2003-01-06 - 12:20 a.m.

Hopefully I�m moving house in a few weeks. I haven�t told my housemates yet, not because I�m some kind of household deity whose sudden absence will see the fragile domesticity come crashing down like so many unwashed soup bowls, but because as soon as you do tell them, you have to go through several weeks of being in close proximity to people who know that you�d honestly rather be living somewhere else.

Moving will be great though � the change of scenery (after seven years here), the new people, the not living at an address known to the hardened criminal that I helped send down for five years about, er, four years ago. Yeah, that. I�m starting to get a little twitchy, like he�s going to come round and pop a cap in my ass, or even worse enslave me to do his criminal bidding as some kind of Kaiser Sauz� puppet master. Still, at least my parents would finally be satisfied that my life was taking on some structure and direction. �But mum, I�m heading up a drugs smuggling operation between London and Bogota using unwilling patsies as mules.� �Head of operations! At last you�re in management, you see?�

In my imagination, though, I turn the situation to my advantage and become a police informant so that I�m creaming off the green from both sides of the fence (I need to brush up on the lingo, natch). I�d give each side just enough to have them keep me on the payroll, and move into a lavishly sleazy apartment filled with high class molls and nice houseplants.

Stick �em punks, it�s the fern lovin� criminal.