In today's Observer magazine there's an article about extreme tiredness and debilitating weariness which looking at what's been described, really ought to be called uber-fatigue, but since I'm always just a little too late to the christening party, has already been named and classified by a South African doctor, Frank Lipman, as the condition, 'spent'.

Too tired to go on ? Legs like jelly ? Used up your sleep overdraft months ago ? Spiritually and emotionally depleted ? Feverishly insomniac ? Busted, weak, batteries drained ? You're all used up ? Then you're probably spent.

Actually, I'm not. I feel fine. Plenty of sleep. Eat well. Exercise. In transatlantic English, I feel good. Really, I do. No shell-shock stare here.

It's my flat - it's 'spent'. It's shagged, it's health is ruined, I'm convinced of it. Feeble, frail; if it was human, it'd be walking round on sticks. It just does n't seem to be able to go a day without panting for breath, or being brought down by some new viral infection.

Like today, I wander into the kitchen and it squelches underfoot like I'm treading through a peat bog. Another leak. A bigger one than the first I had in May. Bubbling linoleum. Aqueous films of damp everywhere.

Before you start, I don't neglect this place, it gets cared for, it's just 'spent'. It needs a rest, I need rest.