Rallied

Bless you, fans, for indulging my insecure moment back there. I am cheered up, flattered and if this weren't the Internet, I'd offer you a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive to say thank you.

I write today surrounded by piles of paper, diaries, stationary gone feral, files open and ephemera scattered over every surface. I like to attribute an arty significance to this, but it's only the havoc I create each and every time I need to get something done. And what has been today's achievement? I have arranged for some bloke from Croydon to clean the carpets. Just as well I don't have lives in my hands! Oh yeah, actually, I do. (I'm a nurse.)

Serge , by the way, will not be coming to live at Tooting Towers. Don't know why. The girls are still on, and have signed a contract to say so. They brought round another potential flatmate, Hans, who I don't think will bite. He was eyeing up the Ikea kitchen units in a snotty fashion.

There is still so much to do before we go. I am in deep denial.

Still on the theme of darkness and night fears: I can't go to sleep without reading until the print swims before my eyes. That's my cue to conk out, in fact. The problem is, books themselves no longer function as interesting, except as sedatives. My current nightcap of choice is Dr Spock's Baby and Child Care. I'm dying to read his chapter on "How Rock and Roll affects the Adolescent", only I can't get past the first page.