Back down to Birmingham again. I just estimated that in the last year, I spent 17 whole days driving on motorways and trunk roads. Which makes it all the more worrying when you see accidents, and I saw the aftermath of two during this journey. The first was on the opposite side of the motorway - as I drove past I could see a pale looking guy in a van being strapped into a neckbrace. The second was on the A42 - a totally burnt-out car, requiring three fire engines, an ambulance, and three cop cars. I wonder how long my luck is going to hold out?

I got to the hotel safely, though. It was full of beautiful people dressed in Dolce & Gabanna, those who thought they were beautiful, and yuppie business types carrying laptops into the restaurant. Oh, and me, in my dusty Wranglers and unironed shirt. I couldn't be bothered going into the city for a curry, so ate in the hotel, where I devoured the biggest fish I have ever seen.

Emma had written, so I made use of the free time in the evening and wrote back. She spent most of her letter bitching about work, which was quite cool as that was exactly what I felt like doing. S'funny, I know very few people who actually enjoy what they do. If disillusionment has set in after one year, how are we going to make it through the next 40?