You cannot imagine how much I don't want to be here. Back to the same smelly streets, plodding the same too-well-trodden routes to the same old bus stops, wading through the same old crap in the shops.

We're back from an excellent holiday. We spend three hours a day messing about in the campsite swimming pool, visited an excellent restaurant where we ate fish that had been caught that morning and travelled all of two hundred yards instead of being quick-frozen and transported 180 miles, and we got sunburn. On the beach. In September. In Yorkshire. That's how good our holiday was.

And we come back and the first thing we have to do is mop dried dogshit out of our devastated libing room carpet because no-one wanted to look after our dogs while we took the holiday we were forced into taking.

We come back to a cesspit. Do our friends, our family really think we live this way? Do they seriously think we're happy to let animals crap and piss over every part of our house? Do they think we'd allow animals to set up home in the entrance hall when we've got to walk through there with a week's worth of luggage?

I'm fucking steaming angry. The house stinks and isn't fit for habitation. We've already been on rightmove.co.uk for places to rent anywhere but here.

Yeah, welcome home us.