I'm sat on a sofa in a juice bar. I'm sat next to a girl with long, radish-red hair and we're both typing away. God knows what she's typing – she keeps angling her laptop screen away from me. For my part, I am typing a column about personal space. My theme came to mind for a couple of reasons: firstly, she has muttered the phrase approximately four times since I've joined her on the sofa. And secondly, in related news, because I am paranoid that I might have invaded hers.
I bought a typewriter last week so this week's column will be about that. And, in other news, I'm also writing it on my typewriter – though I'm sure when it comes down to it my editor will insist that I "type it up" as a Word document; we'll exchange two or three emails about this before I will fall on my sword and do as he says and send it to him as an attachment.
Last Sunday, I went and watched Whiplash with some friends. No, that's not fair. I didn't do that. But then again, in many ways I did. Well, it's a grey area.
I need to sharpen up on my lying. Last week I found myself in a situation where I needed to lie and I panicked and told the truth. And in doing so I cheated myself out of four days of free, live snooker.
I got caught up in a bit of modelling work this week. It wasn't intentional. No contracts were signed, and no money changed hands either, which was a good thing. It took the pressure off. Relaxed and unofficial, on Wednesday evening – for about an hour or so – I became the face of a Soho pizza joint. And though that had never been my plan, I have to say I quite enjoyed the experience.
I went to get some engraving done this week on a metal box thing that I've bought for a special lady. I'd not been engraving for a while so I experienced a real frisson of excitement. That feeling of anticipation you get when you're clutching a metal box thing in Timpson, and waiting for a man to carve your sentiments on to its base.
When is a joke not a joke? Not sure, really. I suppose when one person thinks it's a joke and the other person thinks it's just a normal bit of life. I'm pretty sure I've just experienced this phenomenon.
I find myself in the wilds this week. Stuffed up in the UK countryside, miles away from anywhere, I am huddled in the corner of a rudimentary cottage. This is an isolated bolt-hole; somewhere to get away from it all and knock out my column without distractions. That was the idea, anyway – but after three days it has done for me. Grey from the isolation, I worry that cabin fever is setting in.
My friend was morphing into Noel Edmonds and I didn't like it
I sent a Spaniard packing last Sunday. Well I didn't, but you know... I was in a group of people who did and I didn't step in and I didn't stop it, so as far as I'm concerned, yeah, I sent a Spaniard packing and I'm as bad as the rest of them.
Bloody taxes. That's my current situation: doing my bloody taxes.
I awoke last night at 3am, in dire need of water. I was in an Ibis Hotel – a fairly mild example of a hotel – and I was dehydrated because I'd earlier drunk five pints of continental lager with a Scottish dancer. My eyelids were sagging down over my cheeks with tiredness as I waddled, mole-like, in search of taps and cups. After about 15 minutes of fairly broad slapstick I found what I was looking for. Only it wasn't what I was looking for. Because Ibis do something very weird with their cups. And so, even though I'd found them, the challenge of quenching my thirst had really only just begun.
I'm in my late thirties these days – I'm 38 – so I guess I must have been to the pub maybe 4,000 times over the years, but even with that wealth of experience behind me, I struggled to cope with last night's events.
I'm 38 now, so I had a dinner party this week. Stuffed a couple of lemons into a bird and stuffed the bird into the oven for a couple of hours and served it up with green beans, green broccoli and scrumptious golden-brown roast potatoes. It was as delicious as it sounds, but it's the reaction of one my guests that I want to talk about. He was fervent in his appreciation for what I had achieved in my modestly-sized kitchen. It was the way he showed his appreciation that I had a problem with. I'm still having flashbacks.
I'm sat in my kitchen looking at a bag of rice. It's a large bag, and inside, hidden deep, deep among the brown grains, is my mobile phone. I'm hoping that the rice will draw out the moisture and it will start working again. Occasionally I tut or curse or slap my palm against my forehead. I blame myself for my sodden phone. It's sodden because I walked through a fountain last night.
There is nothing more disorientating or more demeaning than finding you've fallen asleep on a sofa. And no more dismal age to do it at than 37. But, stiff-necked and gummy-eyed, that's the situation I find myself trying to adjust to right now. Contorted, sprawling and unclear what the time is, I am squinting like a mole. There's sailing on the telly.