Today is my birthday. Which, whatever. In one year I’ll be thirty! “Goody.” Moving on.

And in about three weeks, I’ll be moving to a lovely little village outside Cambridge, into a beautiful Victorian cottage WITH A NAME. You know you’ve really made it in life when you live in a house with a name. The reasoning behind my…let’s see…eighth move in three years (AAAAAUUUGHH!) is thus: SiC is taking over the family business (hard and soft landscaping, health and safety consultation, motorway maintenance, and environmental solutions, since you asked…Oi! Stay awake over there!) and in his new capacity could live pretty much anywhere he liked. We both decided we’re a bit knackered out by London. I love London; I love the variety and the excitement and the fact that I can buy anything I desire, from a toaster oven to Class A drugs, within five minutes of my doorstep; I love the fact that I can get on the Tube and be pretty much anywhere I need to be in under an hour; I love having a big gang of friends available for drinks at any hour of the day or night…well, mostly I just love the fact that I live in fucking LONDON, dude. But then there’s the noise. And the pollution. And the crowds. And the expense. And the probably irreparable damage to my liver. I think I need to lead a bit of a quiet life for a while. Of course, TB and Chicken will be living just a quick jaunt across the fields, so we’ll still be able to summon up some pretty respectable debauchery in a pinch. It’ll all be very Withnail and I, except without the crazy camp uncle. And the poacher. And possibly the bull.