Up at YD's, heading for an early night as we're aiming to be up and out straight across London before the rush hour. I know, doesn't seem like me, but I'll give it a shot.

Everyone I speak to at the moment has some major crisis going on, and not just middle class, first world problems (they're expanding Waitrose and while the work's being done they keep moving stuff around so it takes an age to find the foccacia), but real existential shite. And I know that at least some of you, dear readers, are also going through it. It's not fair - there ought to be a fucking rota, so there's always at least a few around strong enough to prop a person up when she needs it. But there ain't, so on we go.

Well, I just paid the congestion charge online so I guess it's really happening. Driving through central London, please help me not lose the plot, never mind lose my way. Daughter is expressing confidence in her ability to direct me and it does look very plausible on the map and I think I am probably channeling all my anxiety into that rather than dwelling on ED and Grandson.

They've moved all the furniture around here and I've lost my bedroom - sob. YD has a wonderful eye for such things though - she's made this place feel so light and spacious and stylish. Wonderful, even if it does mean back to the fucking airbed.

I've fallen out with SIL again already. No need for details, but it's over a parking ticket I got, driving the wheelchair accessible van, which is registered in his name, so no skin off my nose if he wants to be a dick about it - he's back to his non-responsive ways and he can fuck himself.

Grateful for: an easy drive up here; the Cornish pasty stand being open on the services, man, for the first time in about a year - hot food that's not Burger King - what joy; YD going to the shop to buy me some coffee for the morning; having a YD who is hale and healthy and not a cause for concern; and a son, likewise.

Sweet dreams xxx