A summary of recent events

Too much to write and not enough time or space...

I could write virtual reams, for example, about The Wizard, a man I sat opposite on the tube on Sunday who had a deep groove between his tortured eyes, an immaculate black curled moustache, a pointed goatee and was wearing lederhosen braces affixed to black leather trousers over pointy long boots.

Or I could bemoan the madman outside Hammersmith bus station last night who stood directly in front of me, facing away, on the almost-empty pavement and then took three deliberate steps backwards, causing me to have to jump out of the way to avoid being ploughed down. I selected an alternative standing point but he then came and stood in front of me again and did exactly the same thing - two further times. I took refuge inside, leaving him mumbling to himself, and forced myself to pity him rather than punch him.

Alternatively, I could cover my Saturday night at length - fireworks with Sara at Alexandra Palace followed by one of the coolest and most fun parties I can remember, featuring stripped walls, bare floorboards, a bath in the garden, lethal fireworks, bad hoedown dancing, a comedy writer who was genuinely funny, many glasses of different white wines, precisely three people I'd met before and several more with whom I'd now happily spend eternity.

I'd like to mention Ray LaMontagne, who has the voice of a husky angel but the on-stage vibrance of a yoghurt. I was glad to have gone but in terms of live experiences, he certainly suffered from being seen in such close temporal proximity to Rufus last week.

And I should certainly document my first day's flat-hunting yesterday, when I visited several properties I'd rather die than visit again and one property I have already mentally purchased and decorated. The most interesting experience was flat number two. I was still trying to keep an open mind but spirits were low as we approached the edges of the estate - washing hanging outside every flat which I find inexplicably depressing, a couple of broken windows and several clamped cars wasn't the most welcoming sight. We climbed the concrete steps to the first floor and knocked on the door to no response, so Emma, my friendly estate agent, unlocked it with her set of keys. As we entered, the smell hit us like a guitar in the face: the place reeked of a potent combo of marijuana and microwaved munchies. The air was thick with stale pot smoke and we soon found its source: a friendly middle aged couple monging on the sofa in the 'reception room' (read: den of iniquity) watching what appeared to be a Jamaican soap opera at top volume. The entire flat was mouldy and damp and irredeemably hideous; the only money that seemed to have been spent on its contents had clearly gone on white goods as there was a large and pristine fridge-freezer in each of the bedrooms, the den of iniquity and the kitchen. I wouldn't live there if you paid me but if you need anything chilled, I can pass on the address.