Does 30 = OAP?

I'm not sure what it says about a person when they browse the Guardian Reader Offers website and the only things that tickle their fancy are a luxury feather mattress topper and a 'fantastic' PuzzleKaddy®, the must-have item for every serious jigsaw fan. I think it probably says they're a pensioner. On that basis, perhaps I should retire.

Bedtime stories

It's been a long and fairly frantic day. In a good way, on balance. At work, evidently Laura was feeling the strain too, because she wrote this email to her friend:

'You are no fun if you are busy. I have lost a playmate.
What do you want for your birthday?'

And then she got her surnames confused and, without realising, sent it to the head of UK Financial Markets instead. The Big Boss was out of the office but wrote back almost immediately from his Blackberry saying something like: 'Laura - I don't get this' whereupon she became acquainted with her error and visibly cringed for the rest of the day. I laughed with such force that I had to lean against the wall for support and did that kind of extended exhalation/wheeze that makes one sound as if one is about to die from a massive asthma attack.

Now I am numb with tiredness. But I will say this: like so many other people, I wantonly label almost any great record as one of my Desert Island Discs, caring little for the fact that, were some grateful minion to add up all my alleged choices, they would total in the region of three hundred times the required eight pieces of music. However, last night I faced up to the fact that, come what may, Ravel's Bolero would have to make the cut. It is a phenomenal, seductive piece that reminds me of happy times idolising Torvill and Dean. Plus the key change towards the finale is the only thing in the world that makes me want to learn to play a brass instrument - other than Slideshow by Rufus Wainwright. Ooh, and the entire score of West Side Story. Ice skating, Rufus and musicals? How odd: all of a sudden I seem to have morphed into a laughable stereotype of a gay man. Time for bed.

Rise and whine

I am not thought of as a morning person. In fact, at the pop magazine where I used to work, my dark moods pre-lunch were of some amusement to the other employees who used to direct imbecilic pre-teen work experience people to my desk, telling them that I would be able to help answer their inane questions.

Now that I am a City high-flier (and I mean that in its loosest sense: I am writing this while on a conference call and thus can't claim to be concentrating quite as hard as I should on the international discussion echoing round my office), I have to be across town by 8:30am which necessitates leaving the house at around 07:35. Not so long ago, if some fool had told me I would be arising at 06:45 every weekday I’d have laughed in their face and then burst into tears of panic in case they turned out to be correct. But I’ve been following that exact routine, five days a week, since the beginning of March and, nearly seven months later, I think I’m finally getting into the swing of it.

Only yesterday I was having a heartfelt discussion over my Oatibix (disappointing) with my parents about the presenters on BBC Breakfast. My father is always full of hatred for Sian, who he claims cuts a pathetic figure. He particularly hates it when she says ‘Ooh, I could never afford that!’ after some new gadget is mentioned on air. However, he conceded that he would rather be stuck in a lift with Sian than Vanessa Feltz. He even had a problem with BBC London’s newsreader, Louisa Preston, because she allegedly says her own name in an annoying way and looks ‘too perfect’. He is mourning the loss of Emily Maitlis who has moved from London to Newsnight, although I am simultaneously mourning her arrival on Newsnight since her interviewing technique seems to revolve around her barking inappropriate questions and then saying, ‘Mmmm… Mmmm’ in a terse and efficient fashion while clearly not listening to her victim’s answer. Despite berating my father for feeling passionate hatred for complete strangers, I will admit that I have found internal rage towards Emily bubbling up in the past, but at dinner last night, a BBC source assured me that she was very nice. So for now I will quash my internal rage, but Emily, if you’re reading, please try a fraction harder to listen to your subject and formulate your next question on that basis rather than relying on whatever the producer’s shouting into your ear. Also: wear less foundation.

No news is... a waste of paper

Regular readers might have gleaned that I am not a fan of London's free morning newspapers. As the longest-running culprit, right-wing rubbish Metro is terrifyingly all-pervasive: I frequently look down my tube carriage in the mornings and notice that almost every commuter is holding one aloft. I, of course, bursting with (a desire for) intellectual superiority, refuse even to open a copy or glance at my neighbour's.

Today, however, my eye was caught by a headline that has to be a major contender in several categories at this year's press awards, in particular 'Laziest Journalism' and 'The Depressing Reality Of Showbiz'. The eye-grabber in question is at the top right of the photo above and reads 'Gabrielle: Honestly, I really do have two eyes'.

For my foreign/elderly/sensible readers who may not be familiar with Gabrielle, let me assist by explaining that she is a singer who, in 1993, achieved massive chart success with her debut song, Dreams, a catchy number aided by her trademark nasal voice and the bejewelled eyepatch that she wore in all the promotional materials. At the time, rumours abounded as to the origins of this patch: was she a pirate at the weekends? Had she been partially blinded by an incident involving a staple gun? Or was she merely suffering from a bad case of conjunctivitis? The jury was out, but at a time when American pop trio, TLC, were embracing the safe sex movement by attaching packets of condoms to their clothes and even, in one case, over the lenses of their spectacles, Gabrielle didn't seem quite so controversial.

It is thus depressing in the extreme to see that the Metro journalist still falls back on this 14-year-old curiosity. I struggle to believe that their entire interview didn't throw up anything more fascinating than the existence of the standard rationing of eyeballs in Gabrielle's head. If it didn't, it's the fault of the writer - and if it did, it's the fault of the editor who chose that pull quote to go on the front page over the superior material. Either way, the Metro sucks. And let this be a warning to any wannabe stars out there: watch what you say and watch what you do - you can sell all the records you want but chances are, several years later, you'll still be defending yourself against inane questions asked earnestly by moronic writers who hold the keys to your mortgage repayments along with their dictaphone. Resist the spotlight.

Skin: not a snack

Loath though I am to discuss more public transport stories, an incident on the 209 yesterday took far more of the biscuit than I imagined possible, leaving empty shelves in the metaphorical supermarket's cookie and cracker aisle. I never imagined I would say this, but I think it even surpassed the silly bitch incident from July.

Once again, and perhaps for the final time, I was sitting in my favoured position on the bus, next to window. As I have explained before, this seat is a prime position as it allows a speedy exit from the vehicle and a relatively clear view down the length of the bus to tut at the traffic ahead or scowl at elderly men who are staging a protest. However, given the seat's popularity with freaks, I will think twice before choosing it in future.

Yesterday, my irritation at being sat next to at all was mollified by the fact that the young gentleman who positioned himself to my right was fairly savoury, with scruffy dark hair and winsome eyes. His girlfriend was also on board but heck, she was all the way across the aisle and thus rendered utterly irrelevant for the journey's duration.

My reverie was interrupted, however, by my companion's left arm, which brushed against my elbow en route to his facial area. I looked to my right to assess the situation, and, to my horror, found that my previously attractive companion was picking a deep, plasma-filled hole in the side of his neck. I failed to conceal a wince of disgust as he continued to excavate the crater but managed not to let any audible sound escape my lips. However, when, moments later, he put the findings from his epidermial excavations into his mouth, I was unable to contain myself. Somehow I managed to turn my gutteral groan into a cough. I turned my head and tried to block out all thoughts of the retch-worthy clawing that was occurring a few inches from my person but sadly, the sun created a perfect mirror in the window of all that was happening behind me and I saw my repulsive young friend eat his own skin/misc. other matter at least three further times before he paused momentarily to pick his nose and ingest this new treasure with similar zest.

As he left the bus, his girlfriend, presumably either oblivious or accustomed to the manual atrocities that her lover had been carrying out seconds earlier, took his tainted hand in her own and the two happily walked off towards Marks & Spencer. Dead skin has never been a highlight of humanity for me but such public consumption of same is enough to bring on agoraphobia.

The Bourne Hypocrisy

As I was standing in Waterloo by the statue of the painter, waiting to meet Katherine for lunch yesterday, I realised that this was the first time I'd been in the station since I'd seen the latest Bourne film, which features a superb set piece filmed amongst the commuters and tourists at the terminus. I looked along the length of the building with a keen eye, searching for a few of the landmarks from the scene. I even rummaged for my camera and took a photo.

Cut to a couple of minutes later. I'm still standing by the statue, waiting for Katherine, but by now, Waterloo's novelty has eroded and I'm feeling a deep-seated ennui regarding the Matt Damon connection. A group of twenty-somethings walk past me on their way to the South Bank, three boys in front and two girls behind. The girls ask an inane question about Bourne and the boys answer dismissively, not slowing their pace for a second. I scoff to myself at these tragic figures who have allowed themselves to be touched by a Hollywood blockbuster; in particular, I pity the girls' futile attempts to curry favour with their male friends by expressing interest in a genre that has clearly not been created for them. A few moments on and I'm denouncing the dominance of men's magazines that encourage women to pose in their underwear in order to be 'respected' by their oafish readers while prudish girls who refuse to join in the 'fun' are labelled boring and most likely in possession of some sort of emetic physical deformity.

This 240 second excerpt from my head is me in a nutshell - an initial thought is a joyous event, but is tainted almost immediately by exposure to the elements. Of course, the instant an outsider joins in and creates a link between me and the majority, the artificial barriers are constructed and I force distance between us by rubbishing the ideas I'd been cradling moments earlier. Schizophrenia? Intellectual snobbery? Or desperation for individuality in a sea of people? Methinks it's the latter. I certainly relished going against the critical flow last night having seen Atonement. As expected, strong acting could not disguise the embarrassing self-indulgence of the direction and no amount of incontinent dribblings and five star ratings from celebrity film critics will persuade me otherwise. I do enjoy a swim against the tide: my only sadness is that triceps don't benefit from figurative rebellion.

Hangovers rule

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am not able to drink alcohol at the moment. When I found out I would be off the sauce for a few weeks, I was in a dark place and, knowing alcohol is a depressant, agreed that it might be wise to steer clear. Now I am feeling a tad more human and am consequently champing at the bit once more. I have ten bottles of wine at home, collected over several months from various sources, six of which are going to be delicious. One is a bottle of champagne that I accidentally put into storage in 2001 and will probably be disgusting. The remaining three are hit and miss. But whatever happens, I am looking forward to my next tasting.

Strangely, as well as the giddy pissed feeling that is missing from my life, I also have some nostalgia for hangovers. Laura is at work with one today, and has been lurching from her desk to my office all morning to giggle maniacally and ask if it's alright if she takes a nap on my floor. It's fairly distracting but I envy that shift in perspective which comes the morning after, as though it's a miracle of Cana-esque proportions that one is even upright and the fact that one has commuted to work and managed to answer a ringing phone is enough to inspire a new religious movement. The many petty considerations that usually eddy and whirl round one's head float away into the distance as all effort is focussed on basic tasks that our unconscious can usually handle unaided, such as 'not vomiting'.

Meanwhile, I am eleven days sober and feeling hyper-aware of my surroundings, including the delightful aroma of second hand vinegar that is wafting in through my open door as the traders eat their Friday fish and chips. Laura's quashing her nausea at Wagamama's but I couldn't join in as I have to use my lunchbreak to go to the gym. I am wildly envious but trying to concentrate on the fact that my healthiness means I may live longer than her by a few months, but even that is scant consolation since by that time I'll be riddled with arthritis and one of those bitter old people who's waited eight decades for their fun life to begin and has finally realised that it's never going to happen. I need a drink.

Homeward bound

I seem to spend an awful lot of time thinking or talking about transport, something I didn't predict about my grown-up self when I was a nipper. I spend two hours of every day sitting on it, though, or around one eighth of my waking life, so I suppose it figures that it will crop up in my thoughts every now and then.

Last night, my bus home was almost full as we left Hammersmith, so when we reached the first stop, the driver didn't pause to pull over and instead came to a halt at some traffic lights twenty yards on. One man who had been waiting at the stop was absolutely convinced that he should have been allowed on our bus, regardless of its near-capacity status. With surprising agility for a man who appeared to be in his sixties, the snubbed would-be-traveller ran to our bus and hammered on the door, shouting to be let in. The driver rejected his request to open the doors. At this point, I would have given up and slunk back to the bus stop, defeated. But our valiant friend continued the fight and moved to stand directly in front of the vehicle, refusing to move.

By now, the traffic lights had turned green and there were several cars hooting their horns. While the light had been red, my fellow passengers were fairly relaxed and even amused by the vigilante behaviour taking place outside, but the moment the green light flashed up, there was a perciptible rustle of impending fury that crackled through the group like a forest fire. Within seconds, people had thrust their newspapers and chicklit to one side and were peering over the crowds to shout their encouragement at the driver who was now leaning on his horn and adding to the cacophony. To my surprise, there was no sympathy for the angry man outside, even though there was, undeniably, plenty of room onboard not just for him but for an estimated ten further commuters. It appeared that those around me had endured long days at work and this twenty second delay was a frustration too far. Fortunately, at that moment another (emptier) bus arrived at the stop behind us and our protester scuttled off, coat flapping behind him like a frustrated superhero. And by the time our 209 reached Hammersmith Bridge, the ruffled feathers had calmed and, smoother of plumage, we continued on our journey into suburbia.

Fairwell

I think I may be suffering from mild appendicitis. Or perhaps it's just indigestion. Although that seems unlikely since, as per Paul's instructions, I chewed every mouthful of my lunch at length, stopped when I was full and made sure that, during the masticatory processes, I appreciated the intricacies of flavour and texture. This last was no mean feat given that I was 'enjoying' a baked potato in a polystyrene box from the canteen that had tough, rubbery skin like a dead octopus and grainy, bland flesh within. I tried to perk up this non-event by adding a 10g portion of Flora and a pot of grated yellow cheese but my efforts were fruitless. My lunch was, at best, a disappointment. Thus it would seem a little unfair if I were now suffering from indigestion.

Then again, I think I need to revisit this idea of 'fair'. When is anything ever really fair? No one has ever had the same start, the same experiences, the same treatment. No one has the same ideas, the same figure, the same face. What we want and what we get is always different from the person next to us. Why is 'fair' even in our vocabulary? I think life would be a lot easier if we all erased the concept of fairness and moved beyond an acceptance of the infinite unfairness that comes with variety, towards an active expectation of difference and partiality. Aiming for fairness, in my experience, is a recipe for frustration and confusion. Whereas aiming for diversity - and, perhaps, being pleasantly surprised if the people around you end up sharing similarities, wanting and receiving what you too want and receive - seems a lot more sensible. And you know me: sensible's my middle name. That and Louise.

No more pepperoni, thanks – I’m full

So, another day over, tens of pounds earned and into the kitty to contribute to the nest egg which will, all being well, help me buy a tiny nest of my own in ’08. Although stupid Northern Rock are causing problems – unless the economy allows me to get several multiples (approx. 30) of my salary when I apply for a mortgage, I’m as likely to be able to find a flat as build one single-handedly over a sunny weekend.

In other news: I am staggered to admit that I have read a book by Paul McKenna. More than that, I have listened to the accompanying CD, although I will concede that I did drop off halfway through and 50% of his dramatically oscillating stereo vocals were lost on me because my left speaker was out of operation. The title of these masterworks? I Can Make You Thin, which I started reading last night when I found it on the sofa, and found so compelling that I am now following its advice to the letter.

The principle seems to be that the only way for us to become permanently slim is to change our eating habits to match those of a thin person’s. Thin people don’t spend all day fantasising about malt loaf and swiss roll and ham on the bone, get to mealtimes and wolf their food down like deprived beasts, because for them, nothing is forbidden. As far as they’re concerned, they can eat whatever they want, whenever they want it. The difference is, thin people don’t eat that much. When they’re hungry, they eat what they fancy. When they’re full, they stop. Sounds obvious, but for a lifetime dieter, it’s up there with The Da Vinci Code when it comes to unlikely prospects. Theoretically, McKenna claims I can eat pizza, chocolate and doughnuts every day as long as I only eat when I’m hungry, stop when I’m full and appreciate every mouthful. Apparently when nothing is forbidden, the desire for junk food lessens dramatically. It’s no exaggeration to say that I’m more sceptical about that than I am about the existence of an afterlife. But the logic is undeniably there and even though I’m not feeling miserable about my weight right now, I have jumped on the bandwagon with both feet anyway, just to see what happens. Paul reckons we’ll start to see a difference in two weeks. I’ll keep you posted.

238 down, 762 to go...

Stephen King advises aspiring authors to churn out a bare minimum of 1000 words a day. He recommends doing the churning in the morning - Stephen's personal preferred timeslot is between 8-12. Sounds like a delightful plan and all well and good if you have a wealthy spouse, a bulging trust fund or enough money from your previous 35 books to support you. For the rest of us, it's more of a challenge to find a time when creativity, inspiration and availability coincide.

Personally, my job is currently breaking previous records when it comes to resources drained. Due to complete under-stimulation, standing up to get a plastic cup of water has become a feat requiring staggering strength and resiliance. Refilling the printer is a task so insurmountable that it demands the mental equivalent of a six-man team, oxygen masks and, perhaps, some huskies. Thus I find myself having to write at a time when a) it appears that nothing funny or of note has happened to me for several lifetimes and b) even if it had, the energy and inspiration needed to remark upon it online seems as out of reach as the Man Booker.

Still, I force myself to try, create something mediocre at best on the questionable principle that something is better than nothing, and move on to the next part of my eternal day. Even thinking about bird nappies isn't cheering me up. Mondays suck.

Only in America...

When the lows hit, they really hit. This morning has been especially tough as, right now, I should be wending my way to the hell that is Gatwick Airport for a week in the Canary Islands. Instead, I'm here, facing another week at work, and he's off to the sun on his own - not ideal for either party but I know which I'd rather be doing.

So I'm distracting myself by re-reading all our old emails and sitting alone in my room without the TV or stereo playing. For some strange reason, these techniques seem to make me feel even worse, until the Adwords on the right hand side of my Googlemail account bring up something quite extraordinary. When I'm in a dark place, it takes a fairly big surprise to distract me, but diapers for American pet birds is certainly up there. The photo gallery alone is enough to startle me into a new state where Lanzarote is briefly forgotten, and the company phone number, 888-412-POOP almost raises an incredulous smile. I'm not sure it'll keep my mind off bleaker issues for long but I've got to be grateful for all the respite I can lay my hands on - and for that, Mark and Lorraine Moore, founder of Avian Fashions, I thank you.

Queue and eh?

No status update from me right now. Suffice to say, Healers Inc. should sack their alleged 'greatest' employee, Time, because s/he doesn't appear to be doing much. If anything, s/he is making things worse. I'd have hoped that Time could at least do me the courtesy of speeding up through the bad bits, but no, of course, the seconds shuffle by with enough time to read the complete works of Barbara Cartland in the gaps.

It was with delight, then, that I managed not just a smile but a full-blown laugh yesterday - albeit restrained due to my situation. Laura and I were queuing in Marks and Spencer. In my hand were a nicoise salad for Michelle, a sports bra and two bags of mixed nuts. My heart was still recovering from my frantic sweep along the aisles full of dithering calorie-counting office monkeys; Laura had hurtled towards me seconds earlier saying that she had considered lying face down on the floor in front of the Count On Us display and beating her fists into the linoleum while sobbing 'Stop pushing in front of me'. Tensions were running high.

Suddenly, while I was in the middle of saying something gripping and concise, Laura nudged me and nodded towards the gentleman standing in front of us in the queue. He was around 5'10" and, from the back, I could see his neat haircut and slightly balding pate. He was wearing a fairly standard blue and white checked shirt. I couldn't see what was of interest. I scanned down. Beneath the blue and white checked shirt were a surprising pair of skinny, bootcut flares in black stretch velvet. These finished, ill-advisedly, at ankle height and my eye was drawn further down to a pair of slightly hairy, pale feet sitting comfortably in a pair of brown leather, high-heeled strappy sandals. The look was completed by a set of ten beautifully pedicured toes, painted in a colour that could have been Chanel's Rouge Noir, favoured by, among others, Victoria Beckham.

The contrast between the look above the waist and below was striking and I'll admit that I had never seen anything like it before. It was as though our fellow queue-member was growing into a transvestite gradually from the ground up: perhaps in a few months the transition will reach neck height and he'll be able to squeeze into a dress. I would say, however, that although I fully support his fashion bravado, the velvet bootlegs should have been a few inches longer, but then I suppose they would have covered the cork-soled shoes. Perhaps in future he'd be better off going for a nice cropped pant. If I see him again I'll tell him. I love London.

The Denial Twist

A book I read recently suggested that if our perception of reality becomes too unpleasant, it's wise to retreat, give oneself a bit of a break and accept distractions from elsewhere. And talented though Henry James undeniably is, The Portrait of a Lady just isn't cutting it. So tonight I've immersed myself in American junk movies in an attempt to stop ruminating. Sadly, while the films I've watched have stopped me from reflecting on my own issues for entire seconds at a time, their portrayal of clear choices and happy endings makes it even harder to accept my lot as the credits roll. Worse still, I've just added a new ambition to my omnigrowing To Do list and irritatingly, 'Become Lois Lane' isn't anywhere near the most unlikely item on it.

Playing Sod at his/her own game

I've found a failsafe way to keep the weather hot: buy a gorgeous new winter coat that, by virtue of its beauty, requires immediate use. I purchased it last evening and wearing it provides warmth equivalent to that in Hades' hotel room. Inevitably, to coincide with this, the weather has now stopped playing games and is, as one might expect for early September, in the low-mid 20s and very pleasant. No need whatsoever for a warm garment of any kind.

It reminds me of my youth when I was cool and smoked - our regular tactic would be to light up a cigarette while waiting for a bus as we knew that would guarantee the transport's immediate arrival. Now that I'm old and don't smoke, I instead choose to manipulate Sod by buying clothes. If my calculations are correct and this method really does work, then in order to be thin I need to buy several beautiful and expensive garments in a fat size as this will guarantee that the pounds fall off overnight and the clothes are rendered baggy and unflattering. Right - I'm off to the shops. Amex: consider yourselves warned.

Five things

One: Extremist Islamic literature in east London libraries: should it be banned? Apparently in Tower Hamlets library there are eleven copies of a book written by Abu Hamza but far fewer works that represent a more moderate view. I was initially surprised that Newsnight even entertained the debate yesterday, since any hint of censorship is absolutely unacceptable in a democratic society - but I do accept that if libraries only contained Mein Kampf and other polemical literature, the world might be a very different place. So while the government can't (and shouldn't) stop certain books being present, should it enforce the presence of others? Certainly an issue that started my brain cogs whirring until I fell asleep halfway through the item.

Two: David Cameron's plans for voluntary summer activities for the UK's 16 year olds: military training, volunteer work with the aged, projects abroad. It all sounds quite good but I fear he hasn't thought it through yet, given that he has already admitted that no-one has worked out where the funding's going to come from. Props to Dazza Cazza for thinking of something that might actually make a difference to teenagers, it's a nice idea an' all, but I fear it will take more than shopping for grannies and doing assault courses to stop the spiralling lives of British young people.

Three: People in my office building, just like people outside, seem to fall into two camps: those with a brain and those who have used their brain so tragically rarely that it has disintegrated. This is illustrated with alarming regularity in our elevators. In a lift that is around five feet square, a person still in possession of an active brain will walk in, press the appropriate button to select their floor and stand to one side. Sadly it is the case that many of my colleagues fall into the disintegrated category, since they choose instead to walk into the lift, press the appropriate button and then turn to stand directly in front of the buttons. Even when one person has said 'Excuse me' in appropriately hushed tones, they don't move out of the way, preferring instead to lean awkwardly to one side for every single individual button pushing request. If they were short I would pick them up and move them to the lift's opposite corner but shamefully the perpetrators are normally fully grown adults who should know better. It is precisely this lack of self-awareness that leads to people texting in the middle of the stairs down to a tube station or standing alone on the left of the escalators when sixty others are on the right. I could be grateful that my brain has not yet begun to dissolve but I think, frustratingly, that those without one, like Winnie the Pooh, are in fact happier than the rest of us.

Four: That said, I can't claim that my brain is always in pristine condition. I certainly cursed its workings a few moments ago. I had been for a tough session in the gym, doing 400m sprints on the rowing machine and kicking the punchbag until my vision was affected. Returning to the changing room with my customary 'fell in a lake' look, I rifled through my bag to find my shower gel and towel. When I realised that the latter item was still in my office on the second floor, I exhaled a sigh of frustration and assessed my options. Going without a shower was out of the question. Showering and drying myself on my wet gym kit or dry work clothes didn't seem to work either. So I sank to a new low, took a deep breath for bravery, lifted the miscellaneous small towel hanging on a hook near my belongings and took it into the shower cubicle. I had no clue as to its owner but, having dried myself with it post-shower, I would say she probably had brown hair or possibly a long-haired chocolate-coloured pet. It was a dark moment but I'm now dressed, back at my desk and trying to block out the incident.

Five: Luciano Pavarotti
RIP.

I blame Helen Hunt

I am experiencing levels of exhaustion that are potentially dangerous. Who knows when a casual slip of the finger might send an inappropriate email or a badly-timed yawn might be spotted? Any number of accidental tiredness-induced actions could lead to my being fired or - better - meeting with some form of physical accident that prevents me from working for a number of weeks. Despite a full awareness of my perilous situation, I am still unable to be vigilant or concerned about consequences. Frankly, it's a miracle that I am able to remain upright.

In an effort to keep my mind off depressing subjects, I am keeping my diary fairly packed. This is a double-edged sword - stay busy and you become tired and more likely to feel down; arrange nothing, spend too much time alone and find yourself curled up in a tear-stained ball on the floor between the wall and your bed. Or maybe that's just me.

As my sleep debt grows, I am experiencing increasing remorse for my viewing of As Good As It Gets last Sunday night. I yearn nostalgically for those wasted hours, fantasise about the precious pre-midnight slumber they could have provided and wonder how buoyant and self-confident I would be feeling now, had I not frittered away so many valuable minutes viewing the utterly implausible and faintly embarrassing sexual chemistry between Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Next time I do karaoke, I'll update Edith Piaf with a version of 'Je Regrette Rien Que Regardant As Good As It Gets Le Dernier Dimanche'.*

*French corrections welcomed provided that they are accompanied by grammar explanations. I'll never learn otherwise.

Macarthur's Law: much better than Sod's

I am too blue today to be fun for anyone except the most committed schadenfreudist so will post about something unrelated.

Last Thursday night I was in a cab. This in itself is shocking news, as I award myself said luxury under a handful of times each year and the fact that I made an exception is testament to the amount of white wine I had consumed that evening.

But like a good spendthrift, my decision to travel using this mode of transport was influenced by the fact that another party-goer was going my way. In fact, she was planning to travel some distance beyond my destination and offered to split the taxi fare. A cab home for half price? It's not often I can turn down a 50% off deal.

By the time we arrived in my area, the meter read just under £10. I handed over a tenner, she took it, the door was shut fairly quickly and I began the walk down my road. I told myself not to become irate but failed to remain calm. All too quickly, the familiar post-shared-cab internal griping commenced. Why had I paid 100% of my journey home, allowing my hereto unknown passenger to pay only the cost of the journey from my house to hers. Of course, we should have split the first section of the journey, where we were both travelling - but that maths was out of the question at that time of night and to bring up the issue would have been petty and awkward.

Now, believe me, I know that life is not fair. I know that bad things happen to good people and that health is not a human right, bestowed equally upon all. But there are some small things that we have it within our power to control, and I believe this to be one of them. I propose absolute clarity on this issue from now on - a new standard in operation anywhere that vehicles are hired for private transport. The rule will be called Macarthur's Law and states that, where X number of passengers are sharing a cab to X number of destinations, the amount paid should be the total fare accrued on reaching their destination divided by X. Thus if passengers A, B and C are travelling to destinations 1, 2 and 3, on reaching destination 1, A should pay the total fare at that point, divided by 3. On reaching destination 2, B should pay the total fare at this new point, divided by 2 and on reaching the final destination 3, C should pay what is left.

Spread the word, people. It's mutual understandings like this that will make the world into a happier place. There's not much in life that IS fair but here we have an opportunity to, rather wonderfully, make fares fair. Surely the pun in itself should be enough to persuade you of Macarthur's Law's rightful place in our lexicon. As things stand, if I ever cross paths again with the selfish individual who took my tenner last Thursday I'll hit her in the eye with a spanner and nick her wallet: she owes me a fiver.

There's no place like home

I'm back in London after a weekend among sheep and friends old and new in Devon. It was delicious to leave the Big Smoke and on Friday night I felt liberated and high on other people's second-hand tobacco. On Saturday I walked a long way, swam in the pool, relished a boat trip to the pub and ate a quantity of pork belly and crackling that exceeded even my own projections. Very early on Sunday morning I awoke feeling somewhat fatty. Later on Sunday I could sense the combination of hangover, tiredness, career uncertainty and singledom forming a potent melange that threatened to disrupt the jollity of those around me, so I hopped on a train to Paddington, where I revelled in the fact that I was no longer the only person in my immediate vicinity with cellulite. I reached home at a sensible hour and settled down for an early night, only to be drawn in to watching As Good As It Gets, which I have seen before and know to be mediocre at best - quite why my exhausted mind thought it would be a good idea to watch it a second time is beyond me.

Now Monday is drawing to a close and I'm still paying for last night's movie madness. My tiredness has reached the point of delirium, helped on its way by a rare busy day at work, a trip to the gym, a two-hour choir practice and a marathon journey home on the number 10 bus due to the pesky tube strike. The start of the week is enough of an ordeal without spending the latter section of the day being compressed into the damp back of a middle-aged Spanish tourist. That said, I thank my lucky stars that I live in the city, where variety is the spice of life and no-one knows your name. And now, bed. Caution: witty final line missing due to supreme fatigue.