Well, I'll be alone anyway. He'll be with the studio audience and his fellow comedians, poking fun at Lorraine Kelly or Pat Sharpe.

Oh Simon. Come live with me, and be my love. I'll seperate your curls each morning. Iron your shirt collars till you could slice a crusty loaf with them. Buff your tongue with vinegar and Jiff Lemon, ready for a day of making acerbic comments and Z-listers cry. I'll only try and shag you the once. OK, maybe I won't learn from that, and get you drunk and try it again. But it'll be love in it's purest form Simon, and that's what counts.

Anyway, we moved yesterday, and that's all I have to say about that. Except that you could fit our old flat into the new one quite happily, and still have room to swing several cats, or even a baby elephant. Sister hasn't moved in yet, she's busy getting Wales out of her system. Joyriding, stealing bales of hay, that sort of thing.

There'll be none of that when she gets here. Oh no. It'll be gallery openings and private parties, and snorting coke off the backs of pure white cats and such like. Unless he gets me first.