Once again, the grain of the world was firmly against me all weekend. Buses failed to materialise, produce was irritatingly sold out and shops inexplicably shut, and empty tables in cafes mysteriously disappeared the moment I turned my back. But this time, thanks to marvellous houseguest badasstronaut, there was no chance to give up and sink into a torrent of sulk. Instead I persevered and put effort into not taking it personally and managed a rather good weekend nevertheless. Like the man says, put the effort in.

Saturday we headed off into town to do all those touristy things like photographing the Radcliffe Camera and bemoaning the lack of mammoths in the Natural History museum. Speaking of which: the upper galleries of the Pitt Rivers are currently closed! How is a person supposed to enjoy a dimly-lit wander with a mysterious stranger in the crowded lower gallery, where at any minute a small child might explode from under your feet or a museum guard appear to tell you fascinating facts about mummies' toes?

In the evening, we had fondue and then stupid games and I discovered the downside of making an effort to stay sober and on top of things; while everyone else was flaking out and going home, I was still wanting to party, and trying not to feel told off by people telling me they needed to sleep. But in my self-pitying bout of introspection and misery in the suddenly-empty house, I did the washing up, so not an altogether negative result.

Sunday was a long, long lunch, as Sundays sometimes are.

I wonder if the mammoth is out back in a store room somewhere, or whether it's passed on?

Over lunch with concourse, the weekend also got christened "my big gay weekend". Details may follow, but don't get overexcited; it's mostly to do with roman blinds and antique pins.