The only bad thing about two weeks having fun thousands of miles from home is the post-holiday blues that always set in at the end.

I mention this not because I expect anyone to feel sorry for me now I'm no longer taking it easy in the Georgia sunshine, but by way of explaining my lack of anecdotes. When returning from a trip to be faced with the same old same old, I'm always afflicted by a severe and hollow melancholy.

The fact is that some of my favourite people live on the other side of the Atlantic, rather than at the other end of a short bus ride, and after two weeks of easy access and constant exposure, I miss them. Why, as I'm sure Jen said just before I left, can't everyone live in the same place?

(Although I'm told that the entire population of the world could fit on the humble Isle of Wight, all six billion of us, the practical answer is that even if we chose somewhere with a little more space it would all be a bit cramped. But it's the thought that counts.)

So I've not felt in the least bit effusive and buried my melancholy in sessions of Sports Night, seemingly the only thing capable of lifting last week's gloom.

Well, that and autumn cleaning.

Yes, the flat is cleaner than at any other point in the last 12 months. It would not be unfair to say that during the 12 months of Joe's residence some aspects of domestic hygiene suffered, and I'm as much to blame as my erstwhile flatmate. For two hard-working young guys with beer to drink and TV to watch, housework doesn't hold much allure.

Awful, I know, but let him who is without filth cast the first sponge.

But the prospect of new co-habitees prompted me to give the whole place a thorough seeing-to including corners that, to the best of my knowledge and deepest of shame, have never seen even a hint of a duster.

Having swept the cobwebs away from both bedroom and brain, I'm now ready to resume abnormal service.

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