This morning, as I say, Paul left. He texted me and Andy to say byeeeeee, so I rushed downstairs, half-expecting to determine that he had left a few minutes ago, but fortunately he was still there. Paul is not living with me next year. I like Paul; it's going to be strange not living with him next year. Even stranger, Andy won't be here. Naturally he left too, albeit rather later. The But he'll visit, so I guess that's okay. cleaners had said we were to be out by ten. They wandered round treating us like children and generally getting in our way. Next year is going to bewilder me. Then there was only Gavin and I. I said goodbye to Gavin and left him in Exeter, to move to his new place for the summer.

The drive home was okay, 'cept for one thing - Mere. I hate Mere. It is a twee little village that sits off the A303 at the midpoint (dinner-time) of my journey home by car and that has phantom services. This is the second time the curse of Mere has caused me discomfort. It lures you away from the A303 with promises of food and rest to a T-junction which has no directions for such a thing. Then you head for Mere, as is logical, drive through the middle of it thinking "This is a fairly pretty but utterly boring village which bears no resemblance to what I actually wanted." and miss the absurd turning back to the A303, drive up some relatively steep narrow roads, the U-turn and curse the day of your birth. I hate Mere.

Now I am back, and my room is filled with stuff. I think I shall read The Silver Chair. I suppose I didn't get around to mentioning that I finished Prince Caspian and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.