My flat - once again - looks as if it's been ransacked by a vile den of thieves.

My hallway is heaped to the gunnels with rejected (stinking) costumes and a tangle of so-called jewellery.

My living room is piled high with the domestic equipment that's been evicted from the hall cupboard to extract the toolbox.

The living room table - and the 'recycling' patch of the hall floor - are scattered with flyers, ticket stubs, scraps of Three Weeks, The Skinny, The Scotsman Review supplement, bits of the Evening News (totally failed to get the pointless tokens anywhere near their office) in a giant tangle of words and venue listings.

The chaise longue in my bedroom is heaped with garments that have been evicted from a suitcase to make way for nine sets of combat fatigues.

My bedroom floor is heaped with rejected Cleopatra dresses that I haven't put away yet.

My filofax hasn't been opened for two and a half months and is empty of engagements for the next four months.

(Not, I hasten to add, because I don't have any. Heaven forfend. But because I haven't written any of them down. So I expect an orgy of double booked apologies to follow over the next few weeks.)

I've been living in bedroom darkness for approximately the same period of time as the lightbulb blew and I did nothing about changing it.

And I've just eaten half an easter egg. That sat innocent and pure as Octavia atop my stereo system in the absence of any me in the flat to enjoy it.

On the plus side, that same suitcase full of (as yet unwashed) uniforms, stuffed with additional discarded garments, just provided me with boost enough to stand atop the bed and change the bedroom lightbulb.

(Far too lazy to start moving the bed and dragging the ladder through of course.)

So it's not all bad.