...the turtle doves, the marquee, the gateaux, the watered silk meringues, the weeping great-aunts, and the list at John Lewis...

...but, with our Civil Partnership registration "ceremony" less than five weeks away, I find myself suddenly desirous of nicking, ooh, just one of the great heterosexual traditions. Namely the stag night.

The question is: where to go?

Nottingham's out, purely on the grounds of over-familiarity.

Birmingham's a strong contender, but there's one major snag: on the weekend in question, K will be attending a vets' conference in the same city. Now, call me old-fashioned, but one simply CANNOT stagger back from one's stag night into one's own partner's hotel room. It's sick and it's wrong.

Manchester's looking good. I can see potential there.

Blackpool's a possible, but I'm not sure how far I'm willing to stretch the "ironic" aspect of the experience.

London: too big and impersonal?

Amsterdam: too far and impractical?

What do we think?

Well, I say "in full"; this is actually the sub-edited version, which slices off the last couple of sentences.

I only wish that I could link to the following Friday's letters page, in which a couple of outraged Osmonds fans gave me a right old mauling. (That's one street in Hucknall which I'll never be able to walk down again.) K says that the experience has "blooded" me as a journalist.

Yes, I know I've been quiet. I'd have caught up at the weekends, but the recurring Man Flu keeps rendering me incapable. Every Saturday morning, I just seem to... collapse. Funny how I'm always better by Monday morning.

Four more days left in London, and then normal life resumes. It's been fun - hugely so - but after six solid weeks of socialising, I must confess to feeling somewhat conversationally burnt out.

Or maybe I've just grown tired of myself as a subject. Which would also partially explain the blog-silence. Hmm. Well, fear not; normal levels of self-obsession are sure to return before too long. It's the way I'm made.