Nine whole days before I pick up the 'phone and become a conference call jockey again. Time off. On holiday. Annual leave.

Such sweet words. Jam-packed with promise and spicy with anticipation. Yes, it's the thought more than the eventual reality that makes those words so damn intoxicating, but live with the thought that's what counts.

I've a couple of days in Paris to delight in, and around those I've a number of other things to look forward: a concert, an exhibition, and more than a few leisurely cappuccinos at the local coffee shop.

A trip to the estate agents as well. That's going to happen sometime next week. It's the time of the year that I usually put myself on the books of numerous West London estate agents; get driven hither and thither from property to property; work out how I'd get to work from wherever the new place it is I've semi-convinced myself I'm about to move...and then it'll all fall flat. I'll get bored and settle for where I live now for another year, vowing of course that I will move but just not this year.

Thing is I really have to. This place is too small - think of shoeboxes glued together; the area's more and more threatening; the block is dis-spiriting to come home to. I need a change. I owe myself one for emotional health as much, if not more than anything else.

Nine days to begin the process.