Dom Joly: I will start the book. First thing tomorrow morning

I read somewhere that exercise sharpens the mind so off we go, Huxley, Oscar and I

It's the weird thing about writing. I spend most of my time trying to do anything but write. I've got to start my book, so logic dictates that I just sit down and start writing. Oh no, no, sir. First I've got to make a "writing room". Because it's a proper book and not just columns, in my mind I need a special place to withdraw from the world.

So I spend a couple of days wasting time setting up my special room above the gatehouse. I haul desks up there, set up a stereo system, get the internet plugged in. Don't forget a little light, a telephone. Maybe I need some new stationery?

All this is eventually done and I get up very early (9ish) on the day that I have decided to start my opus. I'd better make some coffee first, as it's very early and my brain needs to be kick-started. Twenty minutes later and I have my coffee and have skim-read The Indie. I'm ready, but the dogs are looking at me in a pleading way. I decide to take them for a quick walk, as they will only hassle me all day and besides, I read somewhere that a little exercise sharpens the mind. Off we go, Huxley, Oscar and I.

We are followed by the newest addition to our family, Dr Pepper, our kitten who thinks he's a puppy. No matter how hard I try to dissuade him, he trots along with us, so I eventually give in and have to put up with the disapproving stares of fellow walkers who think that I'm trying to be cool by walking my cat. An hour later, we all get back home. I'm carrying Dr Pepper, as he got quite tired chasing sticks. I put the wet dogs in the back garden, the kitten in his bed and I am ready.

It's 11.30 and I climb the stairs to the old section where my writing room is. Halfway up I spot my Xbox and decide to have a quick game of "Call of Duty 4". I need to clear my mind before I start. I get into a heated discussion with some northern chav who insists on calling everyone playing "niggers". I spend a good three-quarters of an hour calling him out on this to no avail as he is an ignorant moron.

This stresses me out and it's nearly lunchtime, so I decide to make an early lunch and then really get stuck in afterwards on a full stomach. I make myself a particularly fine falafel wrap, so fine that I have another one.

I feel a bit ill as I've eaten too much and decide to lie down in front of the telly while I digest the wrap. The Test match is on and England are winning for once. I watch the Test match for two hours. It's now 3.30 and I have to pick the kids up from school. I mingle with the other parents who are always a bit suspicious of me. One asks me what I've been up to all day? "I'm writing my new book," I reply.

With both kids in the car I drive back home and am forced to cook them something straight away. By the time they've eaten and disappeared into the garden it's nearing six o'clock. I head upstairs to my writing room. I sit in front of my computer. I am ready – but first I must answer my emails. Do I want to appear in a reality show about celebrity weight loss? No. Do I want to do an interview with a cat-owner magazine about Dr Pepper? No.

I feel depressed about the inanity of my email inbox. I need a drink – maybe a nice bottle of Château Musar, and then start writing first thing tomorrow morning? Yes, that's what I'll do. It'll be great, I promise...