Am positively giddy with the success of having a (particularly pithy, I thought) letter published in the Weekend Guardian. Jeanette Winterson will probably now think very hard before dissing any more Northern seaside towns, I’m sure…Actually, in response to her deciding Scarborough is not for her without even visiting it, I have invited her to come and see for herself. I imagine it’s not the most enticing offer she’s had all week. However, everyone needs a change from the London high life occasionally, if only to be able to regale others over canapés at Shoreditch House with tales of bleak landscapes, lives unfulfilled and recipes involving lard.

Am awaiting a response.

Elsewhere, Jake has taken to the sofa after announcing he’s having the worst day of his life, despite the fact it’s actually been quite nice. The melodramatic streak must be from Rowan’s side. Arlo has put most things, rubbish or not, in the bin. He is showing signs of being a compulsive tidy-er. Sadly, not from my side either…

Rowan is cooking dinner and I know for a fact we are both thinking about the bottle of wine that’s singing its siren’s song from the worktop, despite the fact “we only drink on Friday and Saturday night”…Hmmm…Cheers!