So once again the Benmobile rumbles on. Yesterday Notting Hill, today Harlesden.

With the return of Thomas and clan from their month Down Under, and not being overly keen on the idea of sleeping in their living room for anything up to three months, I'll be looking after my colleague Charles's flat until my biscuit comes through.

What to make of Harlesden then? Well, it's not the most chic part of London I've ever lived in - indeed last night's cabbie was keen to tell me about the regular stabbings and shootings he thought went on there.

But I'm more inclined to take the word of Charles and his girlfriend Kate, who say Harlesden doesn't deserve the reputation it's developed.

It does have a reputation, to be sure. But since a nasty spate of gang violence four years ago which left 11 people dead, the neighbourhood's been very quiet. Sure, it's ethnically vibrant - the neighbours speak Portuguese rather than English - but there's no point skulking in Waspish surroundings the whole time. One can't always hide from other people's lives.

My first experience of Harlesden came in the form of an old black woman getting off the same bus as me. Cackling heartily she engaged me in a mostly one-way conversation. Anywhere which still produces people with that much spirit can't be all bad.

The flat itself is charming, it's close to work, my first night's sleep there was very deep, the shower works, and it's got a fully functioning TV. It's got no big black cat to keep me warm at night, but then you can't have everything.

I think things are going to be okay.