Where have the weeks gone? The days. The hours. The minutes. Swallowed when my back was turned, and sitting undigested somewhere. So much to do. So little of it done. And yet I haven't stopped. This morning, a uniform crisis over brekkie. Twenty minutes lost on Hunt the Games Kit. Forty minutes later the phone goes. I'm making the beds. Where are you? A forgotten breakfast meeting! I pull on jumper and shoes and run for the car. Another two hours disappear on ideas. Sometimes ideas become realities. At the moment, they're simply cappuccino opportunities. They have to stop! Instead, it's the writing that's stopped. Just 2000 words in a fortnight. Tomorrow morning, the self-help group is meeting. We're all suffering creative meltdown. After that, off to the Beeb. To chair a discussion. Do celebrity presenters undermine content? As it happens, content is much on my mind. The annual R4 commissioning round is in progress. I've become the Philip Treacy of thinking hats. Straw, wool, feathers and flowers, you name it, I construct it. Post-it notes scrawled with random thoughts, are stuck around the house. So much so I've ordered ten new pads. From Viking Direct. Who sent customers a stonking money-off offer. But forgot to tell staff. Another hour wasted. Sorting it out. Because, where I would once have let the mistake go, I am now founder of the Whine and Cheese Clubs of Great Britain. And as such, was duty bound to follow the issue through. And complain. And get it sorted. But I will bore you with that, another time;-)