Murder.

Last night was spent in the very fine company of my fiancee, her uncle (Lord Hogg), a fine an upstanding American, his companion (a Nun who had joined him on several Safaris) and a French maid. And a jolly good time would have been had by all, except for one rather pertinent factor.

Lord Hogg's butler was murdered.

We were rather fortunate I suppose, as the most eminent of private detectives, Shylock McClue, was also present. We discussed and debated this, the most shocking of crimes, over a rather luvverly slapup Chinese takeaway.

Throughout the course of the evening it transpired that I had not only some fairly serious gambling debts, but had also been doing a bit of pocket picking as well. The Nun was not what she seemed either, as she had been, um, faking it all along (much to the American's surprise) and the French maid had been having an affair with the deceased (prior to his death, of course). The most shocking of all was the revelation that Lord Hogg had a an absolute hatred for all of his servants, and had so far topped four of them over the years.

Needless to say, it was my dear fiancee who shot the poor butler (at my behest) although it was the goodly non-nun that put him out of his misery. The American had forged a suicide note hoping to claim his insubstantial worldly belongings. The French maid had attempted to kill her former lover with arsenic, while her uncle had attempted to knock him off his lifely pedestal using Rasputin's Revenge - usually a most potent poison, but in the right situation can also act as a rather effective antidote to arsenic.

Shortly after, Shylock escorted us all to Scotland Yard where we were undoubtedly locked up by a careless guard who immediately threw away the key.

And it's all true.

Fool.

Some years ago I had a problem. To me, this was quite a serious problem, but really in the grand scheme of things it was trivial issue, and most definately not life threatening. It involved public spaces, other people, and the consumption of foodstuffs.

More often than not, and with people I didn't know, or knew very well, there was nothing to worry about. I could eat as much as I felt I needed to with no problem whatsoever. But in uncontrollable or new situations I felt pangs of anxiety. In short, I usually had to run to the loo to be sick, and after which I could continue quite happily.

Obviously things could not continue along the same channel, and I set out to purchase a self help book. I came across Dale Carnegie's How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. I recommend it to anyone - I really do. It's sensible, straight forward and doesn't offer any quick fixes.

And it worked. Today I am mostly anxiety free. Of course, I still have the odd pangs, but nowere near as bad as I used to.

But at the same time as buying this book, I also bought How to win friends and influence people by the same author. You've all heard of it. You've all derided it as well.

Buy it. It's great.

But admission time - I've ignored most of the advice, and largely to my peril. Over recent days I've noticed myself being far too self reverential, not caring for others interests beyond the impact that they might have upon my own. Of course, this is human nature - we are all interested in ourselves. Perhaps that's why we each get drawn back to writing these blogs.

How do I counter this failing? I don't know - even as I commit the offence, I know that I'm doing it. I don't leave messages on blogs that I've enjoyed. I don't ask with genuine interest how the colleagues previous evening went. I don't care.

I try to compensate by doing random acts of kindness occasionally, but I guess I don't really make the pot of tea as often as I could. I don't smile as often as I could. I don't laugh as often as I could at others' jokes (even when they're shite).

So as I embark on my next trip to Norwich, and unable to blog for a short while, I take this opportunity to consider my lot in life. I'm not as unlucky as I sometimes think I am. I am not as poor, not as ill, not as stupid. But even though I can feel pretty good about myself, how do those around me feel?

His name is Robert Paulsen.

The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

As you will all no doubt now be aware (if you hadn't been advised beforehand) the previous blog was fiction. I'm not called Ed, my partner hasn't left, and I'm most certainly not about to finish myself off. However, to those of you who left those heartfelt messages when I had so maliciously deceived my loyal readers, bless you.

Just to quickly cover a few of the more important questions raised:-

If it wasn't fiction the author would now be dead (or would possibly have just taken the last of a particularly effective headache cure).

The loo scene is set mid-wipe.

Parts of the story are true, I'll let you figure out what.

"She" did have a name. It was Carla.

And that just about covers that, I think. Now go out and make somebody happy.