And so it looks like it's finally coming to pass. A weak man, hoisted into power by a desperate, frantic right wing media smear campaign, bank-rolled by a controversial offshore billionaire, the beneficiary of the dark arts of Rupert Murdoch. How can Cameron fail?

I picture this happening in one of the quieter moments of Cameron's first day, someone silently handing him the bill of accounts for getting him so far. A Prime Minister beholden already.

My name, something quite simple, and as plain as you can imagine, seems to attract attention, often for reasons I don't fully understand - it puts authorities teeth on edge in some countries, which are only unset when they actually see me in the living, breathing flesh - and occasionally, as at the moment, it generates amusement.

I could do without either distinction.

So the grass really is greener on the other side?

It seems to look that way in the eyes of my married or co-habiting friends. As they persist in saying to me, a life-long singleton, that living together, being coupled up is n't always what it seems. But then they do not to have to deal with the Singleton's Paradox, which I think ought to be added to the ranks of all those other philosophical quasi-laws, like Morton's Fork or Occam's Razor.

So what is the Singleton's Paradox? It's the dilemma of being offered so many alternatives because you are free of the standard domestic arrangements (or constraints as some of my bonded together friends describe their state), there's so many, in fact, you become paralysed with indecision and don't follow any.

Richard Mabey, that fine, almost poetic nature writer, described it as"...that dithering between equally desirable alternatives... (that is)...quite paralysing, a sure route into... (a)...state of immobilising anxiety"

Not easy being single believe me.

The contrails are back. An odd thing to notice because it's so every day an occurrence it's the aerial equivalent of white notice.

Not seen, paradoxically, until they're not there, which has been the case for the past six days or so with the continent wide embargo placed on all air traffic.

There's been none of the periodic sonic shudders that rumble over my part of West London as the planes begin their approach into Heathrow. Nor have I been able to drift into that idle habit of mine when I'm stood at the bus stop counting the planes queuing up to land.

I wonder what positive things will come out of this six day plane free pause. After all, every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction, so we know what we've missed - simply getting home for many - but there has to be something positive out of this. Perhaps, as a friend said to me last night, it might encourage Kenyan farmers to stop growing roses and being dependant the whims of an entirely foreign market and instead grow crops that actually benefit them.

If, of course, life was only that easy and not bashed around by other realities - poverty, economics. Still, I wonder what positives will spin out of this six day pause.

Blame the stationary and ever expanding volcanic ash cloud over Europe for this week's dearth in posts.

Stuck longer than I expected in Scotland -not that I'm complaining about that, when the weather's right as it is now, Scotland takes some beating - but it did mean me twiddling my thumbs with no access to do personal things on the Internet.

The notion that I'm living life like a ghost might is something I'm having difficulty shaking off. I've had this sense for weeks, that I'm letting life drift by and doing nothing more animated than just watching, marooned in some sort of spectral half-life.

"Don't live life like a ghost" is the only thing I remember from a recent dream. My unconscious talking to me? Surely.

The passage from youthful idealism - it is black, or it is white, there's no blurring - to the steady state where I find myself now, someone whose formerly stark, unambiguous ideals have been rewoven into a blur of shades and tones, has be one of the most common and talked about personal transformations .

Still, there are some things I'm beginning to question now, even if it's only around the edges, that I really did think were foundation beliefs, and thus unshakable. And that's this: I'm not so certain Britain needs a written constitution. I did for years, still do, but I've started to question that insistence more and more recently.

A constitution codifies and guarantee rights and obligations, yet, and how often in life is there a yet, it seals those frequently hard won gains into the permafrost. What any constitution does at the moment of completion is to become a time capsule; it represents what was regarded as imperative at the time. It's future proofing in that it prevents whatever egregious behaviours were happening pre constitution from happening ever again

How hard is it then to adapt and modify it to successfully respond to inevitably changing socio-economic, cultural circumstances. This is the paradox of any constitution: they fix in stone what was right and proper to fix in stone, but that very act then ensures future arguments and probably rancorous disputes on not just how to, but actually whether to change.

A document fit for an eighteenth century society cannot be fit in every single respect for the demands of the twenty-first century. It just can't. But many countries, and certainly many citizens of those countries believe it can, going to all sorts of lengths to try to prove it. That for me is wrong: there's only so much elasticity in any document; take it to far, and the argument moves into dangerous sophistry. Quibbling over single words, the position of a word, it's meaning then compared to now.

Perhaps, Britain does actually benefit from not having a written constitution, I'm now starting to think. The jumble of charters, individual laws, customs, conventions, the apparent opacity of how we govern ourselves is actually our strength, and it's that elasticity ensures flexibility and resilience.

Don't think though, that I am ignoring the unique symbolism of a constitution. I know what they mean to so many countries, lives risked, lives lost, hopes dashed, hopes finally made into flesh. My point is two-fold: firstly, Britain has been lucky, somehow we've muddled by; my second point is push the notion that a constitution must move with the times. It must.

This is it, another milestone. My 600th posting, and as with any landmark, a time for reflection; but in this case, not one that looks back over each step of the journey, no, my thoughts right now are technological. Will this laptop I'm using now see me through the 700 or even 650 level? It's ominously slow to load, too many cursor and page freezes, then there's that persistent asthmatic wheeze, when every ten seconds or so, my old laptop seems to struggle for breath.

Well, Rupert Murdoch's going to have a new toy on May 7 - a bendy, squeaky, David Cameron toy. I fear the BBC is going to be disembowelled by Rupert working through his proxy. It'll end up being like Fox News.

"Step outside, Posh Boy" I know it was an April Fool, but would n't it, just would n't it be great, if Gordon Brown did take the gloves off.

A quiet, whispered "bravo" would have done, or a subtle nod of the head, but I did neither. Pity, and no doubt a testament to my Anglo-Saxon shyness.

Even at the time, I felt I should have done something, and I certainly do now; it virtually demanded recognition, after all it was an act of bravura that I've never seen before, or even heard about.

Two mornings ago, I was stood, back against one of the glass dividers, on a bouncing, rolling District Line train, reading the paper on my way to work. At every stop, more people got on, until it was the classic cheek by jowl London commuting experience.

A very handsome, wiry haired, well suited and booted man, jumped on the train at South Kensington. I'm guessing he was French, he had a soigne, elegance that no Brit could pull off for one thing, and for another, South Kensington is the 21st arrondissement; the quartier of choice for the expat French city high flyer

We were stood at roughly right angles to each other; he flicked through the FT, I concentrated on the Guardian. That's how we were for a few more stops, until he folded away the FT, and leaned over towards me, but not at me, looking at something that I could n't make out. He moved away for a second or so, then swayed back over again, gazing with hunter's intensity at something hidden behind a scrum of passengers by the other set of doors.

This happened two or three times, and always with the same focus. An absolute firmness of purpose. Until, the carriage started to empty, when there was enough space - and by this time I'm sure his mind was already made up -he turned around, steadied himself against the glass of the door, drew out a fountain pen and a business card, and wrote a short message on the back of it.

I caught a stray fragment of what he had written, when he turned back to face whoever it was he had in his sights, the first numbers of a mobile number and a half line about a woman in white boots. Remember I was too close not to see something and by now, my curiosity was razor sharp.

He had a nervous anticipation that I've really only ever seen when I've watched documentaries about beasts of prey eyeing an opportunity at the watering hole. Utter focus.

Eventually the tube thinned out and there was space between the remaining passengers. Very smartly, he stepped forward, tapped the shoulder of a young woman, with the deepest and thickest black hair I've seen in years, and passed his card over.

I could live forever if someone was to turn to me the way she did to him; a flashing look of amazement, then surprise, with the tiniest flush of embarrassment, then a smile strong enough to melt the Polar caps. This was her reaction to this act of beaumanship.

I should have applauded, done something to acknowledge this act of daring, passion, and romance. It was fabulous. A temerity that I would never dare, and yet one that I utterly admire.

Other than Le Chevalier and his Marianne, there was only her friend, who had just as a radiant a smile, and me, the silent witness, who were privy to any of this. What London missed that day.

The last I saw was the gallant knight leave the train at Mansion house a second or so in front of the black haired woman in white boots, and as the doors closed and the tube began to pull away, I saw them talking in what I hope was the breathless language of excitement.