So, moved into new pad mere metres away from the frothing Atlantic. The breakfast bar looks out over the ocean and the humped fields with a panoramic view all the way around to the church in Marhamchurch. Jack and I were munching on cereal one morning, he reading his National Trust magazine and I the Private Eye, when he informed me of the 85% urban demographic who require time in the country to de-stress. Jack looked at me and I at he and then, like a scene from the closing credits of a wonderfully cheesey film, we both turned to survey our view. I then commented that we should probably spend 15% more of our time in the city otherwise we might have a stress deficiency. We chuckled smugly to ourselves.

If this is not enough then check out the pad. Through the front door into the spacious living room with four sofas which opens into the kitchen with the aga pumping out heat. Through the kitchen door into a corridor which you can cross to reach the first bathroom. In this wooden-paneled den of cleanliness you will find a toilet, sink, bidet (which I have always considered to be the height of good sense when dealing with ring-piece sanitation) jacuzzi and sauna. Yes, that is correct. J and S motherfucka! Anyway, having enjoyed all of those wonderful facets of bathroom life, exit the room and turn right and through another door. Left now leads you to the shower-room whereas right leads you to the garage. Wait, no, where the garage used to be. Alas, there is no room for any of our cars in there as the space is taken up by a POOL TABLE! Yes, motherfuckas, that is correct. We have pool on tap! After that the four double bedrooms, large garden and location in which we cannot make too much noise come as mere peripheral extras.

The location, other than being so close to the sea and in a secluded part of Bude, has the additional advantage of being in walking distance of the Manor, Bude's premier banging night-out. The three of us, Will, Jack and myself, ventured forth there last Saturday with a gaggle of friends to have a party. Party we did, indeed. Everybody got heinously wasted, mostly on alcohol but Cris, the tatooist, also had a spliff with the lead singer of Reef, who I am informed used to play at the Manor many moons ago, before stardom beckoned. At two when we were cajoled to leave, we all hopped in the back of a big white van, the driver of which shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty and sped back to our place where the party continued until sometime around dawn. The house proved to be ideal as a party place. It bodes well for the rest of the winter when the evenings are long, dark and shudderingly cold. Actually, to be honest, the only slight downer about the place is that it gets very cold at night. There is no central heating and the electric heaters in every room consume the electricity at a rate of knots that none of us wishes to afford. Accordingly, blankets are the order of the day, or preferably, like Saturday night, a hot young lady to immerse yourself in. Also, I bought my first pair of slippers for 16 years and I am mostly wearing a Russian army flappy-hat.

Just before I leave for Plymouth I must give a shout-out to my brother Simon. BOOOYAAAKKAAA!! Thanks for the imported lizard. It is the right one and I am chuffed to bits with it. Thank you very much, man. I love you. (p.s. sorry to hear that bogey issue is, as yet, unresolved!!)