As regular readers will have no doubt surmised, I've not had much work lately, apart from an offer from P&O to support Jimmy Cricket on a Baltic cruise. And now that our monocular visioned, Prime-Minister-in-waiting's pals at the Bank of England have pumped up interest rates again, well, something's got to give.
So what shall it be? Sell the pied-a-terre in Chelsea and settle here in Ramsgate? Or flog the cliff top mansion and trundle off back to the village? It was this dilemma that was fevering the old Eastcliff brow as I tottered home from knocking back a couple of pints of the Gaddfather's finest at my favourite watering hole last night. Then a sign appeared.
They say that all life is in London, but I beg to differ. After all, where else, in the space of little more than 24 hours, and in the same street, can you witness a drugs raid, an open-air display of male micturation, and two chaps inflating rubber mattresses in the middle of the road at midnight?
Nope, there's no two ways about it - it's Ramsgate for me!