It's going to be a little hit and miss when it comes to posting for the remainder of this month and the first half of next; I'm running between houses, doing various things. Stay connected though. There's only a few of you; I don't want you to go.

I had forgotten just what a bearpit it was to watch a football match in a pub. A cacophony of noise with every emotion from euphoria to the darkest on display. Shrieking hoarse voices (guys, the players can't hear you, the referee definitely can't, you need to rein it in, throttle back here). Heartrending, or more pointedly, heart clutching when your team plays out of their skins and still can't find the back of the net. There are men and women leaving the pub I've just come from, dry-throated, slightly demented, spiritually and mentally exhausted; and all we've done is watch twenty-two men chase a ball up and down a green field. Yes, watch, not play, just watch.

If it was first wise, and then possible, just how would correspondence look between a spammer and er...a customer? Never going to happen obviously; for some reason, though, it's impossible to let go off. Maybe it's because I'm tired, I was out late last night, but I've been plagued by this all day, wondering what it would look like. I decided to wake myself up by walking from where I live to South Kensington and back - about eight miles all told. This odd little notion matched me step for step, would n't let go; so now all I can do is put it into something concrete and hopefully get shut of that way. Here goes:

The Viagara spammer: "Dear Sir, such a quantity as you wish to buy would be, in our opinion, prejudicial to health; for us to provide you with such quantity would equally call in to question our commercial judgement, therefore we must regretfully decline your order"

The 419er: "Dear Sir, I am, how shall I say, a little bemused that you wish to apply for a loan. Our purpose is the reverse of that you assume: our commercial model depends upon the willingness of high net worth individuals such as yourself to permit us to utilise their funds for the collective betterment with the assurance of remuneration from us for this. We do not lend."

The fake rolex offer: " Dear Sir, Far be it from me to decry the advantage of digital watches as I equally respect your comment that watches should merely tell the time and not the athmospheric pressue at thirty fathoms, my organisation nevertheless does actively market to that particular constituency, it is therefore with regret that I decline your offer to supply us".

Enough, that's it, I feel cleared simply by writing 'em down. Though, there is a lingering thought that it might be worthwhile to start writing to these guys and seeing what they say.

One lady on the bus this evening was clearly in demand: two bunches of flowers, beautifully and individually wrapped, and each a different arrangement. It certainly sharpened your profile, I caught more than one woman casting a glance at you. Caused quite a stir in a silent way.

Valentine's Day has an effect far beyond it's temporal twenty-four hours, so I'd imagine there was a cavalcade of emotions whirling around you summoned up by those slyly looking at you; from envy to jealousy through to "good on you girl" approbation, and then on to the plaintive "why can't it be me" and somewhere in all of it that old faithful, the "wonder what I'll get?"

I could n't (I can't is a more honest expression because I'm now writing about it) help but wonder who sent them: husband or boyfriend, both? Husband or boyfriend and something from one of your kids - though you did n't look old enough to have had kids who would understand what today signifies or supposed to, unless the husband / boyfriend bought them and sent them on behalf of child (complicated, but it must happen); or did you buy one or both yourself to simulate adorabability ? Or from two mystery men ? So many questions. Christ, is n't Valentine's Day complicated?

The dedication of London Underground to tell passengers on how the network is running is like that of nurses minstering to sick children; every sniff, every cough that happens, we're told about it repeatedly. No need to ask. Simply wait a few seconds for the message to loop back and play again. It's white noise. I hear it, but I don't hear it, but I do when I want to do something like read then I can't stop listening to it.

Don't get me wrong, meticulous explication is infinitely better than we had during the Thatcher years; then I spent hours, lifetimes waiting forlornly for tube trains that never came along, or silently sweating in a crowded train clueless as to why it had slithered to a halt ten minutes ago.

In that respect, we've moved from the shadows and into the sunshine; these days I know everything that's going on even if it's on a line I've scarcely ever used. Why is it always signal delays though? Can't we have something more novel, more original, just for once. Not something horrid, no, not at all, just something different, quirky, pleasant: how about train to Latimer Road held up by spontaneous orgy breaking out, something like that...

"Give up on yourself.....begin taking action now, while being neurotic or imperfect or a procrastinator or unhealthy or lazy or any other label by which you inaccurately decribe yourslef. Go ahead and be the best imperfect person you can be, and get started on those things you want to accomplish before you die" Shoma Morita (late Japanese pscyhologist with a Jack Dee twist on life)

Would n't you just expect this. Almost could have been predicted. I'm so busy issuing exhortations to all and sundry to jump in and take part in this week's euro-millions lottery draw partly for the thrill, but mainly as the substance of an argument that it stimulates creativity (buying a ticket allows you to dream and without dreams there's no real progress - that was the tone of it). So what happens ? I forget to buy one. I therefore add a corollary to my earlier exhortation - remember to do things.

There must be as many signs of getting old as there are stars in the sky. I exhibit a number myself: lack of hair, knees hurting, weak vision, that kind of thing; but the one that really gets me is that I'm only a few months younger than Barack Obama, putative US President, and then I'm older by some years, (this stings especially hard by the way), than the wannabe Prime Minister, David Cameron....Tories were always older, preternaturally so, now they're not. What's happened?

Policemen have been looking younger than me for years, a decade at least...but now Politicians ? This feels uncomfortable. Thank God though for Sarkozy, he's a good decade on me. I knew the French would ride to my rescue sometime. You have a friend here.

I don't think it's a sign (I'd like it to be, believe me, which is why the deeply irrational part of me remains forever hopeful) but this really is more coincidence at play than anything else, it's just that every corner I've turned yesterday, and again today, I've bumped into some poster, or if it's happened on the tube, a scrolling electronic news board, radiating this Friday's Euro-millions jackpot. Ninety-five million pounds, which has, it just has, to be won this Friday, or that's it. An awful lot of money in anyone's language.

I can't tell you that this lump sum has my name written on it, partly because it's presumptuous and wholly ill conceived to even think so, but then it will not be until the time I buy a ticket, and from that moment on until the draw...well, you know, my chance is as good as anyother.

This is why I like the lottery, it gets people thinking, and that for me is the seed-bed for creativity. Come Friday, there'll be a collective, communal day dream stretching across the nine participating countries on the "it could... just be me..." angle. All shades and flavours of head trips, fond hopes, star-gazing, pipe dreams, flights of fancy. Millions of us looking at the moon.

There's a bucketful of cynics out there, mocking, sneering, do what you feel you have to, but frankly you're passive in my book, inert, featureless; dreamers, on the other hand, naive maybe, but who else can be matched for creativity. It's about daring to dream, which is how we make progress. I've yet to meet a dreamer who has not got their hands dirty trying to make it substance; I've still to meet a cynic who's moved off the sidelines, stopped caviling and sneering, and tried to do something.

"Got to bring your moisturiser, look like a bloody reptile tomorrow otherwise...." Offcuts of overheard conversations can be as memorable as the opening words of the Gettysburg Address for me.

This was the four score years and seven I heard yesterday spring out of a bull session going on between the members of an elderly punk rock band on a train going to Doncaster. It cried out to be written down. Not that one or two of the band did n't look too unlike balding iguanas either...

I've always felt that the moment anyone has children they move instantly from ego - where everything they do, every action, every thought, every consideration is focused on realisation of their own whims and wishes - to responsibility. I've seen this transformation in all my friends who have children. They walk differently, talk differently, think differently.

Concern for another steps up, grabs hold of them tightly, and seeps through their veins into their very bone marrow. Good parents never go off duty.Doze maybe, but they'll never fully fall asleep at the wheel. There's too much to think about.

This is the time for conscientiousness and clear thought; decisions have to be made and risks assessed, and naturally consequences and outcomes as much as can be, thought about over and over for someone who is n't you. It must be an emotional skin shedding quicker than the blink of an eye.

Not having kids has left me ample time to ponder what this state must be like, or put slightly different, I've had the luxury of window shopping, hands in pockets watching it happen, and free to walk by on by, free of worry or guilt or anxiety whenever I want. This level of engagement has always been something other people have had to reach. Never me.

Until now.

I was asked late last week if I would accept the role as a Power of Attorney for an elderly relative. This is the first time in my life where I will be making - potentially - decisions that will, and there's no doubt about this, influence another's life. It feels awesome. Always, every decision has been about me, made by me, and for me. From a self reflecting sensibility - me considering me basically - it's now about the welfare and wishes of another.

Today I am a different man. The same size, the same shape, no change there; it's my consciousness that is being reworked. I'm growing up.