So like I say, I had a visit yesterday from Dave (the blogger, not the mental illness). He'd escaped from north Norfolk via the only road out of the county, and was staying for two nights in nearby Steyning, which was apparently the last place in Britain to burn a witch at the stake (I think it was sometime last week). He and I are convinced it's pronounced 'Staining', thus giving rise to numerous amusing jokes, but Lisa insists it's 'Stenning', and refuses to join in the fun. She may have lived here all her life, but I still think she's wrong.

Anyhoo, I refused to let Dave arrive before midday on the grounds that I had to take a photo of myself for The Argus (more about that tomorrow) (possibly), and I knew it would take all morning to get a decent one. Sure enough, I was still sifting through the possibles when he got here. Dave is always on time, which is a problem when you're consistently running late. I couldn't even rely on him to get lost - he's got satellite navigation and a sports car capable of doing Steyning to Brighton in two minutes.

The good thing about meeting a fellow blogger is that you can talk about all the things you'd never reveal on your blog. Unfortunately that makes it very difficult to report back on the meeting. If I mentioned everything we'd discussed on my sofa yesterday afternoon, we'd probably both be in prison by the end of the week. Suffice it to say that Dave told me what he really thinks of his readers, and I responded by telling him what I've got Lisa for her birthday. It seemed like a fair exchange. I also promised not to mention Dave's tax dodges and driving offences, and he agreed not to tell Jobcentre Plus anything. Not that there's anything to tell, obviously.

Due to the weather, I had to cancel the guided tour of Kemp Town I had planned, so I wasn't able to prove to Dave that everything really is five minutes walk from my flat, but I successfully entertained him in my living room for the afternoon (apart from the couple of hours I spent trying to crop photos of myself on the computer). Dave informed me of his plans to swim the channel, and his detailed plot to carry out international terrorism in the north sea, using nothing more than a Saga holiday and an oil tanker. I'm hoping he doesn't go through with that one.

We also discussed the important issue of what to do with our blogs when we die. Dave's planning on leaving his password to his son in his will, I'm training my cat to type "PHIL'S DEAD", but we both agreed that Lisa doesn't need to worry - she could be dead for five years before any of her readers realise she's gone.

I then gave Dave the extra special gift I'd bought especially for him. I'd already informed him that I got it from the local pound shop, but having seen the sheer quality of the item, he naturally couldn't quite believe it, and said "Did you get this from a charity shop?". I assured him that no, I really had refused to spend more than a pound on him.

As five o'clock approached, and with the realisation that I'd failed to give Dave anything to eat since he got here, we headed off to meet Lisa from work and get ourselves a meal. We ended up at the Harvester down at the marina, where they're now offering free all-you-can-eat salads with every meal. It's clearly not my kind of place at all. Dave told us about his morning at the famous Jack & Jill Windmills, and Lisa lied through her teeth and said she'd heard of them. We also got to see photos of his week in the south-west, only one of which featured burnt scones.

Back at the flat we chatted about Dave's working life and I learnt that organised religion clearly isn't as organised as you think. At least not until Dave gets in there and sorts it all out. He's like the Sir John Harvey-Jones of the church system. Lisa and I helped ourselves to tea and Coke for two hours, gave Dave nothing but a firm handshake, and finally waved him goodbye at 8:45pm. He'll know to bring a packed lunch next time.