Current affairs elude me.

I watch the TV news purely to see how the newsreader signs off at the end of the programme. Will it be a serious "goodnight", a friendly smile or even a momentarily cheeky wink?

It's at times like this that I miss the reassurance of Michael Buerk.


I have temporarily forsaken little white Ibuprofen pills.

I am dissolving soluble aspirin in water, because it's a far more effervescent experience, and I need excitement with my painkillers. It reassures me that the thumping agony is worth it in the end.

Las Vegas

I went to Las Vegas for my holidays.

I didn't like it.


She left behind her rose-scented soap; and I have used it until only a slither remains.

I like smelling like a flower, but the boys in the office sometimes look at me funny.


Spam email is so very humdrum that even I find it boring by now.

But wait just one humdrum minute - what's this?
Subject: The pain of love is the pain of being alive. It is a perpetual wound.
Oh, this does sound more interesting. Maybe I should open the email and read more ...
Regrettably, the contrast of the tragic and poetic subject line with the very personal content beneath it is now making me wonder whether this isn't just spam, but rather yet one more missive from a bitter and disappointed ex-partner.

I really must get myself some better email correspondents.


I am taller than a letterbox, but smaller than a lamppost.

I am of average height.


[I have lost my tape measure]


That Dan Brown is an idiot.

I don't believe a word he writes.


On the rare occasions when I relax enough to enjoy a lie-in, I lie there (obviously) contemplating the ceiling.

This morning, however, a role reversal took place. The ceiling contemplated me.

I now have no roof over my head. And it's raining.


When I moved in several people gave me bottles of champagne.

Nothing exciting enough to warrant opening them has happened since.


I once had clarinet lessons.

After about six weeks, my music teacher declared I hadn't a musical note in my body. So I stopped.

I just play my iPod, now.


I neglected to turn one of my watches forward by an hour when British Summer Time began.

So for the last few weeks, I've had sixty more minutes than everyone else.

I feel superior.


Today I painted my shelves white and put my books onto them. I arranged them by size and colour as I do not approve of alphabetical order.


Today is the very essence of humdrum, for today is a Bank Holiday. This means that I am at a loose end and have no idea what to do with myself. Indeed, Bank Holiday Mondays are so particularly humdrum that I am left with only one thought slowly meandering through my mind: "At least it's not a normal Monday".

It's Tuesday tomorrow. Tuesday is not a Bank Holiday.


I remember having genitals once. It was great. Happy days.

I don't have genitals now, of course. But I don't mind. Always look on the bright side, that's what I say. "Keep your chin up," I say to Mrs Colin, when we're discussing my lack of genitals. "Worse things happen at sea, Mrs Colin. I may not have any genitals, my dear Mrs Colin, but then again I could be dead. So you have to think positively, don't you?"

Mrs Colin just glowers at me whilst polishing her knives, though.