I collected my briefcase yesterday from the man who found it abandoned and partially ransacked last Monday evening.

When we spoke, he was n't certain which day he'd found it (I did n't ask why he could n't remember, how churlish would that have been, I'm just grateful he did what he did), as far as he could recall it was either Monday or Tuesday. Based on what he told me everything points towards Monday more or less unequivocally. Walking home, he saw two cyclists tear along in front of him, then a moment or two later, came across my briefcase, spewing it's contents on to the pavement of a scruffy little square behind Shepherds Bush central line station. Too close in time and context to simply be two disassociated events

I gave him and his missus a box of chocolates. Good deeds should always be acknowledged. Piece by infinitely small piece, it's people like him who are slowly civilising and improving this complex, difficult, frequently amoral world, one grain of sand at a time.

Great that he got to it before the rain spoiled it, or hands, other than those of the original bag snatcher, had rummaged through it. Most of the contents that I've lugged around in it were still there: notebook, library book, umbrella, even a pen; no sign of my Blackberry or my Filofax, they had gone. However, the great wedge of personal papers that I'd been cramming into my filofax were still in my bag. I imagine they must have fallen out when these two kids were rifling through it.

Defiance for one thing, I can't have these people thinking they've won, no, not at all; and then the more mundane issue of me not wanting to fork out for a new briefcase for another, means the two of us will be going to and from the office next week just as we have for years.

The economic topic de nos jours is the imploding US property market, and by extension ours too, since our economies move in some sort of tandem working, like two planets orbiting, except they go round each other and not the Sun. Sub-prime has entered the lexicon.

I am amazed at the greed ,and really, there's no other term for it, the moral turpitude of those predatory finance companies who inveigled people on next to nothing incomes to sacrifice everything (ultimately their roofs) and take monumental mortgages on board, on payment rates, as the alleged financial adviser knows full well, can never be met. It is criminal.

A healthy and more importantly stable, bubble free property market moves any economy on; and generates a tremendous amount of equally as important collateral activity - furniture, durable goods (fridges, freezers, etc - the big ticket items). Slowdown there eventually hurts everyone.

I also surmise this is going affect the US welfare system: what happens to the thousands of foreclosed sub prime victims with no where to go, no homes, no jobs probably, unable to meet the health insurance payments. Where do they go? How are they going to survive. This has dire consequences socially.

The chutzpah...no, let me frame in starker terms, since chutzpah implies a certain charming roguishness, which certainly does not apply here; arrogance is what it is, of these manipulative, cunning, racketeering finance companies to think they have come up with a fool-proof way of generating ever expanding profits through the sleight of hand tricks of chopping up debt and selling it on like a deli counter cuts up a block of parmesan...well, it's breathtaking. Surely any commercial outfit worth it's salt would carry out risk analysis, try to 'suss out what the consequences are of launching products like this in to the wild. After all, every action carries a consequence or multiples thereon; they need to be understand. It's not happened here. How can people be so ignorant of that and the same time, so apparently contemptuous of the people they were allegedly trying to help.

Ok, I understand the notion of freedom in the capitalist world. I'm a capitalist, unashamed on that: made money on stocks (lost too), keep steadily investing, homeowner, and another property to boot and so on. I want people to be able to move on in life, better themselves through their own efforts. Owning property implies responsibility, civic and public. However, I draw a big breath when it comes to people being gulled and misled into something that will ruin them whilst a mortgage adviser disappears into the sunset with a hefty commission. Unfair, unethical; flat, plain, simple, it's wrong.

The UK immune to this? Puleeze....! The City of London is the safe haven, the bear pit, for all these messy impenetrable, smoke and mirrors financial products: derivatives, option, CDOs and so on. As enthusiastic as Wall Street....doubtless some these financial incubi were created and hatched here.

I've no cross to bear against capitalism; it's how it's delivered that makes me so indignant.

Ok, time for me to step off the bully pulpit. The keyboard has taken some pounding these past ten minutes. Nearly smoking.

The US is such a great country, easily my favourite, intellectually, creatively, I always feel recharged whenever I've been, especially NYC, which is the only place I could effectively survive in after London. But the US could be, can be even better if there's some thought and consideration given to the economy, a wider view as well that looks beyond the needs and wishes of Wall Street, and into the hard-working core of the country.

I was going to put something down on the explosion in people wearing high visibility vests. That's parked. For another day. I had a voicemail waiting for me when I turned my mobile on this morning: someone found my briefcase. I'm amazed.

I'm not haunted by what happened on Monday. Still using the same bus stop and walking along the same streets. What does linger, oddly, is that I'm still awed and that's about the only way I can phrase it, with the audacity of the snatch. The elan of it all: the daring, the way he swooped and lifted it off the floor, almost balletic. He's a close cousin to some TV footage I once saw of horsemen in Central Asia competing to lift a sheep's carcase and clutch it until they have escaped a melee of pursuing riders. Almost identical in the movement, the boldness, the singleness of purpose, and without a doubt the utter desperation.

Kid, I have to say I was impressed. No repeat occurrence, please, and if there is, then I'm carrying a lasso, or I, at least, have the pleasure of seeing you pedal straight into fast-moving oncoming traffic.

The incident was unwelcome; the aftermath has actually been heartening. It's vindicated a belief I've had that fundamentally people are decent, want to and will help, and are public spirited. One person called the cops whilst I was running after these two kids (man in his mid-forties chasing two teenagers...on bikes. Imagine), and then looked around the immediate area with me as did another guy.

Finally, a very civic minded man spotted my bag somewhere near Shepherd's Bush central line station, realised that it was probably stolen, salvaged it, found out it belonged to me, called me, and tomorrow I collect it (or what remains in it, or even of it). He did n't have to do that, yet he did.

Three different people, oblivious of each other, displayed tremendous goodwill and consideration. How then is it possible on this evidence to claim that we live wholly in an amoral, careless world of indifference. We don't. There's nothing extraordinary about me, I'm not special, I'm not somehow sanctified or deserving of attention: I'm average, I'm anyone, I'm the man in the street, and look who people helped. We're not beasts. No, we're not at all.

Mat, Nigel, Dan, the three of you have my eternal thanks.

And the other problem I alluded to ?

Had my briefcase snatched at the bus stop last night. Just reached the stop (behind Holland Park Rd), bent down, put my case on the ground along with a bag of shopping. I'd not even finished straightening myself up, when a kid on a bike swooped low and hard and took my case the way a sea eagle might take a fish.

In a strange way, I was actually impressed at the kid's cycling acrobatics: pedal furiously, drop one hand off the handlebars, and pluck my bag off the street. Not easy to do. However, one demonstration is enough thank you.

I ran after them, pretty futile, but everyone does it. The last thing I saw of the pair of them (there was another) was them going hell for leather through a subway and off into the wilderness of Shepherds Bush

I'm a realist; I'll not see my bag again. Not much in there: library book, couple of notebooks, Filofax, and my Blackberry. Miss that Filofax though.

Going to buy myself a hoodie and blend in. Go native.

Been some problems this week. First out of the trap is that I've lost use of Internet Explorer. It's vanished. Every time I click the icon, nothing fires up. Inconvenient is hardly the term I'd use, but I'm trying to run a pre 9pm watershed here.

Only managed to post this after a little messing around and I'll add in hope, with Realplayer. So far so good...but I need a real life, 100% browser. Work arounds are only good for a while.

I get stopped a lot when I'm travelling, particularly abroad. Once or twice it's been by the police, random ID checks, problem with a passport, that sort of thing.

Mostly I'm button-holed by people wanting me to give them money; a hand always seems to shoot out the moment I pass any door way. Quite a problem in Bordeaux, I must have some variant on the pied piper gene, this happened all the time, yet in Toulouse yesterday, not a thing, not a hand, nada.

And when it's not that kind of importuning, then it's something on these lines:
"Sir...Sir.., stop, you look tired, you want to relax ? You need sex?"
True, I am tired. Yes, I would like to relax. The other thing? I do. Just not with you. Absolutely not.

At what age does a man think maybe its time to wear a cap? At what age does a woman consider a shorter haircut? At what stage does a metro or public transport system lose its novelty status and become an engrained feature in public and personal life? When does that particular tipping point occur? When do people start to refer to encounters and experiences they have had and those around them nod in acknowledgment and chip in with their own? When do certain stops or lines start to garner a reputation, or perhaps become shorthand for something else, like the Northern Line for instance in London? When does a private exasperation become a common one ?

I am in Bordeaux right now, where there s still a relatively brand spanking new tram system, and I m wondering when, even if this has happened. When will someone say guess what happened at the place de la bourse, and theres a collective yes from those around, we know, it happpened to us as well?

Challenging to write this, the keyboard is set up, understandably, for french users; some of the letters are in places my fingers dont instinctively wander to, and where I think they are, they not. And theres no better way to find the difference between english and french possesives. If you re attentive, you ll have picked it up already, theres no possessive apostrophe on the french keyboard.

I've been giving some thought to how the programme for the 2012 Olympics might appear if the Daily Mail had a hand in running it. Been harder than I imagined, but I've got a rudimentary track and field agenda, plus one or two other events covered.

One thing to mention: since the Daily Mail abhors metrication (foreign, Brussels, EU iniquities etc), all lengths, distances, weights have to be in imperial. Sturdy, manly British measurements, redoubtable emblems of a millenia of freedom in their eyes at least, liberty and Independence, hearts of oak....pretty interesting when you think most of we true Brits were unable to cast a vote until the late (very late 19th Century), and it took time for the franchise to widen from just one sex to both sexes. But, that's for another day, back to business

Track and Field, not enough for a decathlon yet, but pretty strong nevertheless, and it is only early days as well, so I expect others to come along.

Track events

100 yards dash - it's in imperial measurements, sounds very Corinthian, and absolutely for the gentleman amateur because they're the only ones who can participate as the Mail's feudal world vision has most men either in prison or working till they drop. There will, of course be no women's race equivalent. How can they train, the thought even; Mailworld has them firmly in one or more of these categories: barefoot, pregnant and by the kitchen sink, or consumed by nameless womanly vapours.

Metric martyrs mile - To celebrate the victory of a handful of doughty market traders against the impositions of Brussels or how common sense saw down irrational Europe. The fact that it condemns millions of us to be stuck using a system we don't really understand (how many fluid ounces to a pint again? 1760 yards to a mile?) and might actually be an inconvenience, well, that can be left to a two line column on page 50 of the Mail.

Knee-jerking - no need to explain

Jumping to conclusions - again, no need for me to explain what this is. The Mail's business model is founded on the relentless exploitation of both of them.

Swimming

Queen Mother crawl - only one I could think of

Speciality events

Morris dancing - robust echoes of english country life which can never be lauded enough....and as it involves men dressed up and waving sticks at each other, it's martial enough to appeal to the brigadier set.

Saluting (team and individual) - nothing they like more than a photo of a Life Guard saluting some member of the Royal Family...but never a politician and certainly not a Labour one, far too lese-majeste.

This is where I've got to. Run out of ideas. That's got to be more that on the 2012 Daily Mail Olympics programme. Help me out someone

A day just is n't a day until I've written something...but I'm not going to beat around the bush: today's not happening. The pilot light simply will not ignite. Maybe tomorrow, let's see.

I'm reading Sun Tzu right now, a very precise writer; could be I'm all aphoristic and chock a block with epigrams tomorrow. Old Archimedes Almanac...you never know...

Archimedes, hello there. Not seen you for a while. Take a seat. You know why you're here? Good. Like I say, nothing to worry about, just going to go through a few questions, see how you are.Ok, let's get cracking:

Stated the obvious?

All the time.

Written about the mundane and tried to make it sound half-way interesting ?

Check

Complained about a retailer?

Yup

Written about work, but not revealed enough to make it obvious who you actually work for, so you can get away with whining and bitching more or less anonymously?

Absolutely... can't help myself sometimes

Yearned for someone...long held regret...that sort of thing?

Uh-huh

Used rhetorical questions?

Please, when have n't I...

And your trite statements, how have they been?...tried to pass any off as deeply held profoundities that might enlighten mankind?

Pretty often..but trying to cut down.

Been testy and peevish...?

Middle-aged man....what do you expect.

Well, Archimedes, pretty much as I expected. You're still showing the true hardcore Blogger's vital signs. I'm more than happy to certify you as an archetypal Blogger. Great example of the breed. The only thing I will say is try from time to time to come up with an original idea. See if you can surprise yourself.

Instead of being kept awake for most of the night by nearby house parties as I was into the small hours of this morning, I've decided to do this the next time: going to get dressed, grab a couple of my favourite CDs, wander over, and invite myself in.

I'm up to here with House, Ibiza party tunes, and trashy euro-disco; time for real music, music I like for a change. So when I come in, hand over the earphones to me, DJ, because my tunes are going on the CD player. I want my kinda music humming across the garden fences, pulsating through walls. I tell you people, you'd better enjoy old time music, and there's just going to have be someone who likes Leonard Cohen...

Camden, Camden, Camden...A Soul Superstar on your doorstep, and you're oblivious to her. Come on, a little respect. Open your eyes. In front of you. That was Martha Reeves outside the Jazz Cafe last night. MARTHA REEVES !

You'd have to be encased in permafrost to not tap your feet or at least click a finger or two, when the opening bars of : "Dancing in the Streets", "Heatwave", "Nowhere to Run", "Jimmy Mack" swing out. Classic soul tunes.

Call me excitable, but a living Soul Goddess walked amongst you, and only two people copped her: Terry and me. Incredible. Guess it'd mean different if it had been Beyonce or Kylie, the street would have been cordoned off...but Martha is special. A true soulster, part of the DNA. The building blocks, without which, you could argue Soul would have withered on the vine.

Then again, we only twigged her when someone went up to her with a pile of albums (so there was someone else who picked her out of the crowds), which she cheerfully signed and mugged for a couple of camera phone shots a moment later. Enviable the ease of the people who went up to her, almost diffident, controlled, calm, nothing breathless. That kind of manner must sooth all parties, it's relaxed, everybody is comfortable; questions come, words flow.

Oh to have that courage, that confidence. You see, the two of us were as from that as you could get. Think of shy, star-struck, wittering teenyboppers and then add on thirty years, less hair, you get us.

We paid our respects and some later on, when Martha and her two Vandellas, sashayed on the Jazz cafe stage. The instant Dancing in the Streets cracked open was like an adult sized drop of catnip hitting the dance floor, everyone moving, hand clapping, grooving, even us doing our Uncle at the wedding reception dance.

I don't, I just don't, want to see what shapes I was contorting and twitching to on Youtube, though, ever; that's all I ask. In my mind I was throwing moves down that would have made James Brown eat his heart out. It probably looked like I was having a middle aged seizure. Let me enjoy the dream.

Put ten years on someone. What a difference. I've got a friend who, bluntly, has lived it large, more than large in fact: adventures with men, escapades with booze and other stimulants, brushes with the law. Pioneeering ladette behaviour before the term had left the first journalist's pen.

Not a Courtney Love kinda gal. Could have been breathing down her neck, though; thank God for the mundane, down to earth demands of mortgage, employment, car insurance, etc, etc. That tethered her a little more tightly to the ground than La Courtney. Whatever, my friend still has a heck of rousing track record. I call her Carousela

I'm meeting her on Sunday. These days, she's all so different. And Sunday, she's bringing over some of her home made jam before we spend the rest of the afternoon yomping through Wholefoods on Kensington High Street. Could never have envisaged this a decade ago. Tempus fugit. Yet for me, I feel like I've not changed at all. Still plodding on like one of those giant Galapagos turtles. But then again, do men ever change?

So a couple of days ago, someone asks me if I fancy a yoga holiday. Naturally. I'm thinking of somewhere in Kerala or the South of France perhaps; a few hours stretching in the morning, the rest of the day floating in a hammock. My kind of break. Then they say to me: "Ibiza"

Ibiza !

But I'm Forty something....and...and...Ibiza, it's excess, madness...they all fit in the same sentence, snug as bugs in a rug. It'll kill me. I need beatitude, not bacchanalia

She can't mean doing Yoga being blasted by a wildly gyrating foam cannon; or a sun salutation waving a light stick; downward dog with 3,000 others on a pulsing, heaving dance floor; ricocheting around Space or whatever the hippest club is on a yoga mat; over adrenalised sessions that finally draw to a close around 7am; sirens wailing before the next beat breaks; I can't do the Heron pose at the best of times, but in front of a crowd all dressed in dayglo...surely, she can't...She's got it wrong, has to.

She has n't. I have. Yes, there is Yoga in Ibiza...and it's way, way from the club scene, so I won't have to fear being blinded by a strobe. This place is high in the hills. A retreat. Quiet, surrounded by lushness and calm according to the web blurb....now this is more like it.

I don't need a thermometer to realise that December and January are cold months. I don't need to watch the weather forecast either. No one has to tell me. I know full well it is. All day today, I've been bumping into people, who by their stature alone, have said this is what we did to stay warm, keep it toasty, in deep, bleak mid-winter. Yes, that's right all day today, September 1 !

Body heat. That's what I've been seeing; every second step along Kensington High Street, round the aisles of Waitrose, deep in the heart of Tesco, in Waterstones, everywhere. Body heat: it's fruits, it's blessed bounty, it's late summer harvest, in front, to the rear, to the sides, all over.

"So...this body heat, then... exactly what is it...how do I know it's there...does it have a shape ?

"Please...it's so easy...how can't you see it...incredible ! "

"Ease off the exhortation and just tell me...."

It's pregnant women...fruitful, blooming women all on the cusp of giving birth..."

Yeah...so....?

So....I have to tell you...? Wake up, think! When it's too cold for the guardsman to come out of the sentry box and even the mercury in the thermometer bulb's shivering...people are fighting the cold the only way they can, going back to nature, getting up close and then...well... do I have to spell it out...?

Yes.

What ! I do? How clueless are you ...They're getting loved up. Getting in close. Snuggling up, what more do I have to say. Think of it like global warming.