"Albert, the kid is ghosting...." In Paris, this would be surreally hip and intelligible only to the select ; in London, it would pass muster as a Banksy slogan, and certainly as a wacky band name; in LA, I could comfortably imagine this line from a forgotten film, but I saw this on a bridge parapet in Doncaster....

Now Doncaster has a certain charm, it's own signature, but prone to gnomic statements like this ? In South Yorkshire, facts are most certainly facts, and this sounds way too avant garde for the good burghers of that town.

Donny folk specialise in bluntness, rough kindness, telling it like it is. These five words have that abrasive texture if you look at them individually and say them separately; it's the fact they're arranged, like ducks in a row, in a declaration I just could n't imagine anyone there saying, but someone did, so what's it all mean. This will be bugging me for days.

I'm reading Marilynn Robinson's latest novel - Home, and it's unbearably good. I'm rationing myself to a few pages every day just to prolong the joy.

An appeal to my vanity: the two women in their twenties who I share a Sunday afternoon's gallery duty both looked amazed - genuinely - when I said how old I was. "I thought you were thirty-seven or thirty-nine...". Feeling the love that shot through my veins even now.

An appeal to my never quite dormant sense of frustation: the block of flats I live in, mostly occupied by short-term residents who have no direct commitment to the upkeep of it, continues it's slide into becoming a slum. I feel like I'm living in one of these cities that's gradually vanishing under the sands or being slowly strangled by encroaching trees the way Angkor Wat disappeared. I don't know what to do; stay and be submerged by it all, or sell-up at a a resounding loss.

An appeal to my love of cosmopolitanism. The cafe had closed, and most of the tables were empty, but there were still a dozen or so Eastern European men absorbed, either playing or watching, several games of chess on the terrace of the cafe in Holland Park. They were there when I passed an hour or so later and still as preoccupied.

"There's nothing wrong with me loving you...giving yourself to me can never be wrong...don't you know how sweet and wonderful life can be....get it on with me....I ain't gonna worry...let's get it on..."

Slow down, slow down, it's not me being heartsick and taking to the blogosphere to croon about doomed love. But I heard this epic Marvin Gaye song on music on hold before a conference call started, and damn it, I can't shift it. Lodged like a piece of food stuck between those difficult to reach back teeth.

Not complaining. I have a lot of time for Marvin, but at some point I need to lose this tune. It's all that's playing right now and I need a little bit of free time to think without distraction.

Pleasurable as it may be to have a slice of smooth Soul echoing in the often empty chambers of my mind, I do have things to attend to such as the hacking cough I've had for over a week. That has to cease and desist pretty quickly. For my sake, my neighbours, my work mates and those other innocents that I must have driven to despair sat next to on numerous tubes. Don't blame me, it's my bronchials you need to shout at.

"How (truly) sweet and wonderful life will be..." once this cough has exited stage left. My days as sounding like a mis-firing Harley Davison are done. Gimme my voice back.

So I'm getting my mojo back and not feeling so green around the gills the way I was last week, but where's my muse ? I've turned up for work. Here's me sat in front of the laptop, clacking the keyboard, and you....my ideas guru? AWOL. You can't do this to me. Report for duty. Get on the parade ground on the double...

It is n't the fact that my employer announced an eye-popping number of job losses today that's really bothering me (it will if / when I'm the target). What is, is that the little plant-in-a-cup, I bought in Wholefoods this evening as a surprise gift for someone, fell through the bottom of the carrier bag just as I was leaving Turnham Green station. 

This better not be a sign of something. 

Dead in the water today. Aching limbs, sore throat, and one very bunged up head. Any intellectual or cultural insight will have to wait until tomorrow, or whenever this damn thing shifts.

But a moan waits for no man, ill, convalescent, or brimming with health. My poor, tired flat has popped a leak, water steadily working it's way (though not gushing, thank God) across downstair's kitchen ceiling. It's like watching a watery constellation of stars take shape. 

I've done what triage I can, nevertheless, everything is going to be in the hands of the plumber tomorrow morning. I so badly want to sell up and find somewhere else. 

Tip for the day: don't read other people's Facebook updates and then compare my life unfavourably to theirs. Not healthy. 

Robert Lowell wrote to his fellow poet, Elizabeth Bishop, that he had wanted to propose to her, but had n't, and that:"... asking you is the might have been for me, the one towering change, the other life that might have been had..."

It is for me too. I know it all too well, the life imagined, but held back by indecision and fear. The one person I've yearned for, since time began it seems like, such is the before and after quality of meeting you. I need the courage to move in from the edges and tell you.

House-sitting next week and I've been told to expect strict instructions on how to care for their tomatoes. What does that mean? Up every three hours through the night and feed 'em with a rubber teat ? Read 'em story ? Sit side by side and try to get a conversation going like Prince Charles is supposed to?

I had a sudden vision this morning of what my life might look like should I lose my job. Almost as if a curtain had been pulled open for just a few seconds, there it was, an image of me idling away long hours over the Guardian quick crossword in Shepherds Bush Costa Coffee. I habituate too easily to any situation and I could see myself making this a routine, but only if...

Costa Coffee should give me some sort of semi-recognition for loyalty; Shepherds Bush this morning, then their Hammersmith outlet late afternoon, where I had another unfamiliar experience. Busily scribbling away in a corner, sat a middle-aged woman, who in the pauses between writing seemed to be avidly scanning the other customers including me. For what, obviously remains a mystery. Inspiration ? Insight ? Jury's entirely open.

I took on the risk of moving to new current account. The new people did all the running, made sure all the direct debits were moved over, standing orders amended, contacted everyone who needed to know, and today was the day when it all went official. Only one company failed to do anything. Yes, you guessed it. The employer.

The company I work, in spite of being written to in March, sent my salary straight into my old account. Fun afternoon running making sure there was enough money in my new account to meet all the obligations due on it today and over the next few days.