Last night a thespian party. "I love actors, don't you?" trilled my friend. To whom I was an adjunct for the evening. "I'm not sure," I mumbled. "I sort of think they're lazy buggers." What I didn't add was, "A bit like writers." The house had a name, rather than a number. I noted the postcode and wondered where such grandeur might be hidden. In the street of small terraced cottages, we came unstuck. Ah! Theatrical irony. The house was really number two. Inside, bedlam. More people than space. The tiny front room was spliff heaven. In the kitchen, the drinks area was blocked by bodies. I shoved my contributions under a table. "This is like being 16 again." My mate had champagne. We went into the garden, drank it and left. I was home by eleven. Earlier I'd driven to Huntingdon. To pick up some chairs I bought off eBay. From Sexyladyantiques... On a windblown estate of box-like houses, I knocked at number 23. Much activity behind the glass door. I spotted two small children, two cats, and a dog. Finally, Sexylady opened up. Physically and aurally, she was the Cambridgeshire foil to Jimmy Cliterhoe. "Excuse the mess," she said, "We're moving." The tiny front room was like the killing fields. I had to step over toys, clothes, junk and bodies. Behind, a much larger room was stripped bare and filled with old furniture. The business:-o I collected my wares hastily, and left. "We're moving to a mobile home," she told me. "While we self-build a farmhouse." There were many responses that came to mind. But I stuck to "Good luck."