Hi there, people of Rubonia. I'm sorry I haven't written in a while, but you know how it is, with things piling up on the desk of life, as the secretary of life bitches you out for not calling your mother and forgetting little Timmy's birthday, and why don't you get off your ass of life and call some customers instead of sitting around in your underwear, downloading porn and listening to Nine Inch Nails and Devo mash-ups with that stupid vacant grin on your gob. Well, you know what, secretary of life? Clean out your desk, you're fired, I'm sick of lookin' at ya.

So, now it's just me, here in the palatial new YouBitch offices, wondering what my next move is going to be. There is that certain tingly excitement you feel in your gut at such times. There's opportunity behind every loss, surely, you have the chance to take it, all of it, as much as your greedy, ambitious little hands can grab. There's nothing holding you back. But there's also nothing pushing you forward, at least, nothing from outside. You're on your own, little Rube; you can flap your arms all you want to in space, but it won't move you an inch; that shit don't work in a vacuum. Up there, you can fly faster by breaking wind than spreading your wings. It's why rockets will get you to the moon, but airplanes won't. It's the ugly side of Zen.

before moving to Europe.

Two words: Dog Tax.

We got our first real dusting of the year last night. The cold grey coffin-lid of winter has officially closed down on Europe, and it looks like we'll be getting plenty of snow this year. And I'm working at home now, tap-tapping away at the keyboard, sleeping at my desk, looking balefully at the phone when it rings, and the rest of the time at the depressing, watery light outside. It makes me wish I had a son to chase around the hedgemaze with an axe.

Oh, and the white trucks are back.