Well, not quite demented yet, I hope - no comments, please - but certainly distracted by a new addition to the family. Elvis. He's a Labradoodle, 18 weeks old as I type, and absolutely fabulous. But he is time-consuming; the eighth Marty and Weedgie novel is progressing very slowly as a result, and my brain has ceased to function after nine o' clock at night.

He has come through the biting/chewing stage, but still feels compelled to redesign the garden on a daily basis. Alan Titchmarsh, he ain't. And his tea-towel fetish shows no sign of abating. After all these years of happy clutter, I have been forced to adopt the minimalist look until he loses interest in soft furnishings. But it's a price worth paying; I find myself gazing at him regularly, wondering at how impossibly cute he is, and feeling ridiculously thankful that he's mine. I think I'm in love.

Looking at him, I notice he bears more than a passing resemblance to Weedgie facially, although he's a different colour and, thankfully, hasn't sworn at me yet. I didn't choose him for this reason, it just seemes to have happened. Perhaps he could guest in a future book...? Leave it with me.