I've just been presented with an unexpected opportunity to spend a lot of time writing over the next 48 hours. While playing a swift game of five-a-side at DB's Aidan House Charity Footballathon I experienced a shooting pain in my left calf. The crowd of sportsmen around me, most of who have played the last ten minutes of 1st XV games with arms hanging off and severe cranial trauma, extended the kind of humour and sympathy I've come expect, viz., "what's up with you, you big girl? Can't you hop?"

So I took myself off to Darlo Memorial for a check up. I can recommend A&E departments to writers wishing to learn about the human condition: all of life is there, as well as death, and quite a few of the intermediate stages. I got to see the doc pretty swiftly, because the crowd of scorched chavs who injured themselves in last night's firework parties were being left hanging around - "to suffer, the silly bastards".

Anyway, it's a torn calf. Nothing serious, but a day's malingering tomorrow and taking it steady for a week or two. The lovely Mrs Hilton is in a state of advanced fury because she has to do all the dog walking for a while, and says she's going to "talk to" Dave. Poor Dave.

Time, then, for a good few hours of character invention.