Why does life have to grind to a halt the moment we see a snowflake??? There can't be much more than half an inch of snow out there in Suffolk right now, but I've just heard that Babergh District Council have cancelled my rubbish collection today. Obviously the binmen wanted to go sledging.

In the next 24 hours we get the long awaited result of the Hutton enquiry, with far reaching implications for both the government and the BBC, while Tony Blair faces a critical commons vote which has the potential to end his political career. But personally I'm more interested in whether John Lydon will beat those emus.

I'm far more excited about the imminent arrival of the new series of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here" than is probably wise if I'm to avoid being labelled sad.

I've finished my story with three hours to spare. No sweat. Piece of cake. But the words "never again" are etched on my brain...

What a way to spend a Saturday night. I'm currently taking part in the WritersWeekly.com 24-Hour Short Story Contest. Five hundred registered participants from around the world (including yours truly) were e-mailed a topic at 6pm British time, and we all have 24 hours to write an original 1100-word short story on that subject, and e-mail it back to the judges for a shot at cash prizes totalling $750.

The organisers describe it as "the ultimate source for creative stress... and tons of fun!". Well I'd agree with the former. The latter might not come until I'm awarded the $300 top prize. But still, it's currently 9 hours down and 15 to go, and I have an unfinished story totalling 950 words. I somehow have to condense half a page of remaining notes into an eloquent 150 word denouement by teatime on Sunday.

And the 'topic'? Well it's this...

"She looked behind her once again before she pushed open the largest door in the house. She only had a few seconds to search her employer's office or she risked detection. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a handwritten note sitting in the
middle of the desk..."

I think I might just go to bed...

Intriguingly, I've now had a letter from the Soho Theatre. They're a week behind the Royal Court in the race to stage my new play, so there's obviously some catching up to do, but they've pulled a masterstroke by stating that they now plan to evaluate it in two to three months, beating their previously stated target of four months, and challenging the Royal Court's promise of 12 weeks. In the Soho Theatre's favour is also the fact that Richard "I don't believe it" Wilson, and Lise Mayer (co-writer of 'The Young Ones') are on the development committee. So by this time next year I could be the co-author of a sitcom starring Victor Meldrew as a student punk.

Just as intriguing is the breaking news that not content with being on the honorary council of the Royal Court, Sir Richard Eyre is proving himself to be something of a theatrical slut by allowing himself to be named as patron of the Soho Theatre as well. Right up there alongside Bob Hoskins. Who's probably looking for work now the BT adverts have dried up.

Personally I can get through a whole tube of Pringles and a couple of Cornettos whilst watching Celebrity Fit Club. It's these new hour-long episodes. They allow you to pack so much more in.

extra ordinary thing

cheer up
it might never happen
it might never happen, well we'll see
as I sit here spitting and churning
it's clear it's happening right now to me

make it special
for a loved one, for a stranger
peace is hard to
hard to come by
extra
ordinary
thing

why not believe in something
something's got to be better than nothing
just because it's the end of the beginning
doesn't mean it's the beginning of the end

falling, fractured
broken, busted, all for nothing
sing my heart out for a stranger
extra
ordinary
thing
sing my heart out
for a stranger
extra
ordinary
thing

The phone rang this morning. I picked it up and a voice said "Am I speaking to the homeowner?". I replied "No, I rent the place". To which he said "Ok then", and put the phone down.

This is what it's come to - people are so keen to speak to me, that they'll find any old excuse to ring up. It was probably like phone sex for him. Which could explain why he left so suddenly.

I've had a letter from the Royal Court this morning, thanking me for sending them my play. I'm very priveleged - I'm sure they don't send out letters like this to everyone. Well ok, maybe they do. But even so, I feel this prompt response has put the Royal Court ahead of the Soho Theatre on points, and I may decide to give them first refusal on my play. ('Refusal' being the operative word). I'm just disappointed the letter wasn't personally signed by Joan Plowright.

Life's weird sometimes. Yesterday, my much loved cat Oscar died suddenly from a heart attack. Today, I find I've won a writing competition, and then get an e-mail from a theatre in America interested in one of my plays.

Is this a good week or a bad week?

As of this morning, my new play is off to the Royal Court and the Soho Theatre, so to celebrate I was planning a trip to the zoo to pick up women (and aardvarks). After all, Kilroy isn't on, so I have nothing to keep me at home. Devastatingly however, it's raining, and you can't stroke Somalian Fat-Tailed Sheep in a downpour. Well you can, but you'll look even more suspicious than you normally do as a 30 year old man alone at a zoo stroking sheep.

So there's nothing else for it - I'll have to hit the Ipswich charity shops.

I went to PC World this morning to buy some good quality paper, in preparation for my imminent assault on the nation's theatres. Whilst there however, I made a startling discovery: you can buy 'tattoo paper' - special paper which enables you to print your own temporary tattoos. For sad people like me, this is fantastic news. I now find myself in the astonishingly exciting position of being able to print anything I like onto my own body.

It has to be said though, this is also a bigamist's charter. Cheating husbands all over Britain can now have the name of any woman they choose tattoed onto their bicep, only to change it every time they go home.

In addition, this paper is ridiculously priced - £14.99 for just three sheets. Frankly I can't afford to go wasting fifteen quid on something as needless as this.

But obviously that didn't stop me buying some. I plan to tattoo my website address across my forehead.

Apparently two thirds of British men are overweight. This news has caused me much consternation. When I got up this morning, I was feeling good about my new year weightloss, and confident that I'll be down to my ideal size in the very near future. Now, however, I discover that the moment I hit my perfect weight, I'll officially be part of a minority, and no doubt subject to prejudice, discrimination, and hate crimes. I could be putting myself at a serious social disadvantage every time I open a pot of cottage cheese. I think I owe it to myself to eat that tube of Pringles I've had since Christmas.

I've only just heard the tragic news that Harold von Braunhut, the man who invented Sea Monkeys, died at the end of November. I'm personally devastated, obviously, because there was a time in my life when my parents were happily committing child abuse by not allowing me to have a puppy, despite much pitiful (and clearly justified) whining on my part, and Sea Monkeys were the only thing which kept me going.

But more than that, I can't help wondering if Mr von Braunhut opted for cremation over burial, because if he went for the latter, surely he'll just come back to life the first time it rains.