I arrived back at my parents' house at about 2.45pm, to discover that in the year since I was last here they've had a conservatory built. Yes, a conservatory. They didn't tell me, because they wanted it to be a surprise. “Oh dear,” I said. “How much did it cost?” My ambivalence quickly turned to joy when I realised I could sit in there and be out of earshot of the strains of people plunging to their certain deaths on Holby City or Casualty or whatever it's called now.

It's a pretty good conservatory, as conservatories go. Apparently it has been on the cards since my mother said “I'd quite like a conservatory” and my father got out some graph paper and started to Make Some Plans. It has under-floor heating, a minuscule Christmas tree, and an adjoining toilet. From the age of 8 until 18, I always had to go upstairs to go to the toilet. My parents have now provided me with this facility, albeit 26 years too late. I hope they're ashamed of themselves. Excuse me, now, while I go to the toilet.

Hi.

After failing to win the lottery at 8pm, I went for a walk into Dunstable. I've not seen dense fog like the dense fog I've just seen since the last dense fog I saw in Dunstable. A real pea-souper, with added bacon bits. I walked past the old Lancot School playing fields that have since been obliterated to make room for a swanky housing estate, while the youth of Totternhoe Road quadruple in size in front of their PlayStations. I gazed up Dunstable Downs and remenisced about The Windsock, a ludicrously shaped pub, demolished in the early 80s that sat at the foot of the Downs with a red and white windsock on the roof. I never went in, but I'd have liked to. I walked up West Street into town, marvelling at all the businesses that, by rights, should have failed years ago but still manage to scrape by, or maybe thrive, I dunno, I've not seen their end of year accounts. The Pheasant pub, serving free curry on Friday nights. R.E. Lay building contractors. Cordova Old People's Home. Linden House nursery school, where I slowly and deliberately knocked over a tray of orange squash on my first full afternoon away from my mother. West Street Wools, still providing for the knitting fraternity of South East Beds. The Yum Yum Cafe, still serving up food as mundane as it always has. The Dunstable Model Shop, still apparently trying to sell the same model boat as it was trying to sell in 1986. Then round the corner into High Street North. F L Moore's, where I ordered obscure indie 12″s, has shut down, while a bridal shop upstairs still does brisk trade. People are more interested in wedding presents than The Wedding Present, these days. The Jem Kebab House continues to sit there, empty, with an elephants leg of spiced lamb slowly revolving in the moonlight. Poetic stuff, huh. After 30 minutes of brisk walking, I turned around and walked briskly back the way I came.