Diary

Of course, since I first wrote the previous post and put it to one one side for later revision, I have decided to bring the diary after all, especially since my life seems to be hotting up in proportion to the weather.

The fun started two weeks ago, with the monthly BFI film quiz. Inevitably, my team won again, but the prizes were so uninteresting I preferred to leave empty-handed. The quizmaster has an odd habit of rambling off the point at great length. At a previous quiz, he threw in the unplanned question of how to attract more visitors to BFI Southbank, and in lieu of actually awarding any points, decided to read out each and every suggestion.

For some reason, he had started talking about how doctors have a tendency to cup your testicles and ask you to cough, and he was incredulous that this has any medical benefit. In fact, it can act as an early signal of hiatus hernia, and I shouted this out when he opened the floor to ideas. When he asked me, yelling across the floor, how I knew, I said I was a doctor. It seemed to be the simplest way out of the conversation.

Then he leaped over and thrust his microphone into my face, asking me to explain further. I leaned into the mike and said, "I'm a doctor, not a public speaker", then sat back. Yeah, that showed him.

The following night was my book group meet. Discussion was lively and enjoyable, but most notable for the book in question - "Gun, with Occasional Music" by Jonathan Lethem - being universally disliked, except by our chief, who was away attending a project management course, and delivered her thoughts by text message.

I thought I might indulge myself in having a pint of beer when I got to the pub, before switching to mineral water for the rest of the evening. However, I was starting on the way home to not feel myself, and by the time I woke for work the following morning I was pretty sure that I was medically ill. I phoned in sick, attempted to watch the previous night's episode of Rubicon - a new US drama about intelligence analysts that has an obvious le Carre debt to pay - but by brain couldn't cope. I retired to bed, and woke again at around 3pm, feeling better.

After an afternoon loafing about in my "study", I thought I'd go out and get some fresh air. A trip to the cinema seemed like a good idea, so off I popped to Canary Wharf. I picked up something to smuggle in for my tea, went to the cinema - and found both films I wanted to see sold out.

This is where my magical new phone came in handy. With only a few squiggles of my index finger, I found out where the film were showing nearby and when, leaped onto another tube and emerged at the GiganticaEnormoDome. The O2 is almost unbelievably vast, so much so that it contains an 11-screen cinema and that is the fourth-largest entertainment venue under its canopy. There are bars and restaurants, poorly-signposted stairwells to get lost in and underground car parks where sinister men unload cardboard boxes from Transit vans at the dead of 10.30pm. I have witnessed this, and I shudder to think what their intentions were.

The 8pm showing of Scream 4 was busy, and I should have learned my lesson from the last time I went to the Dome to see a horror picture on a Friday night. The youths in the audience couldn't stop themselves from talking, screaming at the slightest whiff of tension and generally behaving as though I had paid to see them perform as well. I ate my tea with a scowl, but enjoyed the film.

Continuing my quest for the outside, I decided that I'd take a walk instead of going back to the tube station. This walk, ultimately, lasted five miles and covered the route from the Dome to my front door, via downtown Greenwich - surprisingly quiet for a Friday night - and Tesco, where I bought a packet of hot cross buns which I consumed when I got in. Poor impulse control, there.

The weekend brought the first specks of summer over the horizon, and a friend of mine was in town for the day. Still owing her a decent Christmas present, since I felt that the six-pack of beer I won at a previous BFI quiz was a barely sufficient stopgap, I made a few visits on my way into town to buy some nice soaps, a plush rabbit and some unpasteurised cheese. Mark my words, gentlemen. The way to a woman's heart is not with poetry, or flowers, or chocolates. The simple gift of high-grade cheese is enough to make her heart melt to a spreadable consistency, and for her to be Dolcelatte in your hands.

In the meantime, I was still stocking up on gifts for my mother's birthday. As has become tradition, I help Dad with buying and wrapping the presents from him, as his physical condition prevents him from taking care of it himself. I searched Oxford Street in vain for small gardening tools, but then received a call from Visiting Friend. She was out of her martial arts club, and was at the pub with some of her fellow pugilists. The catch was that she was five miles across town. Challenge accepted.

It is remarkable how easily one can divide a route across a familiar city without the benefit of maps, and less than half-an-hour later, I arrived at the pub near Stepney Green. Another pint of beer was sunk, very kind and wholly exaggerated words regarding my celestial provenance were bestowed upon receipt of my gifts, and recent news was caught up upon. The route home managed to be considerable quickly than expected, thanks to a split second decision to take the Rotherhithe tunnel home, rather than traversing the Isle of Dogs and the Greenwich pedestrian tunnel. I even surprised myself in being able to cycle up the steep slope at the far end, and in top gear no less.

The week after was a little quieter, with one evening spent wrapping presents, another visiting a comedy night founded by a close relative, which boasted several new and entertaining acts, and one for whom I tried to formulate a strategy in order to approach her, engage her in conversation, possibly buy her a drink and then ask her out. It ought to go without saying that I didn't actually do any of those things, but I couldn't come up with a workable plan either so I didn't feel as pathetic as I might otherwise. Heigh-ho.

I did, however, manage to surprise myself with a run on Monday evening. Having already spent a solid half-hour in the weights room of the gym, attempting to fashion my bulbous frame into something less offensive, I started on the treadmill, decided to keep going until I had to stop - while walking briskly for a minute in every five - and managed to cover three-and-a-quarter miles in less than 29 minutes. That's the furthest I've ever run, and I haven't even nearly managed to replicate the feat since then. Could I have dreamed it?

The Easter weekend was spent with the parents, celebrating Mum's birthday, enjoying the coastal sunshine. A trip to the funfair on Sunday was a bad idea, infested as it was with ugly day-trippers, while the main amusement arcade seems to have turned into an indifferently-run deathtrap in the last five weeks. The milkshake from the in-house Wimpy franchise was refreshing though, more so than the frappaccino I tried in Portsmouth the previous afternoon. It definitely put the turd in Saturday.

Easter Monday was spent back in town, with a trip to see Thor - very disappointing - and a frightening visit to the bathroom scales. I'm now up to 85kg. I appreciate that it is scientifically impossible to get more out than you put in, but this is getting depressing. Any suggestions on how I can curb my appetite? Those who suggest I eat less will get a bullet in the throat.

Something else that I noted was that someone has unfriended me from Facebook. This has happened before, of course - even I have enemies, oh yes - but I can't for the life of me work out what I did that made this person want to do such a thing. Was it something I said? Possibly, albeit inadvertently. I made a jocular comment on my wall to those who did not attend my birthday party, and it may have been taken to heart. Bigmouth strikes again. It isn't as though I will never see this person, as I do encounter them regularly, or at least expect to do so. Maybe I won't anymore? Or maybe I'm just being paranoid and it was an error on their part, or one of the snowballing number of glitches added by Zuckerberg's development, so they have an excuse to continually tinker with the site. I've stopped fretting about it now, but I'm still curious..

That seems to be it for now, but if something else should happen, I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Best wishes,

the Phantom of the Opera.