Oh what a difference a few days make. Last weekend I was having fun at the festival. Running around backstage, enjoying the hot sun, relaxing with friends, (hopefully doing good and helping out all and sundry) talking to the press -  even doing a brief TV interview and ultimately, partying til dawn, missing breakfast and wondering exactly why it seemed a good idea to go to  three parties  the night before. (Losing the odd  member of the entourage along the way, I ended up in a club with  just a core of six of us. Two of us left at four am leaving the others to party till dawn. Never saw them again)

This weekend is spent in the hell-hole that used to be my home. The kitchen is a shell, everything is packed away and I will be reduced to attempting haute cuisine for ten days or so with just a microwave and toaster. The kitchen equipment is in boxes spread around the house, the diningroom sideboards have been stripped of photographs and carries an assortment of cartons containing crockery and of course, stupidly, I put the booze in a large box underneath the dining table and crammed other boxes in and around it.*

So,  for the next two weeks while they knock down ceilings, build units, plaster walls, re-thread electrics, lay floors and tile worktops, I will be adrift in my own house

I can see I will be making my favourite thing for dinner for a while.

Reservations.

* But cleverly thinking ahead, I kept the corkscrew in easy reach.