With a bolder and more cynical perspective on things, I've put my hand back in the biscuit barrel, and have pulled out what may well be a Christmas cracker. If this one comes off, it will have at least one very interesting story to tell. More as it happens...

So I was wrong. Huntley got two life sentences for murdering Holly and Jessica.

Still not sure it will stand up against an appeal, though. The prosecution failed to prove he murdered the two girls. Just because he admitted being responsible for their deaths, and everyone (including me) knows it was deliberate on Huntley's part, that doesn't make it a watertight case. And that, in my mind, makes the conviction legally unsafe, however just it undoubtedly is.

It's been a horrible and deeply emotional case for a great many people, whether directly involved or just following and experiencing it through the media - this episode, as with each of the (thankfully few) cases of child murder that seem to occur annually, seems to have touched a nerve commonly felt throuighout the country.

I'm sure the town of Soham just wants to get on with life now, but I don't think we've heard the last of Holly and Jessica...

Saddam arrested. And I'm at work. I love breaking news!!!

Some time later...
Oh, the wonder of a fast-moving story. Who could have thought the discovery of an Arabic pensioner could give me such an adrenaline rush?

Saddam's capture saw the office move from a dull, sleepy Sunday morning into full tilt on half staffing at a moment's notice - and, say it though I do, we kicked ass.

For all the days that are full of trials, interminable territorial disputes and reheated government initiatives, it's the times when something really happens that make this job worth doing. Being able to handle a story of global magnitude without losing one's cool is a real test of journalistic mettle - tracking the developments, reporting them accurately, coherently and speedily, and juggling live events while keeping the story up to date.

It's relatively rarely that we get the opportunity to follow such a big story from initial rumour, through healthy reports, to indisputable fact in the space of a couple of hours: the death of Princess Margaret was one such event I've been involved in; the 2001 General Election night; the start of the attacks on Afghanistan; and of course September 11 another, much larger occasion. Although all tragic on their own scale, professionally speaking they give a much bigger buzz than 100 appeal court rulings put together.

Of course, on the more sober side of things, this probably means another four years of Dubya. Although it's definitely a good thing to have trapped such a bad man, up until the former Iraqi president's capture I really thought Dean, Clark or whoever could be in with a chance, but now George has the Mother of All USPs, he's got the White House pretty much locked down. And there's no way Hillary will go up against him now either.

Mark tells me not to be so pessimistic, that securing Saddam can only lead to a more secure and stable Iraq. While he's right and admirable to be positive, I'm not so sure I agree. I think this will allow the US to get out without clearing up properly. And I'm not one of those people who only started hating Bush when he went to war - I've plenty more issues with the man.

(Mark and I also disagree on the Soham trial. I can see Huntley getting convicted of manslaughter, possibly only one count at that, because despite Huntley's admission that he was responsible for their deaths, the prosecution gave no solid evidence he killed those girls. In short, they didn't prove anything and there's still reasonable doubt. Mark, on the other hand, thinks Huntley's bang to rights under Section 2 of the 1957 Homicide Act - namely withholding medical assistance from someone in need. But Mark and I regularly disagree on the news - it's part of the fun of working there generally, and being friends with that man specifically.)

All said, this journalism thing ain't such a bad gig. I could make a career of it.

Thoughts I should really articulate
Jane and Thomas' cat really does nothing but eat - preferably my food. Never before have I encountered a cat with the balls to come and steal food out of your hand or off your plate. He just sidles up and takes it. And then goes and craps in the shower. Lovely. Remind me why I want my own cat...

Gordon Brown is a desperately dull man. An intelligent, seemingly shrewd, honest and principled man, but desperately boring all the same. Or maybe it's just his subject matter. Listening to the pre-Budget report yesterday I found myself wishing for a nailgun I could use to ram spears of metal into my skull, just to give me the sensation of being live. I have no head for economics, but surely they can't be meant to be interesting? Gordon's drone was seemingly infinite, leaving me to wonder whether I'd ever want to see him as prime minister. I think he'd swing the country a little back to the left - a Good Thing - but would he be able to inspire people? But I suppose we voted for a smooth-talking, charismatic media whore last time, and look where that got us.

Mark Byford will be my next boss. The Director General of the BBC, Greg Dyke, appointed him Deputy DG yesterday. Byford's a pedigree Beeb man, and Greg's probably just biding his time until his spiritual home at ITV reaches the promised land of a single, unified company after Carlton and Granada merge. By this time next year, I'm saying Roland will be back on the currently sinking ship. He's done good work for us, especially after the hell of the Birt years, but keeping ITV afloat will require a whole different bag of tricks.

Amateur Girlfriends Go Proskirt Agents by Xploding Plastics is a great album. Listen to it. Mad props to Robin for telling me to do the same.

That is all.

Before leaving for Australia, Thomas's girlfriend Jane pointed out the Christmas decorations, just in case I wanted to put them up. I have to say that although the thought was appreciated, she was wasting her breath.

It's not that I'm anti-Christmas - far from it. Despite it being for reasons completely separated from the festival's origins, Christmas is still a very important occasion for the whole family. Even Dad, who actually objects to it on both religious and consumerist grounds, still tends to go to a candle-lit church service (the only one of us who does) on Christmas morning and spend time, thought and money on gifts. My father's a man of fascinating contradictions.

No, the reason Jane needn't have told me is that if one's going to be the only person in a house, what's the point in decorating for Christmas? Two people or more, fine. But how much more joyful can tinsel and paper-chains make it if you're making the run-in to the holiday on your own? The big black cat I'm currently sharing with certainly isn't going to feel less festive for the lack of a tree. Indeed while the actual act of decking the halls with loved ones is great fun, flying solo only serves to remind you there's nobody there to help.

So at the risk of sounding like Ebenezer Scrooge, the decorations will be staying in their boxes until they have someone who can really appreciate them. I'll be seeking my yuletide cheer elsewhere.

Oh, how I've ached today.

Despite fighting my hoarder's nature in getting rid of more than 100 videos (either chucked or donated), two large bin liners full of unwanted clothes and farming out a box of books (lent and crossed), the amount of stuff I've acquired in my 31 years still alarms me. And all of it needed moving. In big, heavy boxes.

Although the actual process of moving out of Elgin Avenue was relatively painless, thanks to the sterling effort provided by Thomsk and Robin, the aftermath has been somewhat less pleasant. Bits of me I didn't know could hurt are reminding me of their existence.

Still, the day gave me two funny little moments to hang on to.

The first came just after Bobs had arrived with the van, and we were preparing to load. As if officially saying goodbye, my cherished King's Troop trotted by for their daily exercise with their cannon.

I'm no military man, but the regular encounter with this regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery has been one of my favourite things about living in W9 - beautiful beasts every one, they always made me run to the window when I heard the characteristic sound of scores of hooves on tarmac and the rattle of gun carriages. It's the kind of thing that really gives a place special memories and something that I'll definitely miss.

But on this occasion, something happened that I'd never previously witnessed: from the front of the convoy a bugle sounded and the whole lot stopped outside my front door. As the 40 or so horses and their riders held up the traffic on this significant thoroughfare, one animal was brought to the back of the line. Whether it was lame or had shed a shoe, I don't know, but the soldiers duly led it into the huge horse transport that always accompanies the procession, and brought out a substitute mount. Then with another blast on the bugle, the train set off again. A very special moment indeed.

Then some time later, while driving the van down the Uxbridge Road to the storage facility, something altogether more bizarre occurred. We'd been flipping through radio stations trying to find something good, and had landed on something playing music from 1984. One track ended, and then with no drivel from the DJ, 99 Red Balloons started playing.

(Anyone old enough to remember the original appearance of Nena's only significant hit will also probably share my memories of living with the bomb. There was a time, principally under Reagan and Thatcher, when nuclear war seemed a very real possibility. This song always reminds me of that fear, and makes me feel relieved that, even though those evil weapons still exist in their thousands, the threat of imminent annihilation is less obvious now. Even with the war on terror, would today's kids really comprehend what we had to live through?)

Anyway, the track gets going and Thomas and I suddenly realise where we are. Neither of us had heard the song for years before a few weeks ago. Funny thing is, where we were on that occasion was less than 50 yards from where we were this time. Weird.

So now I'm at Thomsk's flat at least until the New Year, bracing myself for another assault on the housing market. Although not that disappointed about losing the particular property, I do feel quite scarred by the debacle, and a little wary of the process.

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, I know, but I need a little time out before I can really find my next home.

And one thing's for sure - I can't do that aching.

So this it how it ends.

For the past 1008 days this flat has been my home. No longer.

Goodbye Harrow brick road. Farewell Westbourne Park. Maida Vale studios - keep on rockin'. So long Pinky's. Adieu Le Cochonnet. Seeya Grand Union. And even though it's just around the corner, I never did get to visit the Institute of Psychoanalysis.

And to everyone else who's made these three years in West 9 so memorable - ta.

I thought I knew where I was leaving you for, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

So I'm cast out onto the street, forced to move from spare bed to spare bed until I can once more find somewhere to call my own.

Until then, when I'm reunited with all my stuff (due to begin a sentence of unknown duration in HMP Self-Storage), this will have to be my home.

Don't touch that dial.

It looks like I've lost my biscuit. Some bastard came and stole it from under my nose.

It all revolves around honour and a loft.

I'd found this nice, two bed flat (there, I can say it!) in Finsbury Park (north London). It didn't scream at me, but it would be a good place to live. Good space, nice area, nice street, near good friends, good pubs and good restaurants. Crappy decor, but that's by the by. Nothing a lick of paint, a pair of curtains or a blind and a stripped floor can't fix. So I decide to make an offer.

The person selling is a guy called Rob, doctor by trade. He and his wife are asking 185k. I offer 180k. They say fine they'll take that, but for 185k (their asking price) I can get it with an extended leasehold and the large loft added to the property, on which Dr Rob is spending five grand. I says hmm.

They say they have another guy interested without the loft at 182k, coming at them through a different estate agency, but would still prefer the whole loft deal. I says fine, 185 with the loft.

This is all through my estate agent, remember. Rob and I never speak. It's all "Rob says this" and "Ben says that".

They say great we're good to go, give me 10 days to get my affairs in order, and the estate agents draw up the papers and inform our solicitors.

Fast forward a few days while I get details of my mortgage finalised and let Nightshift Ben loose on the world.

Then yesterday morning, the agent (guy called Milo, very chirpy) comes back to me saying the other guy has upped his offer to 183 without loft and lease, and Rob prefers that, for some reason. What do I want to do?

So I hums and haws a little, then go back and say, okay 184 without the loft and lease.

So I'm still a grand over this other guy.

Estate agent comes back to me in the afternoon and says no go. Says Rob's Japanese wife (who up until this point has played no part in the dialogue) has actually met this other prospective purchaser and liked him, says she feels honour bound to sell to him.

Seems like she doesn't have too much of this honour stuff to spare, though. She hasn't met me. so apparently doesn't care about keeping to the deal I've agreed with her husband.

Rob tells Milo he's totally under the thumb on this issue and doesn't have a say. The only way he'll be able to sell to me if is he gets divorced.

So while I'm offering more money than the other guy, and good to go right this minute cos I've done all my mortgage negotiation, I don't get a look in. All that effort from myself, my folks and Milo for nothing.

Milo fuming. Mum and Dad fuming. Me tired. Probably would fume and spit and snarl had I the energy, but don't. Feel unusually upbeat instead, in the mood for cheesy pop - the likes of S Club, Steps and Britney, plus a bit of Gomez and Bill Withers - and New York Super Fudge Chunk. Strange how I react to bad news.

We've gone back to them with their full asking price of 185, to see whether the wife's deep sense of honour can be bought for another grand, but it looks like it's back to square one.

Scuppered by London property's answer to Yoko Ono.

Tomorrow night, for the last time this year, we're letting Nightshift Ben out of his box for the weekend. We don't yet know when he'll next be out to play, so make the most of him while you can.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating. :)

Had a real panic today. Looking 25 years down the road, and all the money that one pays back to the people lending a mortgage really made me wonder whether buying was a good idea. The interest, my goodness! An interest only mortgage allows you to pay them quarter of a million, and then still owe them what you borrowed at the end of 25 years. The bastards bleed you dry!

My parents seemed to think that purchase was still a good idea, though, and talked me down.

But I tell you, folks, we're all in the wrong game. We should be in property. And not just buying and selling either. Nope, the real money's obviously made in enabling people to buy or sell. Just to be able to buy this biscuit, sorry, flat, I'll have to lay out somewhere in the region of £3,500. And that's before I spend anything on the flat itself.

This game isn't for the faint-hearted. Hell. This isn't a game.

If I seem a little out of sorts over the next few weeks, please don't worry. I've just had an offer accepted on a biscuit.

It's a good biscuit, in an area of the tin that I'm comfortable with, friends owning and borrowing biscuits nearby while still providing easy access to the rest of the cupboard.

When weighing up whether to try and buy it, I was given differing advice by people. Some said I should go for a good, solid cookie, one I knew could fill a hole and please me over the course of time. Others thought I should hold out for the full jammy chocolatey honeycomb hobnob caramel wafer once-in-a-lifetime biccie.

But on reflection, the former seems a better bet. One could scour the shelves of patisseries for ever without finding the baked goodie to beat all others, especially when, as I've said before, I don't know what kind I want.

Despite the fact that it didn't knock my socks off, this biscuit was the best I saw and will, I think, do well for me over the next few years. I'll have some work to do on it as well - nothing much, only cosmetic, a sprinkling of sugar here, the addition of a few nuts there. Much better than not being able to justify making my mark on an already perfect biscuit.

Of course, it could still all go pear-shaped, someone could try dunking it in their tea and let it fall to pieces, and I may have to go in search of another. Not for nothing is biscuit purchase considered one of the most stressful events of one's life.

There are still things I want to write about Bush and Iraq, the glory of England's rugby world champions and the cheese of Project X, and while I'll try and keep things ticking over here as well and normally as possible, if - and I mean if - abnormally large gaps appear or I don't pay as much attention to the news as usual, then I suggest you just blame it on the biscuit.

Apologies for the silence. There is much I want to say, not least about George's Day Out in London. However, I'm currently in South Wales, embroiled in a covert operation known only as Project X.

In time I will be able to reveal all, but for now I can disclose nothing save this: cheese is involved.

Later, Angels.

I'm rapidly reaching the conclusion that trying to buy a flat is bad for the soul. I agree this may sound melodramatic, but after seeing five properties this morning, I've had something of an epiphany.

I've never made any secret of my religious atheism, although I manage to keep my militant streak subdued unless faced with mass outpourings of faith.

However, the evangelism that surrounds the drive to keep the housing market afloat is making me feel more threatened than any of the major world faiths have managed in a good while.

The Cult of Property wants to claim me for its own. At every turn I find myself confronted by the holy agents of realty, estate acolytes, coaxing me away from eternal damnation as a lessee, and towards the promised land, offering me bricks and mortar in place of milk and honey.

And even those fortunate enough not to be officers of the church tell me how elated I'll feel once I have converted. Though the road may seem hard to the novice, for the enlightened the journey holds much excitement, the ultimate reward being the greatest prize I could ever hope to win.

All of them repeat the mantra that despite vile lies about the evils of recession gathering strength, now is the time to join, that salvation is near, that house prices are pushing upwards, ever upwards, towards nirvana. Do I want to be left behind on Completion Day?

But, much like with the theological promise of paradise, I have to make that leap of faith to discover the truth.

None of us knows whether our religion has been right in its teachings until we die - by which time its too late, an equation highlighted by the fact even Monsieur Pascal couldn't resist a little flutter. Equally how can one know whether a flat is right until one's lived in it?

Of course I understand the fiscal reasons for investing in land - I just can't stand everyone telling me that flat-hunting is fun. It's not. It's gruelling, confusing and depressing. There is no fun.

I'm still waiting for my Damascene conversion. The light has yet to shine.

Questions are usually the nightshift's detail, but he won't mind if I answer this one (being the boss, and all) from Jim:

With all due respect, Ben, I'm about to slit my wrists from boredom here. Isn't there a politician or something you can mock? Or a situation to wryly comment upon that involves some American's over-the-top zeal for patriotism? For god's sake, you're discussing the intricacies of the ISBN.

It's your journal, do with it what you will, but I'm DYING here.

Well Jim, while you're not enjoying the great ISBN debate, it's a new future we're trying to forge, so we'll continue.

And what with the 80-hour week I'm working, plus the whole flat-hunting rigmarole, blog time has been a little scant of late.

Having said that, cataloguing and classification aren't everybody's cups of tea, so your point is well taken.

Oh, and look who's just about to fly into town. Surely there's something I can find to write about that. :)

In my three years at library school, they never taught me what Samantha did today about the ISBN, or International Standard Book Number you find on the back or dust cover of most books.

Spot, if you will, the difference:
Little Green Men, paperback, published by Allison & Busby, available in the UK: ISBN 074900505X
Little Green Men, paperback, published by Random House Inc, available in the USA: ISBN 0060955570

Tell me, which part of international standard do people have trouble with?

* * *

I have a friend, in her early twenties, whose mother was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. My friend is understandably distraught but very strong. She gives the impression that her mother is much the same. Yet despite her mother's deadly condition, my friend still smokes quite heavily.

What can you do?

I've just been drawn into the Bookcrossing phenomenon. Perfect for a former librarian, you'd have thought.

But while it seems to be a great scheme, I'm participating in spite of myself. There's something not quite right about giving away books. Depleting one's collection rather than increasing. It all feels distinctly unnatural.

I've always been a hoarder by nature, unwilling to let things go, allowing them to grow around me, and carrying everything from home to home as I move through life. Consequently I have thrown away precisely one book - a freebie handed to me on the street by a Hare Krishna evangelist. And I agonised over that for days before finally lobbing it binwards.

It wasn't just chance that led me to library school. I have an innate respect for and love of the medium of the book. Old ones turn me on. One of the biggest buzzes I had during my time at University was being on the second floor balcony of the old British Library, being able to touch 14th century tomes.

So getting rid of books... creepy.

But every library needs refreshing or culling from time to time, and with a move in the offing, Bookcrossing allows me to move surplus stock or find room for new volumes with a clear conscience.

However, despite my collection being anything but high literature or learned, there are certain things staying put. No one's having my Hiaasens, neither my Bankses nor Brysons, and Douglas Adams is strictly off limits, as is Nick Hornby. And although I moved on from Pratchett some years ago, to lose touch with those parts of Discworld I know would feel like an abandonment of one of few things from my teens that I actually enjoyed. Then there's the reference books, the early Rankins, and the odd Coupland.

So all that's off limits. Not forgetting, of course, the stuff I can't remember or can't find. As for my treasured Noel Sainsbury, Jr - forget it.

But the rest - it'll have to make way for other, better, newer, older books.

So where do I start?

It's been a very depressing day. Not the real "thousands dead, world in peril, split up with girlfriend, lost my job, lost a limb" kind of depressing, but a complete downer all the same. My sports teams all ganged up for one great big suck.

My betrothed, Newcastle United travelled to take on the superstars of Chelski, and came away on the wrong end of a 5-0 scoreline. I was expecting them to lose, so that was no great shock, and in going down by a couple of goals to players of the class of Crespo and Duff, one leaves with one's dignity intact. Not today were we afforded that honour. The bastards took our pride along with all the points.

And then my first love, my teen crush, the Miami Dolphins managed to score 7 against the Tennessee Titans. Unfortunately, the home team notched up 31. The Fins, like the Magpies, were served a can of whupp-ass by their hosts and stank the whole place out.

Evidently I'm drawn to losers.

Newcastle United have not won a major trophy in my life. In fact I'd have to be approaching my 50th birthday to claim anything different, when the FA Cup went back to St James's Park. And for the league title one has to return to the days of photography in black and white to see champions in black and white, all the way back in 1927.

The Dolphins, on the other hand, do allow me a little association with their glory days, having gone undefeated all season in winning the Superbowl in 1972, the year of my birth, and then taking home the Lombardi Trophy as NFL champions once again the following year. Since then, pretty much nada.

The Dolphins quarterback, their leader, in those glory days was a guy called Bob Griese. Now his son Brian is doing that very same job. Brian is not his father. Brian gave the ball away five times this afternoon. (For those of you not versed in the ways of American Football, that is considered Very Bad Indeed). Brian will be leading us nowhere soon.

But it's not like it stops there.

In recent times, I've seen the Canucks lose at hockey, started taking an interest in rugby union only to see England play some of their worst games in recent years, and on my final day in the States, the three teams I rooted for over the stretch of eight hours (baseball's Braves, football's Falcons and the USA's women footballers) all decided that it wasn't the winning but the taking part that counted. And only the Falcons could claim they were playing a team recognised as being better than themselves.

In fact, the only team I've paid to see win in the last 10 years is the University of Washington Huskies.

I blame my father. He never took the least bit of interest in sporting endeavours, and so I was left to find my own affiliations. I should have been easy pickings for the medal-laden glory boys, but instead of making hay, the boys I chose were making weight. And because of Dad's athletic apathy I can't even blame my choice having been made on some misguided sense of loyalty to the family cause.

One can see why so many people flock to Manchester United. The thrill of being a winner must be something special.

I guess I'm just going to have to wait.

But you victors out there, savour your feast while you can, because one day you'll need the memory of its sweetness to disguise the bitter taste of defeat.

So there!

Is it our turn soon?

I'm in the middle of getting pissed with colleagues, but just wanted to show you that occasionally they let me out of the box for a little fun. Hate the voice, but the script and pictures stand up, which is all that really matters to me.

In the words of Swedish poodle rockers Europe, it's the final countdown.

One month from today, the flat that has been my home since March 1st 2001, some 979 days ago, will no longer serve that purpose. Long, possibly boring, financially embarrassing (though for someone else rather than me) story, so I'll spare you the details.

In the short term I'll be staying at Thomas's while he's down under for Christmas. In the long term, however, it means I'm looking for somewhere to live. And this time it's serious.

We're talking purchase.

And so begins an inestimable period of vulnerability and uncertainty, before there comes a life-changing decision that only I can make. Oh joy.

Anyone who knows me well will recognise that these are probably my least favourite states of mind to be in. In my personal circumstances much more than my professional life, uncertainty makes me tense. I feel safe in familiar surroundings. I have trouble even adapting to change in the living room. Do I want a throw over that sofa? I've never had one before. The place will look different - I'm not sure I can cope.

Though my rented accommodation of the past two years and nine months isn't the world's greatest flat - nor even the neighbourhood's - if I could stay here forever I would, if only because it would mean never having to adapt to unfamiliar surroundings ever again. The known is secure. The unknown is wild and random and threatening.

And anyone who's seen me try to order lunch will know how deftly easy decision-making avoids me. So spending the best part of £200,000 on a flat? Me? How am I supposed to trust my judgement on which one is right to pursue if I can't even commit to chicken mayo over tuna melt? Woah, as they say, Nellie.

There are currently two places in the running. A very nice, affordable one near friends which, given the correct and considered use of space, I would probably be very happy in. And a gorgeous, light-filled, slightly bigger, almost certainly unaffordable one, with a cute kitchen and one of the very best bedrooms in the world, which I think I'd love to live in, even if the bathroom is slightly eccentric.

I am, then, facing a very taxing time. I'm not looking forward to this responsibility. It may affect my mood or thinking. So if I come across a little odd in the next few weeks - well, discernibly moreso than usual - you'll know what's on my mind.

First things first (in case I don't survive my encounter with a xenomorph later this evening): Happy Birthday Dunc. Use this last year of your twenties wisely - you won't have time for wisdom once you hit Th, cos it just gets better from hereon in. May sexy hitchhiking angels fly you to the arms of the woman you love.