Saturday mornings are hopefully for not feeling hungover or beaten-up or assassinated. You see, it's Friday as I write these words, and I've just been invited out for drinks in the park with one Graham Smith, former RPS EIC and nowadays, co-founder of disgraceful champagne socialist operation Jank.cool, an indie joint the rabble-rousers among you are already calling "RPS when it was good". What's the matter, aren't we feeding you enough Deals posts?

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I thought I would make it all the way through winter without getting ill. We're practically touching March. Yet, despite being within spitting distance of the clocks changing and bright evenings returning, I have the lurgy. This weekend, I will practice the art of the double duvet sausage roll.

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Saturdays are for putting your hand in a bucket of ice, swallowing a mouthful of honey and lemon, and breathing a sigh of relief. All that practice you put into your welcome handshake and 'Here comes trouble!' paid off. Almost every member of the treehouse has been successfully greeted home.

All bar one. But I'll get him. I'll get him good.

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Saturdays are for eagerly sitting beside the front door to the Treehouse ready to jump up and greet writers as they return home. Sure, most of the team aren't due back until Monday, but this way I can get really good at saying 'Here comes trouble' in just the right intonation. 'Here comes trouble.' No, that's not it. 'Here comes trouble.' Better, but it still needs work.

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After forgetting to change my alarm for the weekend, my Saturday has started far too early. I clearly don't respond well to surprise free time, as I spent the morning writing my will. Disappointingly, Co-op don't let you set challenges and riddles for bequestees. This oversight has dashed the mental image of my brother and sister duelling over my gaming PC, armed with those Gladiators-style padded polearms that look like oversized cotton wool buds.

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