My chemical romance with the i-Pad shows no sign of ending, or even abating. Every night I'm glued to it. Where it goes, I go.

No action lives without a reaction, and so it is here; I've scarcely blogged anything for months., the excitement this device generates is still too overpowering.

I'm even starting to forget about it. Six years of writing in possible jeopardy and this when there is London laid out in front of me every day. The world's most kaleidoscopic city. Every corner a carnival of noise, smell, colour. Exemplified this evening as I headed along the Edgware Road, bathed in applewood smoke curling up from the shisha pipe customers sat outside numerous Arab coffee shops.

One is never, or should never be, tired of London. And I'm not. What I have to do is regulate my time and return to writing. Otherwise, these experiences will melt away like last year's snow.

My writer friend says about writing that, basically, you either talk about it, or you set the clock and do it, day in, day out. His authorly rule of thumb is that this regime should after 10 years or so, transform dust into something close to workable clay.

But you have to do it. And I have n't been as disciplined as I ought for several months since being bewitched by the i-Pad. This has been my fallowest period in probably a decade.

Verba volanta, scripta manent - "spoken words fly, written words remain"

Sometimes you can turn whole pages in the Evening Standard and not find an adulatory article or photo of London's blonde do nothing mayor. Seen through a different prism this is North Korea like behaviour.

Since I moved to another office in a different part of London, I'm having to adjust to a whole new world of commotion. Mayfair, where I now work, is virtually the inverse of the City, where I used to be until last Friday.

It's residential: people walk dogs, take kids to school, they amble, they stroll; there's even a church next door to my office and a pub just beyond that. It's almost the country. No sirens, no endless construction noise, no squeaking taxis or honking buses. I feel like I've gone deaf.

The sumptuary law is looser, more casual than the City's blue / black mix and match suit ensemble. Mayfair is chic and raffish in the same breath, Chanel and ripped denim. It's affluence where the edges of these two rub shoulders. There's a lot of expensive clothes horses cantering through both of these areas.

More shops, much more than the odds and sods that fluttered around my old office, a paper shop, a bookies and a hardware store. But at least the paper shop had things I conceivably might have wanted at some point, say a pen, or a pint of milk. I don't need a Stella Mcartney dress, nor I've got anything like the wherewithal to buy a Bentley or a Porsche, but this being Mayfair and it's raison d'être, luxury, rarity and expense, these are what pass for local shops.

My greatest challenge is to rebuild the foraging routes I made during my time in the city. All those tucked away little cafes and takeaways that I've bought untold number of lunches from. I'm very particular about what I eat: more or less vegetarian during the working week with meat just at the weekends. It's what I call flexiteranism. I knew just exactly where to go in the city. Now I have to unearth Mayfair's equivalents. And so far there's been no glint of gold.

I'd never heard of Joe Paterno until a few weeks ago, and all I really know even now is he had a golden reputation as an American Football coach until it came out latterly that he'd failed to act against a fellow coach accused of child abuse. Lamentable allegations, now sadly proven I understand.

You know how it works on the Internet; you roam, meander, take the road less travelled, click link after link on a journey with no particular reason until you stub your toe on something special, which is how I came across this astounding commencement speech Paterno gave in 1973. Putting to one side the absolute seriousness of what he should have done but did n't, and this I imagine is how he'll always be thought of now, this is quite a speech: learned, peppered with apt quotes, realistic and inspirational at the same time.

No comparably renowned Brit football manager could get within a country mile of something so eloquent. To be tongue tied rates as an intellectual achievement for most Brit team managers. Look no further than the dismal example Harry Redknap's setting with his faux cockney inarticulacy during his tax trial.

Oratory unquestionably is the American art form.