October 26 11am: Im bored and stressed.

The builder whom I am supposed to be doing a deal with on ToS and its third of an acre of building plot is venomously demolishing the pub next door with a couple of dribbling Neanderthals. Hes sulking with me and has been for four days, because I swore at him. A builder with finer feelings? I dont know why hes so upset though he might have guessed that, at this late stage, dropping his offer to buy me out by 100,000 wouldnt exactly endear him to me. A and I were thoroughly expecting to be on the road by Christmas. But Im sticking out for half a million and thats that. Ive decided to go it alone. Ive decided to become a property developer. But days like today make me despondent. And despondency can take many forms excessive sleeping for instance, drunkenness (which is not necessarily a negative thing), aggression, sulking - and yes, I have to admit it, tears. Ive been reduced to tears of frustration at least ten times in the past 18 months while Ive been fighting to sort everything to do with my home. M the building permission - the builder! My psychiatrist doesnt even seem to understand me any more. Like she says, I have everything going for me, a woman who loves me, an attainable dream and a valuable asset - and a psychiatrist. And Im still pissed off. Do you know, the only person who understands me is A. And on days like this, I drive her mad too. So, its better that shes out working. Shes a jeweller and is a diamond as big as her heart. You see, what gets me down is waiting. Hanging around, waiting for something to happen. The waiting game. And today I am waiting for so many people to facilitate A and I finally arriving in the future! (My therapist and I believe this inability to wait stems from my previous life as a deputy Night Editor and chief sub on daily newspapers. Years and years of deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. Three and four a night I had and I never missed one. Prided myself on it. She says it gave me a tacit control over my life, which I needed after the systematic abuse I suffered at the hands of my father God, why are we so hard-pushed to get somebody to return our phone calls?

Witness: Im waiting for a call from G the builder so he can say hes sorry, Im waiting for a call from at least one of the architects Ive contacted. Im also waiting for a call from the building society to confirm they will remove Ms name from the mortgage deeds now that Ive paid her off. I wait. Hohum. I listen to my fingernails tapping like syncopated woodpeckers on the melamine of the 1960s breakfast table in the kitchen. (Now that should be worth thirty quid to anybody with a bit of retro romance. Stick it on e-Bay). I tend to spend a lot of time alone, you know. Sometimes I can go for 12 hours without speaking to another soul. The lot of the long-distance writer, I suppose. Hohum 1.30pm: Eureka! Somebody phoned! And it wasnt some poxy South Venezuelan call centre trying to sell me essence of Vanilla Viagra or a double-glazed Dog Kennel. No it was my Book Man, H. (H is actually the exceptionally gay son of our local hard-man, D. H and D are a real disappointment to each other). H has opened his own cyber bookshop linked to Abebooks.co.uk and he is desperate for stock. Thats fine by me as I have almost 4,000 books to get rid of. If I average only 2 a book after Ive paid H his 30pc and Abebooks their 5pc, thats another 8,000 towards our adventure. You see, everything comes down to money at the moment. Money really is the cost of living the true price of life. And we need to raise a fortune. And the sale of ToS is the key to that. 2.04am God, I wish I could sleep. Three joints and a bottle-and-a-half of red wine havent worked their usual alchemy. The rain is hissing outside the window like some drunken old tramp taking a piss. Fortyfour tons of supplies for Waitrose thunder through the village on sixteen gigantic wheels. The top floor of ToS trembles like a dying dogs back. Tonight is about as comforting as a witchs tit.