Rooney and his pals failed to wop Israel's asses in the World (or is it Euro?) Cup qualifier last night, not that I care. But it did result, as anticipated, in the first communication from My Certain Someone since our New Year's Eve resolution. Exchanging some flip nationalistic football insults set me off pining for some real exchange with him.

Hello anyone who might be reading this. Sorry I haven't had a moment to get the diary entries from August to December up here.

Not sure what exactly changed - perhaps panic that we haven't even found our final character yet - but we're heading out to Jordan, despite the ongoing war. Lizzie's a few aisles away being tortured by a screaming baby. I have the headphones and laptop. Sure is good being the boss. Some pretty profound life and death stuff has been going on post Crude-Camp-with-Mark. Like when someone is diagnosed with terminal illness and gets six months to live - or if they survive a near-death experience - they often say their whole perspective changes.

Real tears are dripping onto my laptop typing this, as Emma Thompson has just found out that it's all been a big misunderstanding and Hugh Grant isn't married after all. This is extremely worrying and not just because of my history of electrical equipment and water.