I feel sorry for my poor wife. She was in a perfectly cheery mood today. Then I talked to her, and the canker of my depression spread. I seem to work on some weird-ass three-month circadian rhythm, and right now I'm right in the trough. Too much work, unpleasantness and bank charges – yes, yes, I didn't see the letter, Mr Bank Manager, mea culpa – make Jack a dull boy. And me very blue indeed. The problem with any sort of depression – passing or clinical – as I understand it, is that you lose all sense of proportion. Everything gets telescoped into a pinprick of vicious bile. Apologies for inflicting my weaknesses on the wider world via the wonder of the Internet, but since I can't afford real therapy, this will have to do. Ah well, nothing for it but to get my head down, stuff my wanton face with chocolate cake and rock myself to sleep, I guess. Thank Christ for my wife. In other news, we went on a (frankly a bit shit) tour of the Thames Tunnel today. Here's a frankly a bit shit picture of said hole in the ground. Nighty night.