15:10 BST Sun 26th Mar

After a couple of weeks of burning the candle at both ends I'm finally enjoying a few days off.

I wasn't able to shake the jet lag for the first week and getting up at 3 am for work didn't help either. As a result I went to a casual singles party on the Saturday and fell asleep on a sofa halfway through. I woke with a start at 4 am, apologised and rushed off to the office. Not smooth. I carried the hangover and abiding sense of idiocy for the whole of that Sunday.

Cheltenham was cold, grey and devoid of success. I no longer bet on racing in the belief that I can really make money but rather for a little bit of fun - a quickened pulse and certain satisfaction in being right/getting lucky. This year's Festival brought home to me the realisation that I don't even get excited about winning or losing any longer. In fact the whole idea of betting just generates a faint agita in me. The way to win money is by sniping away on the margins with high turnover and low variance. It's not worth the candle in today's markets. I also no longer want to be in with the tweedy, Hooray crowd. I will keep my hat but was frustrated in my effort to sell my tweed suit [qv].

By far the highlights of that week were the Gothic Nightmares exhibition at the Tate and a performance of Hercules at the Barbican. I confess: for all the potential preteniousness and so on I just get much more satisfaction and enjoyment out of high culture than other 'leisure' activities. Roll on Ruisdael and Michelangelo.

I went to the rugby, had supper with a friend, stayed with the soon-to-be-gutted Lord and Lady Miros, worked the 3rd Test and disgraced myself at the boss's birthday party. Details not suitable for publication.

Through all this whirl I hadn't been exercising to give my knee a chance to recover. There had also been much drinking and pre-racing fried breakfast action so I have gained 5 lbs. I feel bloody dreadful - like a sack of shit again.

Finally yesterday I hauled ass off to Richmond Park and strode out cautiously on the crushed sand and grassy verge of the Tamsin Trail. After 24 minutes the aching returned and I knew I would only make things worse by continuing so I shamefully walked back cross-country.

The park was full of the Saturday morning runners and cyclists who, by dint of their sweaty action, make the lame or lazy feel unmanned. "Why have you stopped when we, the Master Race, are continuing?" is the implied accusation, and it's hard not to feel a little like someone in a Bateman cartoon. I exaggerated my limp as I got closer to their hive (the car park at Roehampton to be exact.)

So now I am trawling the web for treatments for Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome and it looks like I'll be joining a gym, working on my quad strength and swimming furiously for six weeks.

It's going to be light for an hour later this evening, I had my first cricket net this morning and summer is only a few weeks away. I'll be below 15 stone again with three weeks and at my apogee by late May. There - targets!