A quiet few days. Jenny returned from Sweden, and I was good enough to go and pick her and her mother up from Stansted airport, despite the steering column of my car behaving slightly strangely. As we cruised down the M11 past Harlow, I kept imagining losing control and slamming into the central reservation with great loss of life, but I didn’t let on, in the same way that pilots don’t tell passengers every single time they notice something odd. “We’ve got a really weird flashing red light up here, ladies and gentlemen – oh no, you’re OK, it’s stopped.”

Jenny’s first act on arriving in Tooting was to stare in horror at the TV stand I’d bought for my new telly to sit on. “Oh my god,” she said. “It looks like something an Italian porn baron would install.” Slightly unfair, I thought, as it’s pretty much the only thing that Currys were offering in my price bracket, and surely every British television stand purchaser on a tight budget can’t be classed as having the taste of an Italian porn baron? Can they? The point is, when you’ve put the hideous black/chrome electrical items on it, you can’t really see it any more. Oh, OK, it’s awful, I’ll put it up on eBay. If I can find anything better. It’s not my fault that every home media-centre unit available in the UK looks like it belongs in f*cking space, is it.

Concerned about our expanding girth, we walked to Wimbledon village. Twice. Using different routes. And helped by this astonishing discovery / purchase: an A to Z that sits on your mobile phone. Astounding. Yes, it cost 25 quid, but that’s peanuts compared to the number of bulky, irritating A to Zs that I’ve left in people’s houses over the years. Like umbrellas, there’s a constantly changing ownership of the bastards. But for me, no longer. Anyway, Wimbledon Village is hilarious – there should be a website called Overheard In Wimbledon Village, as it’s the only place I’ve heard people break in and out of French as if it was complètement naturelle, and use the word “gymkhana” with hilarious regularity. Next to the checkout in one shop, they didn’t have chewing gum or Snickers, they had Hansel & Gretel gingerbread houses. Stunning.

So, it’s New Year’s Eve, the last day of 2006. What a bizarre year it’s been. Kicked off on January 1st with Clare Balding’s incredible description of the New Year fireworks. A week later I was annoyed that I’d missed Green Gartside’s first gig in 25 years, having not been told about it. 4 days later I bumped into Green in the pub and was casually invited to join his band on keyboards, fingers unheard. I went to the most upsetting funeral I’ve ever been to. I put on my three favourite bands at a tiny gig opposite the Guardian’s offices. Failed my driving test. Passed my driving test. Swapped email addresses with Curtis Stigers while reviewing a pub for Time Out. Had my column in The Independent changed to a technological agony uncle affair, went on Radio 5 with the technology hat on and was a bit rubbish. I did three solo gigs to a smattering of people, one singing Stylistics numbers karaoke-style. I got a literary agent. I failed to write sample chapters of the prospective book (as yet). I conquered fear of flying in order to play with Scritti in Holland, Japan & the USA. I saw my dad dancing at a wedding. And yesterday, I bought fish from a fishmonger for the first, and not the last time. (Grey mullet.) I bet Sainsburys are quaking in their boots.