THE MUSEUM OF SOMEONE ELSE'S LIFE

Well whaddya know? I'm in another room with a ticking clock.

I'm not on holiday this time; I'm house-sitting for my friends while they're away. It gives me another opportunity to be reflective (lonely) and do a lot of writing (eating biscuits). Actually, it is quite useful - the Intrepids are busy planning their trip to Ireland and they don't want me making flippant comments about the Guinness factory. Plus, next week, my sister is coming to stay with us - it'll be nice for them to have a week of calm before the storm. Sometimes it's good to be away, not just for your own benefit.

It's an odd existence, living in someone else's house. I found myself very quickly adapting, making use of the space and turning it into something familiar. It's quiet. The life that makes this house a home is not here, though its hallmarks are: the trampoline, the open TV guide, the rack of sprawling shoes and trainers, the pile of DVDs and children's books, the drawings lovingly pinned to the fridge... and the quietly ticking clock. I am very much a stranger in a kind of Museum of Someone Else's Life. It's easy to get philosophical in the quiet gallery of a strange house, but I do wonder whether I feel like that more often than not.

I spread out a tea towel on the dining table and set up my laptop.

I wish I had a house.

I had to go to the music shop this morning for guitar strings. I always try to find a piano to play when I'm there too. There was a beautiful Yamaha baby grand, perched by the shop window. I pulled the velvet stool towards me and sat down, running my finger along the lid. Then I gently angled it open, revealing the pristine white and black keys, their polished edges just catching the sun. It's always an exciting moment. I formed a kind of A flat major seventh chord with my fingers and played, pressing the golden sustain pedal with my right foot. Beautiful. Thirteen thousand pounds worth of piano sang through the shop.

I wish I had a house.

... and £12,999.99