It appears that hauling myself out of bed and trudging across to my office for 8.45 on Sunday morning was worth it. Despite spending the whole of Saturday at a stylishly fun wedding and despite loathing the sight of my place of work on weekdays, I was sat at my desk, 6 internet windows open on my monitor, and clicking away on the refresh button by the time the more devout were adjusting their hats and tottering to church.

It took about an hour and a half, but I managed to secure a couple of Glastonbury tickets and so will be heading to Somerset once again in late June - unless some dreadful work-related turn of events turns me into even more of a hate filled automaton. No, this particular professional life isn't going well. I'm thinking of becoming a babysitter or bramblepicker.

Delightfully, the BBC included my half-baked comments (amongst others) about Glastonbury "ticket pain" in their hastily written article of yesterday.

Meanwhile, the quiet corner of Clerkenwell in to which I escape after a day's drudgery appears to have been hit by a crime wave. Drive-by shootings, riots, arson and loitering crack-dealers have turned my street into a no-go area akin to the suburbs of Baghdad.

That's not exactly true. My block of flats nestles in between new media companies, galleries and a couple of painfully self-obsessed drinking establishments. As a result the street it's on tends to be a rather quiet back road. But the other evening, while I was sitting at the table writing thank you letters for Christmas presents (a tad late), I heard a loud crashing. Looking out of the window I watched a shadowy figure scamper through the hole he had just made in a production company's glass front door. Being a trendy media company, the whole office was glass fronted, and while I called the police, I watched him trot upstairs and go for a flat screen TV and DVD player mounted on the wall. However, a few other people in the flats had heard the commotion, and the burglar's accomplice, perching on a moped in the street, looked around to see windows of morally outraged residents, phones clamped to their ears. The pair puttered off on their moped empty-handed.

It was fairly exciting but soon calm returned to the neighbourhood. Or so I thought - my flatmate reports being woken regularly by young scoundrels attempting to steal mopeds parked on the street outside. To be honest, since the daring attempted heist over the road, I haven't noticed anything amiss, but it seems that soon I'll have to dodge the flying bullets and bricks as gangs of media types crack their thick-rimmed glasses and tear their low-slung jeans in disputes over video-streaming and fully outsourced IT consulting.