What doesn't kill you...

... no, not the lack of sleep this time (more of that later). I've just had a bit of treacle tart that has been hiding in the oven, in its tin tray. Mmm, that and the remnants of the custard (which was properly stored in the fridge) were fine fayre. Went down a treat. I think the tart was a couple of days past its sell-by date and had been heated up once already. But it looked so good in its sugary glory. And, it has to be said, it tasted great. So far, my insides feel OK.

Oops. My stomach has just started to rumble.

Anyway, as far as the sleep thing goes, I managed more than six hours (possibly not unbroken but not too drastic seeing as I can't recall). Of course, this meant I woke up feeling jet-lagged, but there you go. Did some yoga – this time with the help of a book – and have vowed to have a session every morning as it woke me up and moved me from post-flight from New York to post-Eurostar from Paris in the jet-lag stakes. My heart still does this thing where I can feel it beating. Obviously, I know it beats, this wondrous organ – and I am hugely grateful and glad that it does – but I wish I wasn't so aware of it at times.

Oh, Celebrity Big Brother is still rumbling on while Jade Goody tries to rescue her career with a trip to India. Apparently the "highest authorities" at the Indian Embassy are deciding whether to let the gobby one through its portals. I know what I'd say.

It's crispy, gaspy cold again (which is a good sign for winter, isn't it?) and I have four layers – plus the central heating – on. Wish I could click my heels and find myself back on this mountainside Caribbean beach...