I'm up early, aware that today is going to be a long, but hopefully enjoyable day. Over breakfast I watch a big rain cloud out at sea, its dark mass falling like a gauze curtain on the horizon. As I walk back to the villa the wind whips around me and worries start to raise their head over the feasibility of doing a major photoshoot in this weather.

Friday; for once a day of rest. We're meant to be shooting the cover feature and doing the interview today, but the magazine's schedule has changed and all that is to come tomorrow, so today is effectively a day off.

The phone rings. "Please sir, is it all right to be sending the gardener? He wants to trim your bush. Can he do it now or should he come later?" It's not often that I'm awoken with a call like that but I swear that's what was said. Somewhat disconcerted I agree to the unexpected topiary and groggily grab my mobile to check the time. Bloody hell, it's 10am!! I've slept for 12 hours straight.

At 3.50am my alarm goes off. A very quick shower wakes me sufficiently to make it downstairs and check out. Corinne is down on time too and we get into the waiting car to take us to the airport. Wordlessly, we both close our eyes and moments later we've travelled the 25 miles to the airport.

5pm on the button I get down to the lobby and just a few minutes later Corinne emerges from the lift. She introduces me to Wynnie, who works for the Grammy Foundation; the charitable organisation set up by the Grammy Awards. Wynnie is part of minor US musical heritage, being the grand-daughter of one the actors in Disney's Mary Poppins, and the mother of an aspirant Broadway actress who's in the running for a role in Glee

I knew going down to the bar once we'd got back to the hotel was a bad idea but I have to say my farewells to the band and management, and of course Dom too, as I'll not be seeing any of them in the morning.

Disaster! During the night my air-con has stopped working so I wake about 5am, drenched in sweat and feeling distinctly unpleasant. Because it's gas mark seven here day or night, the air-con in the hotel is permanently on and I haven't even had to think about it.

A good seven hour sleep means Sunday starts with a clear head and smile. I text Dom to suggest breakfast but there's no response. Presuming he must have stayed out later than me I head down to Las Canerias alone. Turns out the hotel only serves Sunday brunch today at $40 a head, which seems remarkably excessive. However they suggest their sister restaurant across the little bridge on the river called La Pesca which does a regular breakfast menu.

In typical fashion, and despite being dog-tired, a sudden awakening reveals it's 4.39am. The body still thinks it's in England, and of course once awake the mind starts rolling through all manner of things. It's another hour before blissful unconsciousness reasserts itself but it's over all too soon as Dom, lively and excited about the day to come, texts asking if I fancy breakfast.

I don't have children. There are a number of reasons why but it's fair to say a sense of freedom, compulsive tidiness, a lovely lifestyle, biology and a distinct lack of paternal instincts rank high amongst them. And it's always seemed to me that friends and family who do have young kids seem to be running on a default setting of general exhaustion at all times.