I'll now make a meagre effort to try and make a lengthy and pointless logging of events that have happened over the last three days seem vaguely interesting.

On Friday evening Jenny and I celebrated her last day at her highly stressful job by going to The Library Bar at The Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner for drinks that neither of us could afford. With cocktails starting at 11 quid, it was never going to be a place that threw us out onto Park Lane at closing time, but we did stay long enough to observer a number of “glamorous” women whose skin tone averaged around the Pantone 158 mark, and a number of no doubt very wealthy young men who were dressed in that scruffy jacket'n'jeans way that only the truly trust-funded can pull off successfully. From there we schlepped up to Finsbury Park to the far less salubrious surroundings of Blackstock Road, as Jenny vaguely remembered a cracking place that sold the best humous she ever tasted. It wasn't there. All we found were a number of Turkish chaps standing out in the rain, chatting about, you know, stuff. They looked shifty, and I suspect they were just hiding the establishment in question from us.

Saturday saw a sprint across town to buy a birthday gift and some birthday meal ingredients for my dad, who arrived on the dot at 5pm with my mum and sister in tow. He found his son in a distressed state, trying to mop up rainwater that was dripping through the roof in 's room, and mopping up dishwater that was seeping out of the cupboard under the sink after a waste pipe had seen fit just to fall into two bits. In that way that only fathers can, he restored order to the sink and put a welcome end to a period of washing dishes in the bath, and then offered advice on how to cope better with living with a flat roof that has never really kept out the rain properly.

Then down to Wimbledon dog track where collectively the 5 of us won about 24 quid, against a total wager of around 70. Note to potential gamblers: stick to fruit machines. Over 4 hours, the payout is far better. At home Jenny and I decided to watch the DVD of “No Man's Land”, and she fell asleep 20 minutes from the end, just as it gets really bloody good.

In the morning I had to go to the latest in the series of Observer auditions. More on that when I've written the piece, suffice to say that when I happened to bump into at Highbury tube, he found me raging at the sheer tedium of the previous 3 hours, and incensed that at the end they had asked me for 13 quid towards the cost of the rehearsal.

Then to Walthamstow to attempt to write songs with Paul Kearney for the Sublime And Perfect Masters, who were the horses head group I wrote about 2 Observer Music Magazines ago, and seem to have actually joined. Failed to write any songs at all, but did laugh at a DVD of a band from Sheffield called Pink Grease, who I hadn't seen before.

Felt increasingly grotty during the day, now very glad to be home, although the TV in the next room is blaring out an inane conversation between Jeremy Clarkson and Simon Cowell, which threatens to make my backache even worse than it was already.

Enough.