Day 85: I Am Finally Revealed

Many of you may have wondered why I look strangely like Curious George. Wonder no more. I have cast off the disguise and here I am, the real me - complete with fez, crisps (plain Hula-Hoops), small clay pipe and glass of Absinthe. How has this thing been possible?, I hear you cry. Easy.

Some weeks ago, I admired the work of a very clever man called Dave Shelton. Such was our bond that he insisted on capturing my image in order to preserve it for all eternity. I think I look rather fine, and I am sure you will all agree.

And yes - more excitement to follow. A dear friend will be creating a light but generally unobtrusive and most definitely stylish (think Le Corbusier-meets-Louis XIV-armoire-meets-Tom-Dixon-c. 1999), site redesign in the coming weeks.

Sweet Lord! Will the excitement never end?























And thank you, Dave Shelton. If you ever need an illustrator, he's your man. And go and look at his blog, where you will find The Development Of The Monkey and a recent and very fine elephant in a suit.

Day 85: I Wonder If It Is Wrong To Laugh

Day 85: I Mend My Television

Bleak nights without the television. I have had to read, write, cook 12-course dinners from scratch, engage with my vile cat, go to bed early, see people and live.

But the pain is over. For thanks to the lovely Clare, I have mended the television by - yes, it's true - switching the digital box and off at the wall.

Bring me your broken electrical appliances, and I Shall Make Them Well. I have magic in my fingers, and want to share it with the world.

Day 85: I Get My Lunch In My Hair

I am dressed properly for the first time in months, for this afternoon I Have An Interview. Shoes with heels on, and everything. (By the way, if I get a job but it's not permanent, can I still be Non-Working? Or do I have to write about the things that happen when I am Non-Working, i.e. not in the office? I see Non-Working as more of a state of mind than a literal description, so maybe it doesn't matter at all.)

It is just as well I had an itch on the back of my head, for when I scrached my head, I found a bit of carrot in mustard sauce (but thankfully none of the pork fillet that went with it.) I dropped it by mistake and the cat ate it, which is odd, because it was the dead cat that liked vegetables, preferably in chili sauce. (Remember, that cat is now dead. Do not let your cat eat Spaghetti Alla Puttanesca.)

I have had to wash my hair in a hurry and now the back of my dress is wet. Thankfully, I am also Very Tired, having not slept much last night, so it seems that my success is assured. And by success, I mean another few months of unemployment, thinking of faraway places, lifting weights on a half-ball, and being desperately, fatally in love with Croydon.

Day 85: I Am Afraid To Drive

I have just seen more couture frockery gathered together in one room than I thought was possible. It was good. Dear Friend adorning her lovely self in wedding attire, whilst I lolled on the bed and kept a strange animal out of the tissue paper. A dodgy moment with £800 worth of Miu Miu and a stiff zip, but otherwise we came out of it well and went for dinner in what I believe is commonly known as a 'gastropub'.

But the journey back! My dears!

Kingsland Road

I go up and down Kingsland Road a lot. I have three friends who live near or off it, and some journeys to the North cannot be undertaken without going up it. Of all the roads in London, Kingsland Road is the most dangerous. More people wander randomly into the street without looking than they do anywhere else. I will kill someone soon, and not be sorry about it. Add to this people changing lanes without indicating and shooting out of side roads without looking, and I will be dead too.

New Trick By Cyclists

Be a knob. Have a stupid hat on, and a cretinous friend. Then stand at a pedestrian crossing and push your front wheel out like you're going to cross the road. Do this repeatedly, making sure that everyone brakes suddenly and has a minor stroke. Then laugh when someone drives into the back of someone else. Then stop laughing when I get out of my car and bludgeon you to death with four miniature bottles of Evian that I happen to have in my boot. (That and a Daily Telegraph golf umbrella, some books, some unlabelled CDs, an old pair of trainers and - by the smell of things - some salmon that I 'lost' about a week ago.)

Drive A Porsche Cayenne

You are a knob before we start, but just to add to your knobbery, make sure you change lanes without indicating, start moving in whilst I am driving without indicating and suddenly overtake me, turn off suddenly without indicating, brake suddenly and for no apparent reason, and listen to fucking 50 Cent so loudly it makes my clutch reverberate.

But first of all, make sure that I am behind you from Dalston Station, over London Bridge, down Blackfriars Road, through Kennington and all the way to the Oval. Then and only then will you die when I get out of my car, pick it up (as possessed by superhuman angerstrength), and drop it on your head. But to be honest, that won't make much of a difference, as you are already so patently fucking stupid that removing half your brain will make no difference whatsoever.

Drive A Blue Van

What you must do is this. Drive into the back of a parked car (a not posh car; a car that belongs to a normal person living a normal life), then drive off fast. You must also then underestimate the power of my memory when I am Truly Fucked Off, for I have remembered your registration number, and your cockery will be found out.

I hear the underground in London is very efficient this time of year.