Back

I'm back at my flat and its all good. The journey down on the coach was predictably tedious; with the added bonus of carting a bag of stale washing and assorted small presents on the packed 436 from Victoria. I hate journeys home, though actually getting in is fantastic – I almost wanted to kiss the really bad swirly blue 70s carpet in the living room.

Rustled up some pasta and watched Eastenders (such tosh) followed by Tomb Raider, also tosh, but to be honest I'd take Angelina Jolie's 'bee stung' lips over Phil Mitchell's red grimacing face anyday.

I really want to get a good nights sleep. Last night Stockport felt like the North Face of the Eiger. Lay shiverring on my brother's couch until I was woken in the morning by the host of budgies chirping that the 'birdman' of Churchill Street keeps next door.

Earplugs and camomile tea tonight.