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.