Dear Diary,

Today, I almost made a salesman cry. Well, it was a joint effort; Anthony helped. And I didn't even lose my temper at him, as I was sorely considering doing. Maybe I should've, then I could cross the "almost" out of that first sentence.

Having achieved this notable feat, I decided it was clearly time to return to blogging. Much like my plans for future adventures with salesmen, I promise to try harder.

The main reason for the radio silence has been the tremendous mundanity of all possible reportage. Basically, we've been leading boring lives. Anthony works (late) and I work (in the disorganised fashion for which our office is undeservedly not famous). I go to book launches where authors say nice things about me (because otherwise I make them cry) and I write editorial reports that I always worry might make authors cry, but mostly don't (they either love me or ignore me).

We go and see movies (The Wrong Man was a damn nifty little flick; Children of Men, also damn good) and we watch television (but never actually on television - we recently downloaded and watched all of season one Veronica Mars and are now watching Edge of Darkness on DVD. It remains the oddest, edgiest British '80s eco-thriller you're not watching).

We went to Queensland and saw, in no particular order, the Gold Coast (hilarious), Nardia and Justin and their tot (brilliant) and my family (full of Broadfooty goodness).

More about that anon. Can't write any more now; there's CRICKET on, donchaknow.

Peace, love and mungbeans,
- Dee

P.S. Anthony's version of events: No, it was pretty much me. I went red and the salesman kept interrupting me and Anthony felt we were reaching some sort of emotional climax where either we were both going to go for our concealed weapons or there were going to be hugs and tears.

I could've taken him.