I am wandering around the Hovel, looking for a book.
Well, there go the good times.
The tall man in front of me blinks shyly from beneath a white side-swept fringe - or at least, as shyly as anyone can do dressed in white leggings so tight I could tell if he had varicose veins.
An email arrives from the chief executive of a magazine that went bust last year owing me £750. I might have mentioned this before. Well, it has been weighing upon me.
An email from one of the editors at the New Statesman.
At a swanky literary party - they still exist but they are few and far between - I am introduced to two charming girls who appear to be in their mid-teens.
Willpower is probably starting to ebb from that New Year's resolution to cut down on alcohol. Why? Because you're fighting your natural inclinations: intoxication is a basic human drive.
I wake up on Sunday with a hangover so bad that I feel profoundly altered inside. There have been fundamental realignments of a sinister nature. I have a sudden, vivid image of my liver.
Another year, another final pair of digits on the file marked "terror about financial matters". Not that there's anything that I can do about it, except work, and that for little more than peanuts.
A purple flyer pops through our letter box: "It's time to play," it says, which, to a sensitive ear, sounds like a catchphrase for a Hollywood serial killer.
I awake, not exactly refreshed but pleasantly woozy, after my first afternoon nap.
Well, you can't stay in London every single day of your life, you'd go mad, and so I accept an invitation to go to Perthshire with H -- . Not that
Leafing through the St Andrews Citizen the other day, I read a piece about plans to dig up a patch of wild ground - the local preservation trust described it as "an eyesore" - and make it into a "community garden".
Sometimes I wonder whether my horizons are shrinking too much.
I emerge from five days without alcohol with a glossy coat, shining eyes and a tail thumping the floor with excitement and good, rude health.
I have in my hand a piece of paper: a prescription for a five-day course of Metronidazole, a heavy-duty antibiotic recommended for the treatment of (among other ailments) gingivitis, or inflammation of the gums.
In troubled times there is nothing women love better, so the age-old story goes, than a little retail therapy.
Disasters are always studied in retrospect. We will not have an experimental science of the subject any time soon.