First rule of business: if it can't be measured, then it can't be managed. Going by what I've pulled up from a deep dive through innumerable blogs yesterday and again today, there's a version of this mantra to cover male dating history. Goes like this: however many women we've claimed to have dated and for many of us, simply sitting next to someone on the tube "counts". (Not me though, oh no, not me...c'mon the idea, please...), then a woman should divide that figure by three to get anywhere near the real answer. Not good in my case, not good at all; it's left me with fractions...I'm down to a third literally...I had a whole number once....

There's a beautiful, gently ascending ramp linking the platforms at Paddington mainline station with those of the Hammersmith and City line. It's been a long time coming.

It's so well made that it would n't surprise me at all if a colony of skateboarders did n't move in...except they won't. The British Transport Police (wisely in my eyes) would soon put paid to any ambitions on that scale. Pity, that. I'd quite like watching salvo after salvo of skateboarders launching themselves over the three steps at the top of this ramp, then cut shapes and pirouette in mid-air, before clattering back to earth and weaving through the battalions of commuters.

It's those three concrete steps at the top of the ramp that'll test their ingenuity, test anyone's; but then why build a ramp with steps at the top anyway. Are n't ramps in public spaces there to help wheelchair bound people, or people with prams, so why the steps at the top ? Exactly how is someone with a double buggy going up the ramp, or someone in a wheelchair wanting to come down, going to be able to overcome a three step hurdle? Great gesture, just no help to those who need it most. It's up there with having a mailbox to handle no reply e-mails. Why ? What am I missing here?

"Fellini, the film was by Fellini", she whispered and then lay back on her mat like the rest of us, ready for the class to begin.

If you want to get my attention, you know, press my buttons as it were then talk intellectual. That's all it needs. Money won't do it, food won't do it, not even that will do it. It needs to be down home straight-talking cerebral. Make it polysyllabic, heavy with cultural identifiers, no fuss use of foreign words, and I'm yours. No money down.

"It's impossible to get good group sex in this town now ! " There are some things I'd like to grumble about, in that "have n't things gone to the dogs, back in the good old days" tone, but on this, absolutely no amount of persuasion would convince any of my friends that I'm talking from a position of knowledge here. I'm not. Not in the past, not now, not ever.

But someone is , if today's Observer is to be trusted, they're even annoyed (oh, to share that mood on this very topic); please step forward, Frederika Fenollabbate, an up and coming Parisian novelist, whose literary beat is the slow death of the City of Light's red light areas. It's her pout that I've used to open this entry; it's got that real standards have gone downhill smack about a pretty taboo subject, thus excellent shock value. Like a stun grenade in a way: there's noise, smoke, and everyone is reeling. There's also a consumerist subtext, the irritation of a gourmet, no longer able to source that exquisite meal or that rare truffle.

I think it's the edginess of people tasting forbidden fruits that she's pushing us to look at: I walk the wild side, I am not one of you. Be that as it may, it's just that I think she is protesting too much, over-asserting how transgressive she wants us to believe she is. In my experience, those who proclaim how bad they are at virtually every opportunity, just how other they can be, and that normal rules don't apply, are talking a great story, but not walking it at all. All mouth, no trousers. The gulf between self avowed intention and action is too deep to be bridged and as likely as me waking up tomorrow morning with a head full of hair. It's that implausible.

So experience has led me to this point of view, however, every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction, and that leads me to state this, and how obvious when you think about it, still waters run deep and so on, but those who are busily upturning the moral handcart and challenging boundaries, are those quiet people we sit next to most mornings on the bus or tube, anonymous, suburbanites, drably dressed. It's them, not her, they're the outlaws.

Me? No Outlaw. Blander than butter. Gimme a group hug...I'll settle for that.

I cannot, simply cannot read a word of anything Martin Amis puts on paper; it's so syntactically dense and cratered with the oddest, inverted metaphors, that it's unreadable. However, I'll never take my eye away from the keyhole when there's a good literary spat kicking off, and when it's Amis with the gloves off, you know it's going to be good, zesty, and some choice cut vitriol thrown in.

A US friend sent me this link from the very cool online magazine - Spiked - which I think very elegantly summarises the latest feud / bout (delete as appropriate)

As a good Guardian reader, which is where a lot of the Amis / Eagleton flaming has happened, I've followed every twist and turn of this, that is I've followed the commentary, not the actual words for the reason just stated. And if that's to be believed, then what's he's saying has the ring of reason: not the individual, it's the ideology that hurts. I'm signed, sealed and delivered on that; I've always asserted that the three Abrahambic faiths have echoes of good sense until someone gets hold of them, codifies it all, and starts a discipline up, that's when it all gets way too messy.

So, Marty, you and I are singing from the same hymn book. but don't expect me to do so all the time, and as for buying one of your books...think again my London friend !

Weddings leave me cold, but I could n't stand up and say why. I can't answer that. I can struggle towards a sense of irritation, even vexation about the whole business and that's about it. Yet, and is n't there always an "and yet", they are compelling, and in a particular way, magical; not the fairytale notion, the top hat and tails, bride and groom galloping away on fine Arab chargers thing, far from it.

The context of magic I've got firmly in mind is what the randomness of a wedding reception seating plan can throw up. The meal begins as a tableau of mysterious people sat next to each other, little words spoken, but clear signs of the titanic struggle to break the social ice etched across all faces.

Let's call it the wedding reception equivalent of global warming, but compare the scene a few hours later: intimate conversations about odd little medical afflictions, whilst someone else melts into a neighbouring shoulder, surreptitiously arranging a date, (it's happened. I know. I've done it. Difficult for those who know me to believe, but I have. Send me an e-mail and I'll say who).

All of them are possible, if not actually probable. Still, let's not forget the third leg of the stool: the intellectual conversation, I spent a very pleasant afternoon yesterday chatting about local Suffolk geology, the correct use of a chainsaw, rare water beetles, the pain of having tattoos done on the shin, and the benefits of working a four day week. All that from a wedding reception dinner. Marvellous.

There's only one thing you can do when the man who sorts out your tax return tells you he's getting married. Go to his wedding. There's no other option. Even thinking about it, well, not only is it unfriendly, it's downright dangerous, he knows my financial make up better than me, all the angles as well, and on top of that, I can't, I just can't face the the deadening misery of filling it in myself, it's also very complicated. I don't sit comfortably next to anything complicated; I wriggle, I squirm, I lose my patience.

Decision made, now what to wear. I have no suit. In my line of work, most people would n't take me seriously if I barrelled in wearing a shirt and tie. Out of necessity, therefore, I've had to assemble a 'look'. Piece together bits and pieces, try to put over a sensibility. Not that straightforward, as I said earlier, no suit, not even a tie to be that foundation piece on which everything follows. I'd like to picture myself going places as if at that very moment I'd just stepped off a yacht at Cannes; the reality is more I've jumped ashore on to Canvey Island from a tugboat.

I work on this principle: throw it together and see what happens. I've done that and out popped a look; so tomorrow, it will not be untidy jester's motley, it'll be this: part Central European pre 1989 dissident intellectual, part crumpled, moody, rive gauche philosopher, and a healthy dose of upper west side gallery owner / editor. All this for a wedding

O my open plan office...I miss it so... for the flirting, for the solace, for the consolation, for the opportunity to grandstand to an audience, for the joy of the shared idea, for the eureka moment, for the casual conversation, for the sheer camaraderie of it all, for the communal we've made it made through the week mood, for the sly joke, for the gossip, for the absolute nonsense that makes working tolerable. No more. All gone. And I miss it all, marooned as I am in a small three man office.

A little tip on how to get over a bad day: have a nap. Short and sweet. A no fuss siesta, does n't matter if you're working from home and can slope away to a bedroom, or like me tonight, slack-mouthed and asleep on the train coming home from Bristol.

A nap cleans away the aches and pains, in fact, it obliterates the part of the day up till the point I drift off, and when I wake up it's as a new man. Like tonight. I've no memory, none at all, of whatever indignities have been thrown my way, or what I've thrown others. Slate clean. It's fantastic. I feel reborn.

Turn down the thermostat; the world's sweating, it's running a temperature.

We've force fed it too many stimulants; bent it out of shape; pumped it full of additives; leached the nutrients, and what have we ended up with ? A planet with the shakes, our common home has the blue meanies. If this was a bodybuilder under discussion, we'd all be whispering steroids: they've got 'roid rage...'

It's a home that breaks out in convulsions, that throws fits, and one that gets nauseous too uncomfortably often. Think about it, what else are the floods, never-ending rain, ceaseless drought, arid winds, bizarre seasons, if not symptoms of a convulsing, sick planet.

Let's restore the balance, ease back into equilibrium, sooth not stress. Unless I'm mistaken this is the only world we have around at the moment. No spare waiting quietly in the wings.

Timely. I was telling someone, no that's not right, I was insisting, that they beg, borrow or steal a copy of Budding Prospects by T.C.Boyle.

For anyone who wants to know how to combine being broke, in love, and with what the untrained exotic herb farmer should expect, and that from his fellow man as much as inscrutable nature, then this is the book. It's also one of the funniest books I've ever read; for years, I'd hung that garland around Confederacy of Dunces, but I've handed it on to it's true, rightful owner, Budding Prospects. Don't think I'm abandoning the former, I'm not, still a pungently funny, bittersweet book, and no one can challenge the power of the writing either, whilst it would be churlish in the extreme to forget the literal sacrifice of the author, and the perseverance of his mother after his death to get it published. Just there's a new kid on the block in a sense now.

I re-read Budding Prospects over a short period of time last week, not for the first time either, I'd enjoyed it years ago, so much so that I'd thrust it in to the hands of a relative, and gone eyeball to eyeball: "You just gotta read this...you have, don't talk to me until you have !" That was years ago and a red-hot appeal, a collar grabber, fizzled away until only the embers of the memory remained. Until last week when I re-read it; I laughed so much I actually strained my vocal chords and for a time was a temporary baritone. Got my English squeak back now though.

Pressing the flesh and spreading the word when it comes to a good, punchy, unforgettable piece of writing, comes to me very easily. I do have something of an inner zealot. I've been on the trail pounding the message about this all week. So I was delighted when someone I know told me that she read it, and in fact, had digested a lot more of what he had written than I have. I realised then that I'd missed some of his later books, for the past day or so, I've been trawling bookstores looking for those I've missed. I found one: Talk, Talk. I bought it and it's been uncomfortable reading; it's all about identity theft, and since I had my bag stolen, this is one topic that I've not been quite able to stop thinking about. Timely? Coincidence?

Take down the yellow ribbons. I've not gone anywhere. Been busy that's all.

The longest hour is supposed to before dawn. Don't dispute that, can't do, I've had my share of staring straight at the ceiling, wide-eyed, dejected, worrying, bitten with remorse, even fearful.

Just happens in the morning, right? Oh, no, I've identified another period of the day, in fact it's a period of a particular day, where all of the tension that the longest hour perversely churns up, slithers upwards once again: the last hour before leaving the office on Friday.

I dread this time; yes, the week is done, the day coming to a close, a 48 hour stretch of joy ahead, but there's the monkey on my back of will something go wrong? Something that I've carefully, painfully in many cases, certainly laboriously put together a fix for whatever problem it is, will it nevertheless thwart me, bust it's buttons and all the stuffing pop out, and there'll be no time to restitch it, but plenty of harassing e-mails and calls from all and sundry that it needs to be, and why exactly did n't it hold in the first place...

On the other hand it could be that in the final thirty minutes of the working week, I'm asked to cobble together an e-mail that at one and the same time has to be: demanding (fix it !); yet courteous (please); show senior managers just what lengths I've gone, what hurdles crossed (look at me ! look at me !); nuanced enough not to rattle any feathers, but sharp enough to make a point (Impossible not to welcome the support of.....nevertheless it's always worthwhile to bring to everyone's attention...); then end on a rousing note (I am absolutely convinced we can crack this problem / overcome this barrier...). Thirty minutes to put togther something that has the mixed sensibility of the sweetest love letter and a no holds barred final demand for seven years backdated tax.

Too often it's the disaster: XYZ system's gone down, what are we going to do ? One stalwart feature of this passion play is that whoever it is who can breath life back into whatever wheezing, ill system it is, they'll have gone home and are n't contactable. As regular as the Sun rising in the east and setting in the west.

So, that last half hour of the final working day of the week has me as relaxed as a cat on a hot tin roof.

"God save the Queen" on the radio, just heard it. Oh, the pride, the joy...The Sex Pistols by the way. Thirty years old. Forever electrifying. Plug it in, turn me on. I'm told there's another version, but I'm not sure how that goes, this is my favourite. I'll cock an ear to this anytime. Day or night.

At an Iggy Pop concert earlier in the summer, to heat the crowd up and get our ears pre-buzzing, the venue played punk classics through the PA. The old songs: Buzzcocks, Damned, Clash, The Ruts, Sham 69...then the first half dozen or so chords of "God save..." charged out of the kennel, and that's all it took for a bout of dewy eyed nostalgia and stiffening of backs like veteran soldiers watching a parade go by. Great days...

Archimedes the Astrologer: career horoscopes
Pisces 19 Feb - 20 March

Engage your intuitive mind. Even though indecision may tug at you, don't let it. Visualise. You stand on the cusp of self discovery, a voyage straight into your dreams. Don't hold back.

Fears and uncertainty are only to be expected with any change. Don't be afraid, welcome them instead. Remember you are the Fish who can swim in any waters

Versatile, creative, adaptable, sympathetic. What's stopping you?

Go with your instincts....

Even in the friendliest light I've got a face like a pummelled potato.

There's not a day goes by without I wake up feeling like I've been yanked straight out of the cold, hard earth, with a fizzog that shows the results: blemished, bruised, pulled up by the roots.

It was never my intention to pass as a walking, talking tuberous lookalike, but then you have to deal with what you're given. I try to. So that's a regime of regular exercise; eating basically only foods that nurture the skin and cherish the epidermis (Guys, I'm still waiting); and deluging my innards with water. If I drink any more water than I already do, then I'm amphibious. Nevertheless it all pats down a few rough edges and smooths some of the hard surfaces; a daily bout with Body Shop's moisturiser for men does what it valiantly can as well.

But I don't help myself with my affinity for accidental self-harm. No Sir, whatever the good works of Nutrition and Fitness might do, I am busily undoing: I scar myself shaving (always a favourite. If you ever see someone on the central line with contusions and cuts on his face and neck, looking like he's had a night with a polecat, then it's me); or as this afternoon, I blindly walk into the corner of a concrete buttress, conveniently placed at exactly my head height (how did the architect know?); so for the past few hours, I've been sporting a cartoon sized bruise on my forehead that looks like a half open, blackened third eye. There is no head height wall or ceiling left in central London that I have not had intimate cranial contact with. None.

Then I get bitten. How or when, I've no idea, just that I do. And, of course, it always has to be somewhere high profile. Plenty of space to choose, but invariably they stick to the old favourites: my nose, ear, something visible. Why if I'm going to get bitten by some carnivorous invertebrate with wings cannot it not be somewhere so conspicuous. Days ago, for whatever bloodsucking reason it had, something took a chunk out of my cheek. I've been walking the streets of London since then with a blood red weal that looks like the aftermath of a nail gun attack, that only now is starting to lose it's lurid colour. Less vermilion, more glistening pink ham.

I want to have a normal face, not be part of Mount Rushmore come to life, Mr Potatohead comes to town. What's a boy to do?

I moved to a new office a couple of weeks ago. One where I'm facing a window; usually I'm marooned in the middle of a giant open plan office, where people circulate around and I've had to look engaged and commited to a task. Basically appear industrious. Not now, this new home means I can indulge myself more in something I really like and that's watching other people work.

Is there anything finer, indeed more uplifting than watching and wondering exactly what it is other people are doing, then pondering why? Thought so. Nothing. Unbeatable.

It's actually relaxing and strangely comforting to know I'm not the only office worker then who's bored, or who walks around the office aimlessly, or spends most of the day chatting, or in a desultory series of conversations about nothing, but which are nevertheless still more important than the whatever it is the employer is paying us to do.

This afternoon, I watched people in an anonymous office block opposite where I work, roam across the office floor, congregate for a time around a water cooler like wildebeest by a savannah watering hole, sit down then moments later get up, yawn, even play football for a time. They did this all afternoon. It's been heartening. I no longer feel alone. Kindred spirits