You may be wondering, considering my last few posts, whether it was my neighbourhood, a double-decker bus, bubonic smog, Margaret Thatcher or my extremely intense new job that killed me – because clearly that's the only way I'd ever take so long to update.
But you should know me better. It was the partying.
Look! There I am in my backyard with great intentions to write. It's not my fault the lawn was so irresistibly horizontal after a night out with some quality, new friends in London. That's not really juice, by the way. It's the hair of an extremely vicious orange dog.