Six Days To Armageddon And Counting...

L's bit concerned that I wasn't able to tick my box last night and offers a quickie. It's very welcome, although we are a bit pushed for time and she bemoans the fact that we have to skip the Violetta (ask Ian McEwan). There’s always tonight. I'll tick her box if she ticks mine. She can provide the Violetta; I’ll supply the Horlicks.

Take the car today and I risk the A52. The journey was a breeze. Don’t you just love road works.

We have been invited to a wedding in a few weeks and we've been asked to nominate two songs for the DJ to play. This has caused some major debate. I've been tempted to put some old punk favourites but also think we should be more modern than that. We'd already thought about Bloc Party's Banquet and I suggest Sunshine Underground's Commercial Breakdown.

L asks rather than something to bop to, how about a track for us to have a smooch to?

Ah now there are so many romantic moments from our past that have records associated with them. There's Radiohead's High and Dry, the DJ played it at the first gig I took L to, it was Catatonia at Loughborough University, and we slow danced to it before the band came on.

Talking of Catatonia, there's their debut album Way Beyond Blue, which was the soundtrack to the most romantic blowjob I've ever had in my kitchen, possibly the finest every administered. Track 8, This Boy Can’t Swim, was the pivotal moment.

Or there's anything from REM's Monster, which serenaded a particularly affectionate encounter in the shower.

L's old injury is playing up again. Fantastic timing. It's only six days to Armageddon and counting. So she's having a day off training today. She worried she'll look a bit of a berk with an ice pack or a hot water bottle strapped to her leg when she's on her bike. Must admit I’ve never seen anyone do that before but who’s to say it won’t catch on.

When I get home I have to do a double take as I say hello to Daughter, who's sitting in front of the TV, because it isn't Daughter who's sat there. Far too much hair. It's Son. Oh no, the internet must be down. Daughter must be in her room, sulking, apparently her muffins were a disaster, all L's fault of course.

Turns out that the internet isn't down, it's worse than that, his computer is totally dead. Go upstairs with Son and it appears that the power supply unit on his PC has died. We try and fit an old unit from another PC but it doesn't fit. Cyberspace free night for him, how will he cope?

Go off to dog class. Not good. Every time I say left doggo goes right and every time I say right doggo goes left. I'm sure he's doing it on purpose.

Get home and L has an early night. I come to bed at midnight with my Horlicks. Seems that even at this post-watershed hour L is up for some box ticking. Luckily the Horlicks doesn't seem to make me sleepy, in fact it seems to give me a much needed energy boost.