As I sit here typing this the view from the window is a depressing one. Britain in November is a very unpleasant shade of grey. It's 3.45 and we are already shrouded in a gloomy half light. I cannot stand this time of year. Everything is made more dismal, the news always seems to be more morose, or is that me being more morose ?

There is light, a long weekend starting tomorrow, J's second birthday. If he's two, that makes me uuuuuuummmm, nearly 37.Cosmic. After working stupidly hard this week I am going to struggle not to be zombified at the weekend, a plan will be hatched and kept to . I know we have a party planned for tomorrow, although A has organised it, and I have no idea who will be there, I assume assorted rugrats will be smearing chocolate cake over our soft furnishings, and the cats will vanish for the day. Swimming on Saturday, and settle down late afternoon to watch Wales (hopefully) give those poncy All Blacks a rugby lesson. Football with C on Sunday. FOOTBALL. I ask you. He's not old enough for rugby, so football it is. I've even been roped in as a 'parent/helper'. I realise I am no expert on the roundball game, but for my own vanity, call me a coach. Gumpher you're a coach, boom boom.

Shame Colin Powell's going. The only sane one in that bunch of retards. Replaced with Condi Rice. Jeez.