an eight-year-old Arsenal fan, an habitual tea drinker, and a close friend of Jimmy Somerville (he's met him once) whose wife knows Noel Edmonds' daughter, and who both have dealings with the man who fitted Lisa's shower. It's a small world. Unfortunately the conversation didn't get much beyond the type of grass their horses like to eat, but that was probably my own fault for choosing to stare into space rather than join in on the "It's going to be hot next week" debate.

As for today, well I've walked along the seafront to the marina to investigate possible eateries for my birthday meal in two weeks time. My route back took me past the Brighton naturist beach, which, it turns out, is right next to the Volk's Electric Railway. Unfortunately passengers are denied the chance to ride a genuine scenic railway by the carefully positioned bank of pebbles which has been placed between the family-filled choo-choo train and the naked people. But one freak tide and that'll soon be gone. I was going to take a souvenir photo of the nudity warning sign, but having walked a few yards towards the boundary between respectability and depravity, I unexpectedly came face to face with a pensioner's privates, and was forced to beat a hasty retreat for the sake of my sanity. It wasn't pleasant.