There's no place like home

I'm back in London after a weekend among sheep and friends old and new in Devon. It was delicious to leave the Big Smoke and on Friday night I felt liberated and high on other people's second-hand tobacco. On Saturday I walked a long way, swam in the pool, relished a boat trip to the pub and ate a quantity of pork belly and crackling that exceeded even my own projections. Very early on Sunday morning I awoke feeling somewhat fatty. Later on Sunday I could sense the combination of hangover, tiredness, career uncertainty and singledom forming a potent melange that threatened to disrupt the jollity of those around me, so I hopped on a train to Paddington, where I revelled in the fact that I was no longer the only person in my immediate vicinity with cellulite. I reached home at a sensible hour and settled down for an early night, only to be drawn in to watching As Good As It Gets, which I have seen before and know to be mediocre at best - quite why my exhausted mind thought it would be a good idea to watch it a second time is beyond me.

Now Monday is drawing to a close and I'm still paying for last night's movie madness. My tiredness has reached the point of delirium, helped on its way by a rare busy day at work, a trip to the gym, a two-hour choir practice and a marathon journey home on the number 10 bus due to the pesky tube strike. The start of the week is enough of an ordeal without spending the latter section of the day being compressed into the damp back of a middle-aged Spanish tourist. That said, I thank my lucky stars that I live in the city, where variety is the spice of life and no-one knows your name. And now, bed. Caution: witty final line missing due to supreme fatigue.