Roma, ti amore. I have left at least 30% of the skin off my feet on the stones once trod by Cicero, Caesar and Anita Ekberg. She had the better deal - at least she got to cool them in a fountain.

Rome was a delight, Grim Jim's snoring was very loud, the scammers were perfectly charming as they took my cash, the accommodation was clean and perfectly acceptable for a short sojourn, the transport knocks Ken Livingstone into a jauntily cocked hat, the ice-cream only managed to seduce me once, and the Pope blessed me and the other 200,000 souls who had bothered to turn up in St. Peter's Square on Sunday morning.

I swear the sun glinted off his keys just as the papal blessing showered me, a good portent for my imminent home-ownership. I fetched a Gucci key-ring back for Jack, something to remind him of the Dolce Vita days when Mum had spare cash to throw around.

Everything comes with a price and mine was a desk groaning with about 200 files, an Inbox straining at the seams and a phone glowing red with the volume of calls it was having to deliver - I've just completed a 15-hour day and managed to get through about 75% of my backlog - if i keep going at that rate I might just have time to throw my dirty linen in the wash come the weekend.