I always feel a distinct sense of melancholy whenever someone I've been living with moves out. is packing at the moment and will have cleared off by lunchtime; I'll miss the deeply offensive puns, the Gin Bowen, the enormous utility bills. Two plasterers arrive tomorrow morning to perform a “dry lining” procedure on the vacated room, and to remove some more of the hideous polystyrene ceiling tiles that still blight 50% of my flat. Who knows what moment of confusion prompted someone to stick them up in the first place, but whenever any tradesman sees them, they tend to suck through their teeth before saying something like “Fire hazard, those, mate. If those catch fire, you'll have burning plastic dripping on top of you.” I don't know about you, but if my ceiling were a mass of rolling, ferocious flame, I wouldn't be hanging around waiting for the hot polystyrene to start blistering my forehead before considering an escape. Still. They've got to go.

Someone who put up with the ceiling tiles for longer than any other tenant is Crayola, who came to London for a rare visit on Friday afternoon. His hair has grown alarmingly. We discussed this while sitting outside a pub in Euston in the blazing sunshine, while two braziers – which are clearly timed to switch off at the beginning of May – also blasted ferocious heat in our direction. Stripped to the waist, we also discussed the possibility of his record label, Kabukikore, sponsoring Market Harborough station in the same way that Nestlé are plastered all over the platforms at East Croydon. It didn't take long to work our way through these two points, and I left him drinking with Martin and Simon to jet off a meeting in London's glorious West End, at which it was decided that myself and Alex would be co-writing the music section of new weekly freesheet The London Line. Nota Bene that this is not, I repeat not, the bi-monthly newsletter of the London Power And Sail Squadron.

's departure has meant that I was potentially bereft of a toaster and a kettle, as I foolishly binned both of mine when he moved in. So I went to Comet yesterday in yet more blazing sunshine to buy replacements. I chose a sturdy Russell Hobbs 4-slicer. That's the toaster. You can't slice water. Many have tried. You can't stack water, either. That's why bathtubs have sides, you know.

Has anyone ever actually shopped until they dropped? Would it not be better to have a sit down to restore energy levels? Why on earth would anyone want to slump into a lifeless heap in the middle of Dixons, to enormous rounds of applause? Sky Travel Shop were yesterday attempting to flog some cut price Mediterranean cruises, and the stop over at Rome was illustrated with pictures of the Spanish Steps & Trevi Fountain, while the voice over informed us that we could shop until we drop, turn on taps until we collapse, walk along the River Tiber until we sustain crushing, fatal injuries to the ribcage. I bought 7 cruises.