Diary

I can't remember the last time that I didn't roll out of bed until 3pm. It's probably not a precedent that I'd want to set, but there are certain extenuating circumstances. By which I mean that it definitely isn't my fault, oh no.

Having got off the phone with Mum at 10.15pm, I put a garlic baguette in the oven to nibble on while cooking. By the time that was ready I got side-tracked watching the end of the Psycho remake with French Housemate and Russian Housemate, neither of whom knew how the story ended. They were quite surprised. French Housemate wasn't impressed.

Then I thought I'd pop out for a little more wine, except the nearest reputable shop open at 11.15pm on a Sunday night is Sainsbury's outside Waterloo station. I put on another garlic baguette and jumped on the Tube, getting there in time to buy two single serving bottles and banter with another customer about both of use being ID'd. Then I had to wait 14 minutes for the last Eastbound train to show up.

Fortunately, Yorkshireman Housemate had taken the baguette out of the oven on my behalf, so I ate that while watching an episode of Doctor Who ("Image of the Fendahl" Part Three, fact fans). Then my other two housemates (yes, it's a six-person household) showed up, back from their Christmas break.

They are probably the two stupidest people I've ever been forced to interact with, and they make it worse by not acknowledging your presence when you walk into the room. They simply carry on, nattering away in Portuguese - her heckling him, him apologising to her - as though you weren't there. They don't like it when I take their clothes out of the washing machine, no matter that they've been in there since last night. They leave the kitchen door open when the tumble dryer's running, so the house smells like a Primark sweatshop. They drive me up the fucking wall.

The upside, however, is that he used to work somewhere in the City. He now works as an usher at the local cinema. I laughed like a jackal when I found out.

Once they'd finally gone to bed, I was able to cook my pasta, and in deference to the late hour, put half of it in the fridge for later in the week. I gobbled the rest, downed the wine, had a Mullerrice and climbed into bed at 3am.

This then was followed by a variation on a recurring dream, where I'm starting at school again. There's a television on the shelf over the sink in my imaginary room, where I'm brushing my teeth while watch Ellen DeGeneres's chat show. I wake as my phone rings. My Mum is texting me to let me know there's a programme on Radio 4 about Morecambe & Wise.

Ninety minutes later, I'm back on Oxford Street, unsure why I've ventured into town when I have nothing to do. I go to the supermarket to get some groceries. I go to HMV and look at the new releases. I go to Fopp and look for a nice T-shirt to buy. Damn, the Overlook Hotel ones only come in large. A coffee and the Guardian later and I slink home again, having started on this month's book group book.

And I don't even have the excuse of a hangover to fall back on.

By the way, if the young lady who was in front of me in the queue at Tesco Metro is reading this, please dump the boring sap you were with and drop me a line. Thanks.