Foer, how I love thee.

Okay, so I didn't write, I slept. In my defence, I was sick, and hallucinating my socks off.

Erica was on the living room carpet this morning (in book form) and glared at me.

Also, Jonathan Safran Foer's novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' has reached the screen. Foer is the male counterpart to my Erica (as if I haven't stated this enough). I grow misty eyed at the idea of the two ever collaborating. But I digress. My favourite book, EVER, is out here on Friday. I'm terrified it won't live up to expectations, and equally terrified it will, and I'll just sit there crying for two hours. If you spot a girl, body strung across two seats, enclosed in a tissue nest, sobbing, do say hello.

I'm a bit miffed at the idea of people discovering the book via the film. He's been my little secret for years. I've given him to friends for birthdays, eagerly accumulated his back catalogue, introduced him as an unheard-of-wonder. But now he's out there, set adrift. It's good for him, of course. But for me, it feels like theft. Have I always been this possessive? Yes. It's like cupping something brilliant in your hands. Maybe because once most things start attracting a majority crowd, they are spoilt. Not that I should imagine the situation as millions of bodies descending down on Foer, crushing him. So go see the film, but don't go see it. Or read the book, but remember that it's mine. I'm glad we have an understanding.

I'd like to tell you about life without curtains. You become an unpaid stripper. You dart behind white doors, clutching a towel to your chest. By week three, you stop caring. Let them look, and you undress facing the road. This is what they have turned me into. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am at war, albeit so far a very polite one. We can't get the landlord to set us up with curtains, but we're not allowed to modify the property, without an agreement. So, for the foreseeable future, if you want a show (male and female), park outside my flat between the hours of 6-7am, and 10-11pm.