Day 22: I Am Astonished By Science

This marvellous chap is Dr Martin Tovee, Reader in Visual Cognition at The University of Newcastle. (For my overseas readers, Newcastle is a very sound and well-respected British University: one of the real ones, not one of the ones that used to be a College of Further Education. You can do real degrees there, and everything.)

Anyway, Dr Tovee (for that is his name) has recently finished a piece of research that has found that hungry men fancy fat birds, and 'sated' men fancy thin birds. This astonishing fact was reported on Radio 4 this morning (and is therefore definitely true), and further reinforced by Richard and Judy, those heroes of daytime television, who conducted their own experiment amongst a group of mildly strange men that completely reinforced Dr Tovee's thesis.

I am astonished and delighted by this information and have yet to fully understand what enormous impact it could have on my own life, but as Judy (or was it Richard?) said, "if you want to keep him interested, keep him hungry". This feels like a momentous insight on many levels, and I think I may need some time to reflect. To find out more, look no further than the voice of the country that enjoys a deep fried Mars Bar, The Scotsman.

Day 22: I Discover The Best Website In The World

MARVEL at these photographs of babies with unruly hair! GASP at the growth rate of the hair follicle! Learn the three stages of hair growth! IMMERSE yourself in one of the finest and most informative websites I have come across in recent hours: P&G's The World Of Hair.





What does Dr John Gray, the eminent physician who so kindly assembled this great work (complete with 'humourous' captions and medical diagrams) have to say about this lady and her bountiful mane?




And does the oddly 70s tone of this strangely sinister photograph find itself reflected in the rest of the site? I can only recommend that you go and look for yourselves. I did, and I haven't regretted it for a second.

Day 21: I Discuss Pimping My Ride With My Mother (WARNING: Contains 'profanity'. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Many years ago (3), when the world was a place that I worked in, I worked for an advertising agency that did Nissan's advertising. So keen was I to kiss arse, I bought (as my first car), a Nissan Micra. I got about £7,000 off it mind you, so it's held its value well despite having had the right wing replaced twice, a new clutch, and a dent in the front bumper. Anyway, I digress.

I was talking to my mother this morning about many things, including Earth, Wind and Fire and the people in the village with the dogs. I had another mild rant about twats in 4x4s.

My mother: I hope you leant on the horn.
Me: No point in the Micra. It goes peeeeep like that. It's shit.
My mother: You could get it customised ...
Me: ... what, get someone to pimp my ride? .
My mother: Yes. Get someone to replace the horn with one that just goes FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF.
Me: What about CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT?
My mother: Better, possibly. Anyway ... oh God, what's your father doing NOW? (repeat to fade)

Day 20: I Am Desperately Worried By My Choice Of Reading Matter

I rant about books. I buy books for people. I force them to read, literally shoving their faces in (for e.g.) collections of Great Poetry. I bore my family senseless by buying them books every Christmas and congratulating myself on my marvellous taste. I am an intellectual snob. A very annoying short comedian I once had a brief affair with asked me if I bought my books by the yard, so convinced was he that they were merely for show. They're not. I read them all.

I also read Heat magazine every week. Yesterday I bought OK! and The Guardian and only 'read' OK!. I'm not sure what it's about. Lots of chubby common people getting married in inappropriate haste, and with inappropriate expense. Their wedding dresses have crystals on, and Anthea Turner is at their wedding, but I have no idea who they are. Occasionally OK! has pictures of (for e.g.) waterskiing squirrels, which is always a winner, but otherwise I'm not sure what it's for. Today I was trying to sort out a 12 foot deep pile of filing stuffed behind the armchair and ended up sprawled on the floor drinking Diet Coke, listening to Destiny's Child and reading The Sun.

At night, in bed, surrounded by lovely collections of poetry and good novels, I am transfixed by an appallingly written, over-long book about people in a Cotwolds village shagging each other, taking too much coke and setting fire to each others' marquees. There's something interesting about to happen involving a secret garden and I can hardly wait.

But still I say, if pushed, that my Desert Island Books are (and they're the ones that I read over and over again and don't care):

The Pursuit of Love, Nancy Mitford
A Vicious Circle, Amanda Craig (out of print but you can buy it at Abebooks.com and you should)
To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Persuasion, Jane Austen
Anything by A.S. Byatt
Staying Alive and Being Alive, 2 collections of poetry from Bloodaxe that will make you love poetry even if you think you hate it
High Windows, Phillip Larkin
A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
The Sea, The Sea, Iris Murdoch
All of Evelyn Waugh
All of Jane Austen, reluctant as I am to admit it
The Magus, John Fowles
Brother of the more famous Jack, Barbara Trapido
David Copperfield
All of the Molesworth books

Fuck it, I'll be here all day. I'm just trying to remind myself that I can read, and that I do like things that are 'good', and that reading books about people who own tractor yards and are married to ex-Olympic dressage riders is NOT a good use of time. Nor is looking at Wayne Rooney's bird in an ill-fitting swimsuit, or reading about that fucking idiot who was married to that bloke out of Westlife's opinions about Big Brother, or Jordan's advice column. Aaargh.

Day 20: I Watch My Cat Monster Lose One Of His Nine Lives And Laugh Inappropriately

Here is my cat Monster recovering from a near death experience that took place less than an hour ago. Now, before I go on, let me make myself clear: I hate cats, but acquired two a couple of years ago thanks to a mixture of alcohol and - no, I was drunk, that was it. Anyway, one of them died a few weeks ago. And today, the second one nearly pegged it too.

Monster was lying fatly in the grass in the back garden basting his whiskers in the sunshine. (Monster is always lying fatly, unless he is eating or chewing my computer cables.) I was hanging out the washing. I heard a rustling. The neighbour at the end of my garden (hidden behind a 15ft brick wall) was trying to cut branches off the apple tree that regularly deposits cooking apples into my garden. Monster looked up, distracted by the rustling. An enormous apple fell from the tree on to his head. He staggered a bit, did a crap miaow and kind of shook his head, then wandered off.

He's a fucking idiot (even in cat terms), so I have no idea if there's any lasting brain damage. Still, anything for a laugh, eh?

Day 19: I Interact With Sue The Beautician

Sue looks like she should be a mechanic. Solid and handsome. Looks good in her black overall.

I arrived today for the treatment so painful that only the drunk should undertake it. She didn't even say hello; just swooshed her hand and said: "In".

Sue: Ready?
Me: (small voice) Yes.
Sue: Right. Here we go.
Me: Fuck.
Sue laughs.
Me: FUCKING HELL.
10 minutes pass.
Me: FUCK'S SAKE, man!
Sue laughs harder.
Me: (tiny voice, accent of 50s English film star): Oh Sue, will I EVER be pretty again?
Sue: (laughs even harder) Maybe.

I gave her a £10 tip.

Day 19: I Wonder If Being A Fucking Idiot Is The Only Qualification You Need To Drive A 4x4 In London

4x4s. Big, fuck-off cars that can go up 90 degree inclines on muddy hills backwards whilst towing a trailer full of 34 sheep. Owned by farmers, and people who live on mountains. Work in snow. Things like that.

I had to go to Wandsworth Common today. Wandsworth is, in slices, full of people who wish they could afford to live in Chelsea. Their stupid, pokey little terraced houses are decorated inside like stately homes. They all think they are posh, but aren't really. Their children, dressed in clothes that cost more than mine, go to pointless 'preparatory' schools full of equally dim-witted children. Their fathers do things in the City, or work in advertising. But the mothers. The mothers.

"It makes me feel saaaafe", they whine, their streaked blonde bobs shaking as they mow me down in my Micra. "The visibility's REALLY good and it's SO much safer for the children." Their stupid, air-filled heads can barely see over the steering wheel. They forget to indicate. They never, EVER say thank you (not even a little wave) when I stop (and I have to. You can't get one of those fuckers and a normal car in a road. It doesn't work.)

It's hardly original, me ranting about this, but they really fuck me off, these women. They've probably never worked. They're too stupid. They spend all day at the beauty salon having hot stone Thalissotherapie Reiki reflexology massages on their toes (£95 per 30 minutes). They don't even go to the supermarket because they get Ocado to deliver (and they can't use the computer, so they get the Nanny to do it). They think they have some sort of fucking god-given right to fuck up every single bit of traffic within a 10 mile radius because they have failed to notice a very simple fact: if you can get 5 adults in a Micra (or other small car), you can surely fit William and Jemima in the back. And isn't it safer to have a car that you can drive and park easily than some horror of a truck that would kill anything it ploughed in to? A small car will probably get a bigger dent than the child it might accidentally bump into, but you wouldn't feel yourself going over an eight year old in a Land Rover just off Wandsworth Common.

They should, quite simply, be ashamed of themselves. But seeing as how they all hang out with each other drinking coffee in some pathetic child-friendly caff called 'Boiled Egg and Soldiers', talking about their new Colefax and Fowler curtains and the villa they're all sharing in Tuscany, they probably don't even know they're doing anything wrong. There is no excuse. My only consolation is that St Ken is going to tax the fuckers into the ground, and that their road tax and fuel bills must be astronomical. Twats.

(My mum, incidentally, still automatically puts her arm out to protect the person in the driving seat if she has to brake suddenly. She has only driven nice small cars. And my parents are thinking about buying a Smart car, because you can park it nose to the kerb. But then she's not an idiot.)

Day 19: I Stumble Across A Quite Delicious Foodstuff

When eating, er, carefully, the words 'oat', 'oatcake', 'bran' and the like have a certain resonance. I can't really eat bread. I can eat really dense rye bread, or wholemeal bread (at a push), but not more than a slice a day otherwise I blow up like a balloon and a sharp knock would send me floating off into Deep Space. If you wanted me to ACTUALLY DIE after a) running around really fast; b) swelling up and c) passing out, you would feed me cake made of potato with sugar on top. White bread has the same effect. As a result, I am, frankly, obsessed with finding bread-type things that I can eat. I like an oatcake. In fact, they are something of a staple. Dense crunchy things. Nice with a pear and a bit of goat's cheese. Very good if you're feeling hungry and tired.

Anyroad up, I was in Sainsbury's buying an apple (not sure why) and I saw SHELVES of things called North Staffordshire Oatcakes. But they weren't the oatcakes that I know of. They looked like crumpets that have been ironed out. Or pikelets ( which are smaller, thinner crumpets), which have also been ironed out but less so, as they were thinner in the first place.

They said they were made of oats and bran. They LOOKED like crumpets. They didn't have any shit in them. They looked nice. I came home with a packet. Cast iron pan, high heat, North Staffordshire Oatcake goes in, turn it over, crispy crunchy on the outside, soft inside. Kind of chewy, salty and a little bit sour. Quite a lot like the pancake thing you get with Eritrean food. Had it with tuna and bean salad (you know, the one that sounds flash when you give it its Italian name). Ate it. Delicious. I am beside myself.

The photograph you see above is of an untoasted North Staffordshire (note: not South, West or East Staffordshire) oatcake. You can grill them, apparently, and then put cheese on top and roll it up. You can put bacon and eggs in them. Or sausages. I am treating mine like I would treat brown rice, or perhaps a pitta bread, and used it to scoop, rather than roll. Very exciting.

They've made me very happy, those oatcakes.

Day 18: I Am Alarmed By Nature

It's raining. (Thunderbolts, lightning, very very frightening: 5 inches of rain in 10 minutes, and it's still 30 degrees.) And NOW they're talking about hailstones. That's round bits of ice falling from the sky in the middle of summer which, obviously, makes absolute sense.

To make matters worse, I turned into my road this morning and saw six squirrels stampeding down the middle of the road. What on earth is going on? Giant flying ants, woodpigeons in my garden and foxes that have been known, in the past, to come into my sitting room and watch television. What next? Albatrosses in the trees? Wild horses grazing freely on Brixton Hill? Wolves in Hyde Park? Shoals of flying fish over Oxford Street? I give up.

Day 18: I Am Considering Killing My Personal Trainer

Anuja. Personal trainer. Thick as pigshit. That one. But thin and fit and knows how to work the machines in the gym and I don't. Therefore knows three things I don't: 1) what it's like being thin; 2) what it's like being fit; 3) how to operate treadmill in way that doesn't make me fall off. Which is what happens when I do it.

I didn't sleep at all last night. I paced about a bit and tried to sleep on the sofa and that and gave up in the end. But I still managed to drag myself to the gym at 10 and pretend to be enthusiastic. "I am not in a very good mood today, and I am tired", I said. "That's alright babes! Once you feel the burn you'll feel great!". Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Today she said the following things for the 5th time:

1. "My favourite thing a client said is that I'm not as sweet as I look!"
2. "If you look great, you feel great!"
3. "I'm all about RESULTS. Because if we don't get RESULTS, what's the POINT?"
3. "Just KEEP GOING, Hon! Come on! Yeah! Come on, high five!". No, Anuja. I will not high five you when I am rowing. It is not possible. Plus, you tried to high five me when I was on the treadmill yesterday and I fell off it. You must stop now. Tomorrow I am going to play Bullshit Bingo, and award myself some sort of health-laced treat every time she uses one of those expressions again. I wasn't nice. I did apologise. But it was relentless.

Anuja: So, hon, do you like ... SHOPPING?
Me (whilst rowing): No, not really.

Anuja: So, babes, are you looking forward to your holiday?
Me (entering 18th minute of running): I haven't really thought about it yet.

Anuja: So, do you come from a big family?
Me: (doing bench presses, whatever they are, with 300lb weights) No, not really.

Anuja: Are you drinking enough water?
Me: (doing weirdo breathing exercises and trying to concentrate) Probably not. Sorry. I'm in a fucking bad mood. Don't take it personally.
Anuja: Oh babes that's nothing! No problem! Like my client once said to me, I'm not as sweet as I look!

This better fucking work. It's bad enough nearly DYING once a day, without having to put up with the WITTERING. On the other hand, if it does work I'm going to lick her face, so best not be too judgemental, just in case.

Day 18: I Feel A Strange Affection For The Place Of My Birth

London is strange at the moment and not very loveable. Tourists everywhere walking very slowly down the middle of the street and then stopping; 1.34m students all coming out of the same language school on Oxford Street at the same time, bringing commerce to a standstill; horrible, oppressive heat that means I itch and can't sleep; tubes you can't go on because they're so hot that you might DIE. Even my stupid cat spends his days walking around trying to find cool patches on the floor and collapsing. We both wish it would rain.

It's still pretty good though, London, even if it is expensive, very hot, full of idiots and so annoying sometimes it makes me shout. I am thinking mainly of modes of transport, journeys and bridges at the moment. Not sure why. Anyway, some things that are always good, even if London is having a bad day:

Black Cabs
Expensive, yes. But big. You can get 5 people in them, no sweat. You can sit on the back seat and stretch your legs out in front of you and still have room for someone or something else. You can extend your legs out to the side on the back seat, even if you're pushing 5ft 9 like I am. They know where they're going. In a black cab, you are safe from harm, always. If it's raining and your heart's been broken, the yellow light on a black cab tells you everything is going to be OK.

London Busses
Pretty stupid if I'm honest, but sit at the front of the top deck and go over a bridge from South to North on a cold bright day and you feel like you're driving it, and about to fall off the world. Brilliant.

Going Over Westminster Bridge At Night, Going Home North To South
To my right: the Houses of Parliament lit up like a Christmas tree. To my left: the London Eye, and blue fairy lights in all the trees along South Bank, and in the distance St Paul's Cathedral, and all the beautiful things.

The Victoria Line
The Prince of tube lines. It doesn't always work, and it isn't air conditioned, but it goes from Brixton to all the places the people I like the best live, and where all the interesting things are.

St James' Park
We have more park per person than any other city in the world, which I like. Random allocation of space with deckchairs and weird trees that you can hide yourself in. St James' Park is my favourite. It's not that big, but it's in the middle of a bit of London that contains Buckingham Palace, and the Mall, and Parliament Square, and the ICA, and Trafalgar Square, and all the big twinkly famous things. And it has deckchairs, and weeping willows, and water, and a bandstand, and a hut that sells fizzy pop and ice cream. And you can sit in it at night and kiss someone on a bench and no-one will know.

Driving Through The City In The Middle Of The Night
In the day, the City is full of cocks in suits. In the night, it's deserted, and full of great big monumental buildings, like the Gherkin, all lit up with nowhere to go. Strange, but good.

The 159 Bus
From the end of my road through everything brilliant (Brixton - Kennington - over Westminster Bridge - Parliament Square - Trafalgar Square - wiggle round the back - Regent's Street - Oxford Street and occasionaly Baker Street). Not a Routemaster anymore, so no bar at the front to rest your teeth on, and no open back end to jump off on the corner of Regent's Street and Picadilly Circus, but still better than any rubbish tourist bus you could pay for.

Charlotte Street in summer
Not Soho, and not really anywhere. Full of restaurants, and people thinking they're in Sardinia eating on the street, and people falling out of pubs, and cabs, and noise, and not that many tourists. Which is good.

The Horniman Museum
Sod the V&A, National History Museum and Science Museum. Actually, don't, they're brilliant and weird and funny and all together in a row. But the Horniman has lovely gardens that people look after, lollies in freezers, African masks, and cabinets full of strange things. And it's free.

Driving From Hackney To Brixton In The Middle Of The Night
A journey that takes an hour and a half in the day takes 20 minutes at night. Whizz down Broadgate, over London Bridge, spin recklessly through Elephant and Castle, look up at the big flat Georgian faces of houses in Kennington, zoom through Brixton, past the church, up the hill and home.

Seeing Bands In Somerset House
One day a Civil Servant thought, I know - let's put on gigs in the middle of a building that contains government offices and a very famous art collection, only let in about 2,000 people, let them drink pints of Pimms and beer and that and then they can watch bands, watch the lights changing as night falls, look at the building, which is very lovely, feel it's all slightly surreal and then go home. Inspired.

Skating In Somerset House
I know, thought the same Civil Servant, rather than letting the courtyard in the middle of Somerset House be empty for the winter, let's TURN IT INTO AN ICE RINK. In the middle of London. In the middle of a load of ... well, same as above really.

Lidos
Tooting and Brockwell Park. I am speechless with love for them both.

I could go on all night. I don't know what's happened. I've spent the last 10 years saying I want to move to the country, but I'm in love with London at the moment. That's because I've got time to take busses, wander up and down streets, look at the tops of buildings, and see things I didn't know were there. Another reason not to work, I suppose.

Day 17: I Am Astonished By My Slovenliness

Why did I come back from the gym to find a pair of dirty socks on the same plate as an unfinished poached egg and piece of toast? What am I thinking?

Day 16: I Am Under Attack

What is that tickling the back of my neck? Is it my enormously fat cat, who you can hear coming from 10 feet and who has, in the past, woken me up just by walking? Has he suddenly become agile, and crept up behind me to tickle me with his facewhiskers? No. It is an Enormous Flying Ant, at least the length of my little fingernail. Aargh! Aaargh! Get OFF! What next? LOCUSTS?

Day 16: I Act Upon Some Career Advice

Apparently what you do is you write a list of stuff, under the following headings, and then that'll tell you what you REALLY want to do for a job regardless of what you THINK you should do:

1. Competent
2. Incompetent
3. Excellent
4. Special Talent.

Right, here goes:

Competent

Typing
Answering phone
Sending emails
Not killing halfwits in meetings
Writing with my hand
Smiling at people I think are idiots
Doing stuff with numbers

Incompetent

Being polite to everyone
Doing clever stuff with numbers
Putting up with being spoken to like I'm a spaz
Not staring out of the window for long, long periods of time
Not being able to resist lying under my desk for a kip c. 3pm

Excellent

Time wasting
Making other people waste time
Knowing when things look wrong
Sending sarcastic emails
Dealing with crises
Being subversive
Making complicated ideas simple
Using apostrophes.

Special Talents

Being "the Prime Minister of talking to people like they're idiots"
Cutting the head off plastic pigs and giving them to someone, referring to a particularly awful story we once heard
Mis-spelling the word 'Leprechaun' (e.g. liprokern, likprin, lkprn) and exchanging different versions with friend at work for at least 10 minutes at a time
Constructing ridiculous scenarios (e.g., 'Judi Dench called. Said she'd be the voice of the brand indefinitely for £1'), then saying '... but I told her not to bother'
Shouting "get back to work" at my team when have feet up on desk and am eating sweets.

Nope. It's not helping much. Any ideas?

Day 16: I Am Astonished By The Kindness Of Strangers

This morning I had a meeting. A BREAKFAST meeting. It was very exciting. It meant getting up and going Up West to meet someone very nice in a very nice place with proper silver teapots and little silver dishes for the butter.

I took a cab. A mini cab. Never again. I was going from Brixon to Picadilly. There are many ways of going from Brixton to Picadilly, but via Waterloo Bridge (when the Strand underpass is closed) is not one of them. I was staring out of the window thinking about something pointless, and realised we were going to Waterloo.

Me: Are you going to Picadilly?
Cab driver: Yes.
Me: Why are you going to Waterloo?
Cab driver: Is quickest way.
Me: No it is not.
Cab driver: Yes it is. I do this every day.
Me: Right. You are aware, of course, that the Strand underpass is closed, rendering a swift passage over Waterloo Bridge ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE?
Cab driver: Is OK. If you want go over Vauxhall Bridge, you should told me.
Me: Why?
Cab driver: I no talk to you.
Me: Fine.
(25 minutes later)
Cab driver: I not know Underpass closed.
Me: How? I thought you did this the whole time.
Cab driver: I been holiday. I back yesterday.
Me: How long were you on holiday? 3 months?
Cab driver: I no talk to you.
(10 minutes later)
Me: Where are you going now?
Cab driver: Shaftes-berry Avenue.
Me: Why?
Cab driver: Is quickest way.
Me: To WHERE?
Cab driver: Picadillly Circus.
Me: I'm not going to Picadilly Cicus.
Cab driver: Yes you are.
Me: No, I am not. I am going to Picadilly. I'm getting out here.
Cab driver: Fuck you.
Me: No, my friend, fuck YOU.

I got to the place where the lady was, and we had a very nice time. She gave me some advice. Then she bumped ino someone she knew, and was nice about me to them. They gave me their card. Then the person they were with gave me their card. They both said, come and talk to us about work things. I said, OK, thanks. They were nice people. Very nice people.

Day 15: I Wonder What To Do With My Time

At the moment, I am surprised that I can fill my days, but I do. Today, for example, has been like this:

Feed cat: 2 minutes. Get food out of thing. Kick cat off ankles. Tell cat to shut up. Try and get hand near cat bowl thing. Object to cat butting hand. Stop. Start again. Cat butts hand. Try and put food in bowl again. Cat butts hand. Food goes all over floor. Pick up food. Cat glares.

Breakfast 20 minutes. Poach eggs, toast toast, make tea. Eat eggs, drink tea, have staring competition with the cat.

Wash 30 minutes. Observe fat bobbing in bath. Scowl. Admire newly-perky feet. Realise that no gentleman caller = no need to shave legs. Realise am trying to line a cloud with silver. Sigh a bit. Put head under water. Bring head up out of water. Repeat 10 times.

Check Email 10 minutes. Some interesting, some not. Some from people I do not know.

Go to gym 15 minutes getting there. 5 minutes trying to park. 5 minutes not getting padlock to work. 1 hour 'activity', peppered with Anuja telling me a 'she said this to him and he said and I said and they said ANUJA YOU'RE MAD' story.

Wonder if it would be bad to ask for a new personal trainer, and interview them all first to find out whether or not they will say things like "a journey of a single mile starts with - oh, I can't remember, but you what I mean!". 10 minutes sitting in steam room listening to Radiohead followed by early period Madonna, both of which were playing on the 'sound system'. 10 minutes in cold shower wondering why shower smells weird and what the smell is and whether it's me. 1 minute not being able to work turnstile, and therefore get out of gym.

Supermarket 40 minutes. Extremely exciting. Runner beans or green beans? Cabbage? What kind of lettuce? Ginger? Rough or smooth oatcakes? Buy ingredients to make own muesli and 2 types of soup aware, as I am, that both these activities will take time.

Unpack shopping 10 minutes throwing away 10 day old courgettes and wondering where all the water in the bottom of the fridge came from. 10 minutes unpacking shopping. Realise now have 8 tins of chickpeas.

Make soup 30 minutes. Put chickpeas in it. Soup a bit boring, but useful. Eat soup.

Read The Guardian 30 minutes. Read all of ladies' bit. Read some of Media Guardian. Snort with derision. See jobs other people I know could do. Wonder about telling them, then decide not to, as they might think I am hinting that I think they should be in full time employment.

Fall asleep on sofa in front of chat show with ugly people shouting at each other 3 hours. Wake up with lips stuck to teeth and car alarm going off with head like cheap fudge.

Eat oatcakes 20 seconds.

Go into garden 20 minutes. Stare at garden. Worry about garden. Garden is dead.

Plan holiday 10 minutes. Discuss flight times with Man On Motorbike. Talk about tents. Decide on hotels.

Look for cat hotel 3 minutes. Very complicated. Give up.

Listen to phone messages 5 minutes. 3 very irritating people, one of whom I hardly know, leaving messages in imperious tones asking me to do things that I have no intention of doing.

The good thing about working with people that you like very much, doing something that is, on the whole, quite interesting, is that days pass quite quickly, and are quite entertaining. Now I am worried that the novelty of having loads of time off work will wear off. I could, of course, go and do something, but I'm not sure I can be arsed.

Day 14: I Worry About Pork Pies And Cigarettes

I smoke like a beagle. I am always surrounded by smoke. Lines of it drift out of my car window. Empty packets of fags lie around, filling up entire dustbins. Ashtrays, lighters, bits of loose tobacco on the car floor. Enormous wodges of fivers (plus a bit) set alight and making me wheeze. I smell like a pikey old bird serving cheap beer in a council estate pub. I smoke pointlessly. I don't even like it that much. It's just a thing to do.

Sometimes, I really love it. Mainly I like it when I'm pissed. I used to like smoking at work because it was a reason to do something else and talk to Suzi, even if it did involve entering a room that smelt like the pit of Hell and listening to chirruping halfwits discussing horoscopes in The Daily Star.

I made a decision some time ago that I would not eat food that I couldn't identify. Pork pies, Scotch eggs, strange sausages. Processed meat products. Packets of weird things with loads of chemicals in. If you want to be fat, eat too much really nice food. (Unlike regular consumers of KFC you will not, strangely, get a really fat face like a suet pudding with 2 sultanas for eyes.) If you don't want to be fat, don't eat too much, and certainly don't eat food with weird stuff in it. It works. I know. And I love food, and I cook it every day, and did even when I worked, religiously, every morning and every night. I stopped fancying someone once because he ate disgusting food. I started fancying someone once because he made the same kind of food as me. I worry if friends who are trying to lose weight eat low calorie food that's full of chemicals from Venus. I panic if I see my lovely Dad near a Scotch egg, because it might kill him.

Why, if I'm spending all this time trying to burn off the effects of too much delicious cheese, do I smoke fags? I have no right to worry about my Dad eating a miniature Scotch egg twice a year if I routinely stuff fags in my mouth. I am considering striking a deal with him: if he promises to stop eating miniature Scotch eggs twice a year, I will give up smoking.

The unfortunate outcome of all of this is that I may well become a pious twat. On the other hand, I'm not giving up booze, so maybe there's hope. Thinner, able to run very fast without wheezing, and drunk. I like it.

Day 13: I Am Uninterested In Gentleman Callers

I used to really love internet dating. Still do, as it goes. Think it's genius. Extremely entertaining and, as long as you don't take it all too seriously, an excellent way of lookin' for lurve. But I took my details off the interweb ages ago for various excellent reasons, so imagine my surprise when I received 3 emails this morning.

1. A man of at least 50, suggesting he might be 'out of my age range'. (My mother is in her mid-50s.)
2. A rugby playing City boy.
3. A tiny man who looks like Baldrick.

Obviously these three 'no-doubt-lovely-for-someone-but-just-not-me, ever' chaps will not do, but their correspondence has set me to thinking. And I'm trying really hard, but I can't think of any circumstance in which I would be at all interested in any gentleman caller, not even Clive Owen (having swapped brains with someone extremely clever and interesting, e.g. Stephen Fry, but not gay), telling me he loved big butts, and he could not lie.

What a relief.

Day 12: I Am Surprised When A Beautician Drips On Me

We are in a treatment room in a South London beauty parlour. A clock ticks drunkenly on the wall. SUE enters, wearing a black overall and a frown.

Sue: Right, up you hop on the couch.
Me: Hop?
Sue: Well, get up.
Me: OK.
Sue: Good girl.
Me: Hot isn't it. I'm sweating like a bastard.
Sue: Me too.

Silence. Sue administers painful treatment. I yelp, and sweat more. Sweat runs UP my nose. My left shoe falls off. The phone rings in the distance. Am ambulance goes by.

Me: Does it have to hurt this much?
Sue: Yes.

Some sweat falls from Sue's brow into my mouth.

Sue: Sorry.
Me: No problem.

Day 12: I Discover The Wisdom of The Beautician

Thank you, Debbie (aged 24, South African), for the following gems, shared with me as she administered a manicure:

1. It only takes 23 days to break a habit. (Even crack.)
2. You have to set yourself realistic goals.
3. You shouldn't chew the skin around your nails.
4. You have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.
5. Being beautiful takes hard work.
6. Time spent on yourself is time well-invested.
7. The Fine Line in Battersea has a really nice white wine you might like.
8. People with messy cars and handbags have messy minds (said as getting my keys out of my handbag).

Stop talking now please Debbie. Please.

Next week: Sue the Facialist on the Middle Eastern Crisis.

Day 12: I Realise Making Yourself More Attractive Is Very Hard Work

I literally don't know what I was thinking. I thought: my skin's OK, my face is OK, and underneath the swathes of lard I am tall, strong and in proportion. All I'll need to do is go to the gym every day, and continue eating my Everyone Says It's Great Diet (TM), and in a few months I'll look probably quite good. I thought. But no. So far today I have:

- had approx. 10lbs dead skin taken off my feet with a scalpel (30 minutes)
- not managed to work out how to use padlock in the gym (5 minutes)
- done stuff involving rowing machines and that (30 minutes)
- considered killing Anuja, not because of the exercise, but because of the INCESSANT WITTERING
- done stuff to do with weights and that (30 minutes)
- done stuff to do with Pilates and breathing and that (15 minutes)
- stood under cold shower wondering if I will ever stop sweating (10 minutes)
- got dressed (5 minutes)
- driven to beautician (behind a pub. Very good) (10 minutes)
- had things removed I didn't want (15 minutes)
- had a manicure to make myself feel better (20 minutes)
- considered killing manicurist because if her INCESSANT WITTERING (3 minutes)

I could see all the ladies coming in and out of reception at the beauticians and realised they were having things done that I would never, ever consider having done (St Tropez tan; facials; eyebrow shaping; eyelash tinting; crack wax). And of course they all looked good. Some of them were ugly, but looked kind of fit and tidy. Some of them were gorgeous. Either way, it doesn't all happen naturally, this stuff. Suppose I'd better put some effort in, then.

Day 12: I Realise There Is Nothing Worse Than Salmon Fat

There's probably something really great about salmon fat that I don't know about. I don't care. I like salmon that is pale pale pale pink, and not streaked through with really wide bits of salmonfat, and is organic. This picture makes me feel sick. I had some non-organic salmon yesterday (my own fault, granted) and it spat hot fat. I wiped down every surface in my flat. My cleaner came today (I'm unemployed, yes, but you don't expect me to change my own bed, do you? Or buy things that aren't organic? Come now), and it still fucking stinks. I have just rubbed lemon juice all over everything, even my cat. I think it may smell forever. Should I decide one day to sell my flat, I won't be able to because the smell will never go.

Day 11: I Have Been Really Quite Busy, All Things Considered

I am driving back from Highgate, having had an epiphany (as you do of a Thursday morning) and stop my Crap Car (TM) at the lights. A lorry driver pulls up behind me. I am frowning. He pulls a face and laughs. I laugh. He laughs. We are both laughing so much we get hooted by a man in a BMW (who is obviously a twat, as he drives a BMW).

I go the car park. Only £345 for 5 minutes. Where shall I park the car, I wonder, stopping on the ramp. Some men leap out. "We will park it FOR you!", they cry. OK, I say, wondering where, as every single square inch of the carpark is carpeted with car. Are they going to park it on top of the Ferrari that has just been left by a woman with diamond mobile phone? "Carwash? Inside out? £15?". For that yes, my friends, but beware the filth, it is Wrong.

1 x meeting with old boss, who raises his kind eyebrows at my suggested, er, career plan. 1 x meeting with much-loved ex-colleague. I admire his shorts. He tells me I look 4 years younger since leaving ex-employer. I fan myself with a leaflet about colonic irrigation; we wonder how we can work together. I buy some pants. Then I see a headhunter. He is nice. I explain that I am not looking for full time employment, but am aware that at some point I will need to earn some money. He nods. I stick my head under his fan. We drink water. He eats a mini Mars Bar. I do not.

I go back to the car park. I cannot see my car. They tell me to sit in a broken plastic chair, which I do. And then 3 men move 7 cars so they can get my car out. They have forgotten to wash it. I tell them they have broken my heart. I drive off. They stand in a line and blow me a kiss.

It is strangely hot. There is a party I must go to full of people I used to work with. It may be strange.

Day 10: I Am Suprised By My Resting Heart Rate, But Not By My Personal Trainer

Lovely girl, she is, Anuja. Beautiful. Sweet as anything. Calls me 'hon' and 'babes'. Says 'if you look good, you feel good'. Explains the importance of good diet. Is surprised that I love the rowing machine, but not the cross-trainer. Talks about spin cycles, and is not talking about washing machines. And is, quite simply, one of the thickest people I have ever met. I have, for the purposes of my twice-weekly sessions with said Anuja ("you're a Libran, aren't you! An air sign, just like me! We'll get on like a house on fire! Some of my clients think I'm a bit mad!"), decided to lose my mind.

I love it when thickos tell you about the importance of diet. LOOK AT ME, you want to shout. I know I'M FAT, but I'm not BLOBBY and NOTHING about the way I talk or move or dress or speak or talk knowledgeably about my 'condition' would suggest that I need to be told about nutrition.

I tried WeightWatchers once. It didn't work. Partly because me and carbohydrate are not friends (and they suggest you eat baked potatoes all day), but mainly because I looked at the 'diet' and was confused. What are these ready made meals of which you talk? What do you mean, KFC? MacDonalds? 'Treat myself' with Cadbury chocolate? No fucking chance. And 'diet foods'? Just no. All the evidence suggests people just eat twice as much as they would have anyway. And most of those things are full of weird chemicals that come from the Moon, and were not made for us to eat.

The idiots that haven't worked out that a takeaway curry contains approximately 10 years' worth of saturated fat, or that a tub of icecream is full of sugar and cream (or rather sugar, genetically modified melted pig and 500 E-numbers), need WeightWatchers. It helps them stop spooning poison down their necks. And it works for them. It's a bit like the people on You are what you eat. Everyone gasps in surprise as people who have previously eaten pizza and Coke for breakfast lose weight after 2 months on fucking quinoa and seaweed. 'Isn't Gillian McKeith AMAZING!', everyone cries. No, she is not. Find some very fat people, check to make sure they're REALLY stupid, and put them on the programme. You'll be amazed. They'll stop living off junk food and start eating vegetables, and they will lose weight! No shit. Anyway, I digress.

Anuja high-fived me after she'd taken my blood pressure and checked my heart rate. Again, there is nothing about me to suggest that high-fives are, or could be, something that I would necessarily see as a central part of my life. But she is thin and fit, and knows about exercise, and I am not and therefore, for the next few weeks, I am her bitch. But if she tries to tell me that I should be eating '5-a-day', I will kill her with my hands.

Day 9: I Am Not Encouraged By New Musical Releases

This morning I went from Brixton to Highgate via Big Ben, Admiralty Arch, Nelson's Column and a load of busses on Tottenham Court Road. It was 6.30 so no-one was out (apart from strange men in little vans and wild-eyed advertising people in convertible TTs), and I listened to New Order, St Etienne and Belle and Sebastian, in that order, and it was brilliant, and all the lights were green and the sun was out.

On the way back, however, I saw something dark and it scared me. I saw a poster, and then I thought a twat of a record company man had a conversation with another record company man and it went like this.

Man 1: Time for a new Blunt.
Man 2: Surely not.
Man 1: Damn right. I've got a 3 week holiday in the Maldives to pay for and the little lady won't go less than 5 star.
Man 2: How is she?
Man 1: Having her tits done.
Man 2: Give her my best.
Man 1: Will do. Right, mate, listen to this. We take the typography of Blunt. We add the styling of Dylan and a smidge of Chris Martin, especially around the chin area. Then we pick a name out of a kid's book, preferably a classic. What do you get?
Man 2: This?









Man 1: You got it.
Man 2: We're gonna make a million.
Man 1: Lapsang Suchong?
Man 2: Don't mind if I do.

Day 8: I Consider The Possibility Of A Cosmic Clean-Out

There's people out there who mutter about fate and that. And they go, tout est pour le meilleur dans le meilleur des mondes possibles. And I go, shut up you twat, say it in English: everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Now, the world isn't the best, we all know that - which makes me question the veracity of 'everything is for the best', but don't you sometimes just look around and go: hold up, this is weird, surely someone is trying to tell me something?

Not sure who, mind you. I don't really believe in God. I don't think fate exists; sometimes circumstances happen that, many years after, you realise you exacerbated yourself. I don't hold with those folk who hang around crystals, and I don't believe in the Chinese thing about not having shit under your bed (although not having shit under my bed has made me feel better, granted). I think I believe in truths that are muscular and unarguable. I like it when people say things that take the wind out of my sails. I like being fed obvious truths that make me think.

But this is ridiculous: to have everything taken away, with enough money not to worry for a while? That's not normal. Maybe someone is trying to tell me something. Just maybe.

Day 8: I Am Considering Acquiring A Practical Skill

The person who cuts my hair is a stand up comedian with a Philosophy degree. He runs a comedy club and wears a (self-commissioned) t-shirt that says I (heart) Zinedine Zidane. When he needs money, he cuts hair. When he doesn't, he doesn't. He tells good jokes, and we wonder what Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir got up to of an evening (smoking small clay pipes and drinking Absinthe, of course). I suggest that Sartre was always giving it some about existential angst because he was only 5ft 1, and God knows that must have made life difficult.

Anyway, I've been turning the hot water tap on and off, and turning the extractor fan on and off, and turning the shower on and off, and opening and closing the cupboard to admire the invisible mend on my floorboad, which has been turned round, and wondering what trade I can take up. In discussion with a friend who is now a little less close than he once was on Saturday night, I suggested doing a ladies' DIY course, learning to cook Thai food, and doing a basic mechanics course, because I want to be the sort of person you could leave in a wood and who would survive. And I've got nothing else to do.

Most work doesn't make you free. For freedom, for really being able to control what you do, you need what used to be called a trade. A practical skill. It's all well and good being able to design shop windows, or madly intelligent City trading networks, or being able to sell things that people don't need, but is writing a marketing strategy as profoundly satisfying as cooking a good dinner for 10 people, or being able to build shelves, or change the oil in your car?

I intend to join the massed ranks of the over-educated middle classes who, equipped with a proper and useful skill that everyone wants, skip through life doing practical things here and there for money, leaving enough time to do the things they really want to do (e.g. dog dancing or ballet). The question is, which one will I pick? Could I get my fat arse in the small spaces required for tricky plumbing jobs? Does the fact I can't really do maths mean 'no' to carpentry? Does the fact that I have the patience of an irritable peanut mean that this is all a foolish dream? And am I consigned to pretending people need the things they don't want for the rest of my life?

Day 8: I Have A New Extractor Fan, Shower Head and Hot Water Tap, And My Floorboard Is Turned Round

No time to lose. Feeling sorry for yourself doesn't get much done, does it? Allow yourself a short period of mourning, acknowledge that the Black Dog may snap sharply at your ankles, see your friends, and note how blue the sky is today. And if that fails, attend to minor DIY tasks you have been putting off since 1903.

Call 0800 Handyman. They're the best. They come and like, do stuff for you. All the things you haven't done because you don't know how, or can't be arsed. Write a list. Phone them up. Tell them what's on the list. Then a man comes with toolboxes, on a motorbike, drinks water and DOES IT ALL while you lie on the sofa drinking tea and shouting 'twat!' sporadically as you read the Guardian Media 100 List. Scan the Jobs section. Sigh. (Do I want to be a marketing communications manager for the North London NHS Trust? No I do not. Do you know who I am?) Then start talking to the Man With The Toolbox.

Me: Do we need a bit of wood for that?
Don: Yes we do.
Me: Shall I go and get one? There's a wood yard thing on Acre Lane.
Don: Yes. You need 18mm thick pine, a bit about (waves hands like has caught 5lb salmon) so big. The, er, timber yard will have it.
Me: OK. Anything else?
Don: Well I might need a bit for the tap.
Me: Just phone me then and I'll get it.
Don: (Squints, looks at me as if I am drunk and/or mad) You won't get that in a timber yard.
Me: (Startled) No! No! There's a ... plumbing shop across the road.
Don: Plumbing Supplies Merchant?
Me: Yes, that one. Yes. Tea?
Don: Water.
Me: OK.

Now, it transpires that Don has a degree in PPE from Oxford. He's about 50. He used to work in the public sector. Before that he was a social worker, and before that an RAF pilot. He taught himself how to do DIY and now he has a carefree life, motorcycling around and mending things and making things better. He makes people happy. He is not stuck in an office. He does what he pleases. When he puts the toolboxes away in the garage at the end of the day, he doesn't think about work anymore.

Where I live has the same name as a poem by Keats, and after he'd packed up his bags and stopped being so glum, and as he was walking out of the door, he started quoting it:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing...

Then he said, that's what your flat should be like, Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing, smiled and left. I love Don a bit.

Day 7: I Count My Losses

In the last 5 weeks, I have lost:

1. A job
2. A cat (not literally lost, he died)
3. A boyfriend
4. 10lbs
5. My car log book
6. My diary, meaning I have missed 4 friends' birthdays
7. The key to the window
8. A few nights' sleep.

I almost wish I had to go to work tomorrow to take my mind off things. Actually, no I don't. Nothing's THAT bad.

Day 6: I Have Worked Out The Best Way To Travel When At Glastonbury (or any festival)

In an invisible golf cart that travels through a) solid things, including people; b) time, in increments of 15 minutes.

Day 5: I Am Afraid Of Rolf Harris and Richard and Judy

Because they hate their jobs so much and are jealous, the Working make jokes about the Not Working watching daytime television. They imagine we sit around all day watching 5 consecutive episodes of Judge Judy and eating family packs of Yum-Yums from Tesco. They are wrong. Daytime television can be terrifying, and they should be grateful that they're not exposed to it.

Rolf Harris can appear when you don't expect it. You know, him. Likes animals. Beard (like Satan - see left). Glasses. Australian. Didgeridoo. Hums and paints at the same time. Portrait of the Queen. National art events in Trafalgar Square. Debunking the Old Masters for the barely literate on BBC1. That kind of thing. "Two little boys/Had two little toys/One had a wood-en HORSE". "Tie me kangaroo down, sport."

Anyroad up, R. Harris was on a flight to Canada or something and heard about the plight of the baby seals. Now look, I'm not going to take sides on this. I don't know enough. The Canadian government say they have to be culled otherwise the world would be over-run with seals with pleading eyes, and none of us would get any work done. The other people say that they're skinned alive, with their furs (still twitching) shipped across the world to adorn Naomi Campbell's stupid head. That aside, Harris was horrified enough by this to write a poem. It goes like this (at the beginning):

Shall we do it?
Shall we do it, you and I?
Shall we do it?
Shall we do it, you and I?

Some ordinary man with a baseball bat
Stands over them and bashes in their heads
They're babies!
Helpless babies.

Oh he's very very careful as he slits
From infant navel up to chinline
At least I imagine that's the method
I've never really watched, like a mother would.

Then he set it to a full-on Jah-Wobble-after-too-much-marmalade late-80s dance track, complete with keening seal sound effects and didgeridoo ("that haunting instrument").

And then Richard and Judy's production team make a video. The Rolf talking to camera, intercut with pictures of pleading baby seals and stacks of corpses (and back to The Rolf. I'm not sure which is better.) And Richard vows then and there that he will make a DVD of this masterpiece and 'send it to all the major record labels in the country'. Judy cried a bit. Richard looked earnest.

Look, a 2:2 in English and Related Literatures from York doesn't make me the F.R. Leavis du jour. I know the difference between Milton and Donne (one was blind, the other wasn't), and Virginia Woolf and James Joyce (one was Irish and wore glasses, the other didn't), and Jane Austen and Jilly Cooper (one wrote novels about 13 year olds shagging at boarding school, the other didn't), but that's about it. But I will tell you this: that is a piss-poor bit of poetry. The Rolf is good at drawing pictures of himself as a kangaroo whilst humming and playing the didgeridoo. Shall we do it?/Shall we do it, you and I? What, Rolf? Buy your record? Certainly not.

It may be that you care deeply about the fate of the baby seals and want to support Rolf. If so, you can do so here. If you don't care but fancy a bit of a fright, click on the same link, or enjoy a selection of Rolf's album covers here. All I know is that it's things like this that make me think working isn't so bad after all.

Day 4: I Know What The Best Lolly Is

Between B&Q and going to Greggs the Baker ("You want a pasty." "No I don't". "Yes you do." "No I don't. They are made of the noses of pigs"), we went to the newsagent so I could buy a copy of the Guardian that I wouldn't read so I could throw it away tomorrow morning. We thought we might want a lolly.

We both had a Calippo, and we both had 'Tropical Strawberry' flavour. I hadn't really heard of strawberries growing in the tropics but we had a look at the packaging and saw what we thought was a bit of pineapple, so we reckon that's what makes it tropical. Anyway, it was really nice. Kind of like sorbet in a tube, but not as runny. Not rock hard like an orange lolly from an icecream van at Whistable, but like really frozen hard sorbet. You should try one. You might like it. We did.

The Man on the Motorcycle also ate a caramel donut that he made me buy in Greggs the Baker. Donuts and things make me feel sick. They also make me run around and then fall asleep in mid-sentence, which is probably why people I know offer me sweets. Anyway, Man on the Motorcyle had an urgent need for a kip when we got back and I was in the middle of telling him about sugar rushes and Low GI and that when I noticed he'd fallen asleep.

I made some more low GI Muffins. This time I put in more eggs and less flour, and lots of blueberries (very expensive, particularly organic ones) and mushed up banana. The texture was better and they looked more like buns and less like bits of recovered grouting, but they still tasted fucking disgusting. I am going to spend all of Tuesday trying to make low GI Muffins that taste like a Tropical Strawberry Calippo. They'd be good, I think.

Day 4: I Find Treasure In The Cellar

My flat looks tidy, until you open a cupboard. Then things fall on your head. I am used to that sort of thing though because when I was 5 (or thereabouts), the cover of the gas meter - conveniently situated over my bed - fell off in the night and on to me. No harm done. (I think it was the gas meter, but I'm not sure it matters.) Then, many years later - somewhere between the age of 8 and 12 - I opened a kitchen cupboard door in Paris and the whole cupboard fell on my head. Still no harm done. I think.

The cellar was a place of Darkness. Knee-deep in unnamed stuff, all of it covered in a light mould, most of it un-usable. Not that it mattered, because I didn't know what was in there. It just weighed heavy on my heart.

The Man On The Motorcycle came from Oxford. We ate scrambled eggs and drank coffee. Then we empied the cellar. Emptied it. All of it. On the floor of my flat. I threw things away. Full bin bags were thrown away without being opened. By 11.30, there were 35 bin bags, an old hoover, an old telly, 5 picture frames, 1.23m empty boxes and a cake in the street outside my flat. I phoned Lambeth Council. "Someone has left HUNDREDS of BAGS on the STREET outside my flat and I KNOW how keen you are to MAKE SURE that the STREETS that are NOW EMPTY due to your EXCELLENT PARKING RESTRICTIONS are kept clear. Thought you should know. Oh. You're sending a big truck to take it away within 2 hours? How wonderful. Thank you."

I have known the Man on the Motorcyle for 25 years, so it was good it was him. We found pictures of me aged 15, and pictures of me aged 27, with a quiff. I read bits of letters. He pretended to be interested. We went to B&Q and bought shelving and masks for the dust and rubble bags. I put 5 more bin bags in the street. We drank tea. I found treasure:

- a football signed by Michael Owen
- 3.23m photographs
- letters from people who are dead
- wedding invitations from people who are divorced
- love letters from people who are now friends
- a tambourine
- a fish kettle big enough to cook a shark the size of the Moon
- a saucepan big enough to cook Michael Winner in
- pictures of me and people I was happy with once, which reminded me to pay attention now
- a bra
- 45 velvet scarves.

The cellar is now clean. Things are in boxes, on shelves. The lawnmower has a home, as do the three deckchairs. I know where my A-level results are, and where to go if I need a hammer at short notice. Clearing out the cellar was more satisfying than a month of work. And now I've got more cupboards to excavate, a garden to butcher, and walls to paint. All of this means I cannot possibly work for at least another month.

Day 3: I Am Alarmed By My Mobile Phone

On my new mobile telephone there is a set of text message templates. Things like "I am in a meeting, call me later" and "I will be late, see you at ...". Fair enough, even though entirely irrelevant to me because I don't intend to have a meeting ever again, at least not one with 16 people in the room and only one person talking. (I like the idea of meetings that you have standing up that last no more than 15 minutes, and that have Custard Creams in them, or cake.) And no meeting should be so important that you can't take a call from someone you like telling you stuff that you want to hear.

Anyway, there's one that just says: "I love you too". It reminded me that work can do that; that it can mean that you're so busy (or lazy) that you have to use a text message template to tell someone something important. On the other hand, it could just be there for teenage lotharios to keep their 'bitches warm'. (Genuine expression, heard on the 159 bus.)

Day 3: I Am Going To Ikea

The man on the motorcycle was not on his motorcycle. It is tomorrow he comes to help me dredge the cellar of the remnants of my really quite happy life.

In the meantime, I have been despatched to Ikea "to buy shelving and boxes - probably called Boxi and Shelvi - so it will be well-ordered". I am not sure how much shelf you can get in a 3-year old Micra, but I know for a definite fact you can get 40 bags of 100 Tea Lights in and still have change from a fiver (for a hotdog). You can also get 200 little pencils in your handbag if you take a big one and don't try and take them from the same place all at once.

Croydon seems a very long way away. I may be some time. I love Ikea.

Day 3: I Have Won A Holiday In Cancun

Very few people have my home telephone number. I am ex-directory, for reasons that I can't quite recall; I think I thought it would make me seem mysterious.

When the phone rings, it is invariably one of four friends, a member of my immediate family, or someone wanting money. Today, when the phone rang (50s, red, rings like a phone rings in films) I jumped fair out of my seat aware, as I was, that my dear friend was at work, one was travelling on a motorcycle, one was in Oregon, and that I owe the Lady a call. My family are variously in France or Amsterdam, and unlikely to call in the morning.

An ominous silence. "Hello? Hello? HELLO? Who's THERE?" An American voice, like that of a simpleton cheerleader, transmits itself down the cable. "Well hello there Ma'am" (objectionable before we start; I am 36, not 68), "you have won a holiday to Cancun." I drop the phone in horror and sit rigid in my chair. Where is Cancun? Why me? How did I win a free holiday to somewhere I have never heard of?

Day 3: I've Got A Parking Permit And A New Phone

At work, I had a complicated phone that I didn't understand and a Blackberry that was never charged. Both of these devices made me feel important. They were in fact life-destroying tools of Guilt. I didn't have much else to do today so I've had it upgraded, my own mobile, with my own number and all those of my friends on.

I was served in the shop by Stephane, who I think is in the French football team. He was unusual for Carphone Warehouse staff in that he didn't look like a fish and could talk. The new phone looks like an icecream wafer, except black, and can take photographs of the Moon. Stephane was nice and transferred all my numbers for me. I think he also sold me insurance. I know I signed something.

Then I went to get a parking permit. Even though I had a photograph of me standing next to my car with the log book and the Minister for Transport with his arm around me and the Chief Exec of the DVLA, my documentation was not adequate. The man serving me looked like a Zulu prince, and was kind. He gave me a month's pass.

I think I'm supposed to get a skip today, but I'm not sure how.

Today and tomorrow I am excavating my cellar. I want it clean, like Michael's, with steel shelving and row after row of bottled fruit. At the moment there is a lawnmower halfway down the stairs. The rest of it is filled with unnamed boxes of pain, and bags of weird.

Day Two: I've Got A Parking Ticket

Had it towed from outside my house a month ago, my car, when I was on holiday and my dear friend was house and cat sitting. He retrieved the car, accompanied by a friend from San Diego, at some expense and effort.

I know about the restrictions now. I haven't got my residents' parking permit yet. I should be grateful for residents' parking; apparently it will make my piss-poor 1 bedroom flat in Brixton worth £2.34m. I paid some money today to park my car (outside my house), and then, as I was practising lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, I heard a man shouting.

YOU LOOKED INTO MY EYES YOU BITCH. YOU SAW ME. YOU LOOKED INTO MY EYES AND THEN YOU WALKED AWAY AND THEN I TURNED ROUND AND YOU APPEARED YOU BITCH.

Not a local man cursed by the resident soothsayer and fortune teller, but a man in a van trapped by a 5ft 3 'parking attendant'. I stuck my head round the blind. She was putting a ticket on my car.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP RIGHT NOW HOW DARE YOU.

Man in van is running down street. She is running after him. "In a minute!" she yelps over her shoulder. I am shouting. He is shouting. We are all shouting.

She comes back. I talk slowly, and not unlike the Queen, as if she had been dropped on her head as a baby. "What on earth are you doing? I have put a ticket in the window. See. HERE." Not in the parking zone, she tells me, all of 2 feet away. "Oh for heaven's sake, don't be so ridiculous. Take it off immediately." But no, she cannot. "I pay my .... COUNCIL TAXES". I can't think of anything else to say. She says (curse her eyes) it is not her problem, and calls me 'love'. HOW DARE YOU CALL ME LOVE YOU PATRONISING WA- ...." Then I see my charming holy neighbour coming out of her front door and stop. And smile. And say: "of course. I absolutely understand. You are only doing your job."

Luckily, I have the number of a local soothsayer and fortune teller, who will 'curse all my enemies' and 'rid me of jealous need'. Just as well, really.

Day Two: I've Got An Interview

Got up at 5.45 and went to see the Nice Lady, who suggests (and I paraphrase, of course), that I am very fucking pissed off about being ejected from my place of work, and am smearing my squished down Dark Thoughts all over those most dear to me. She may be right. I asked if lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling would be a good use of my time over the coming months. She said 'possibly'. I wanted to ask about staring out of the window, but didn't really think it was appropriate.

I've got an interview this afternoon. I don't really want to go. In fact, I don't really want to work. The day I knew I was related to my brother (definitely, the fact that we look very similar and both have similar facial and cranial tics aside) was the day he said "You know what the problem with work is? I fucking hate working."

I spent £103 in Waitrose on the way back. It was very exciting. Almost deserted apart from an immensely tall American who couldn't find the sausages, even though they were literally staring at him from the aisle. I stared at tinned sardines for at least 3 minutes, and chose two tins with pretty drawings of happy fish on. Not sure that I'll eat them, but nice to know they're there. I have also bought some more ingredients to try the Low GI Muffins again. I won't let Gallop break me. Oh no. I want cake that is not cake all the time, every day, forever.

Sigh.

Day 1: I Asked For Crispy Salt And Pepper Squid, You Fool

I had a home-made muffin for breakfast. It was fucking revolting. Do not make Rick Gallop's Low GI Muffins. They are sand and glue, and that is all. I know. I made them. I saw what went into them. He says you can put raisins in them too, but I hate raisins and dried organic blueberries are expensive.

When you don't work and have enough money not to worry (because your ex-employer was public-spirited), you make muffins and use public transport. I used to drive to work, and when I didn't drive, I would take a cab. Today I went to the cinema with someone. I thought it would be nice to take the tube at 2 in the afternoon and play 'spot the terrorist', but the tube was broken, so I got a cab.

Better have lunch, we thought. We ordered crispy salt and pepper squid from the man. It came.

Sarah: Excuse me.
Waiter (taciturn, blond, South African): Yis?
Sarah: Is this what we ordered?
Waiter: Crispy salt and pepper squid? Yes.
Sarah: What's the red sauce? It's sweet and sour.
Waiter: No it is not. It is chili sauce.
Sarah: Where on the menu does it say 'covered in chili sauce'?
Waiter (rolls eyes): Do you want to choose something else from the menu?
Me: No.
Sarah: No. Do you think this looks crispy?
Waiter: DO. YOU. WANT. SOMETHING. ELSE. FROM. THE. MENU.
(I drink the wine)
Sarah: No.
Waiter: I will take this away.
Me: No, come on. Do you actually and literally think this looks crispy?
Waiter: It is crispy salt and pepper squid.
Me: So it's squid. Good, very good. But it's not salty or peppery, and is in a red sauce which is not on the menu and because of the red sauce is not in any way crispy. Apart from that it's brilliant, really. And just exactly what we ordered.
Waiter: (laser eyes of evil) I did not write the menu.

Sarah sighs. I drink the wine.

We saw a film that had people with silly voices in and a woman that acted only with her pout and her eyebrow. There was one good bit in it though, in which two men faught on a mill that had detached itself from a mill house.

I had another revolting muffin for dinner. Can't find anything else to eat. Or rather just can't be bothered to cook.