If, as has pointed out to me by some, there is no chance of wrestling young Amstell's DNA from him in the traditional manner, then I shall simply get him mortal drunk and toss him off into a yoghurt pot, cleverly concealed about my person.

I'm never going to give up smoking, because it allows me these little moments of contemplation, which ultimately lead to words of wisdom (see above).

Yes so, Olly's moving out tomorrow, because we need some 'space'. And Cath's going home to Wales because she keeps bursting into tears every fifteen minutes, and that doesn't make for a sparkling social life (unless you want to hang out in a psychiatric unit, or a maternity ward).

And there is no chance of becoming crazee cat lady during all this spare time I'm suddenly going to have because the landlord regularly gets in a state of despair over the carpet, and we all know that a kitty is no friend of furniture (or indeed, a pleasant, odour-free home).

What to do?

Maybe I should get myself down to Hobbycraft. That seems like a suitable venue for the lonely, the desperate and the twitchy of finger.

Or audition for the next Dove advert? They want 'real women'. I'll show 'em real, it's hairy of leg, snarly of tooth and doesn't give two shits about moisturising it's underarms.