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.

Anthology of Interest

The diary format isn't working as well as it used to, possibly because less seems to be happening to me at the moment, so instead here's a collection of things I've experienced recently that were worth noting:

- Wandering into a Harry Potter signing by mistake. No, Harry, Ron and Hermione weren't there. No, I couldn't see those who were.

- A woman asking me for directions while I was on my bike waiting at a traffic light. My response was of only a few syllables.

- A housemate giving me a bottle of gin, on the grounds that he had plenty, and another housemate holding two leaving parties on consecutive nights without either informing or inviting her soon-to-be ex-cohabiters.

- An argument with a bus driver (I was right; you don't pull over the line at a pelican crossing, let alone obliterate the cyclists' stopping area) where he seemed simply to repeat everything back at me. Perhaps this is how they learn rudimentary language skills.

-Standing on a rickety stool at the posh corporate bar of a post-production company, attempting to pitch myself as a writer to a room of barely interested media types. My spiel was derailed in seconds into explaining why I was afraid of horses. I'm not.

- Realising that with a fourth Scream film coming out this week, this series of films has been in existence for half my life.

- Finishing my book group book nearly three days early, and only having to read the last 14 pages in bed. This is a record.

- Staying up until after 4am on Monday morning, patiently trying to sync my computer with my phone.

- Having my annual appraisal at the office with no notice at all, then managing to wing my way through the feedback section that made it look like I knew this was coming. Nothing to worry about, but it pays to look like you know what you're doing.

- Seeing my name in print again, and being commissioned to write another article.

Looks Like that Maths Degree is Paying Off After All

This is pretty much a companion piece to my rambling last week about my pile of unread books. I also happen to have a MOUNTAIN of unwatched DVDs and recordings.

Despite having a minimum social life and few enriching hobbies, I seem to acquire DVDs at a much faster rate than I am capable of watching them. Like the books, I still have presents from the last Christmas but one that I haven't watched, not to mention stuff that I've bought on a whim.

On top of that, the stuff I've been recording onto my lovely hard-disc recorder (with built-in Freeview turner and multiregion DVD player-recorder - wave goodbye to your friends upon purchase) has been accumulating since I bought it three years ago. It has a capacity of 160GB, and I have to watch almost everything I record as I record it to avoid running out of space. My long-term plan is to replace all that is on there with lovely DVDs, but I still have to get through the pile that I have now. You can imagine how this might vex me.

This is where my logician's training kick in. I have to approach this problem with an organisational mind, and start drawing up a plan. No, better yet - an algorithm.

First, divide everything into separate groups. OK, done. Now criteria for what goes when. OK, that's done too. Let's start with the hard drive.

Everything on there divides into two categories: stuff to watch and stuff to keep. To make sure there's a minimum of space, make sure that there's enough room for all recordings up to the end of tomorrow. That's the priority. Now we've got our first line.

1 Is there enough space on the hard drive for everything up to the end of tomorrow? If no, watch until there is. If yes, go to 2.

This bit's a bit trickier (nice broad vocabulary there). The majority of DVDs split into two piles. One is for replacements of recordings or completion of series I've started, and the other is for other gifts and things I've bought on the spur of the moment. At the top of the first pile are Doctor Who DVDs, because obviously they have priority. My idea was to watch an episodes every day over breakfast, but I'm a bit behind. This goes next.

2 Are you behind with the Doctor Who Original Series DVDs? If yes, watch until you aren't. If no, go to 3.

The other stuff from the first pile I save for non-work nights - Friday and Saturday, unless there's a bank holiday. I'll watch films in one go, but if it's a series I might break off. So this should come next.

3. Are you partway through something from the rest of the pile? If yes, finish that. If no, go to 4.

Next the stuff I record to keep. But this is dependent on the day of the week.

4. Is it a work night? If yes, go to 5. If no, go to 6.

5. Is there anything recorded to keep and unwatched? If yes, watch that. If no, go to 7.

Now, here's the part where I start to get really arbitrary. My main pile of discs is stacked next to my stereo, and it's an age-old rule that I'm only allowed to buy new discs from the "replacing stuff" list when the top of pile is lower than the top of the tape deck. But there's also the question of the New Series Doctor Who stuff - which for the sake of convenience includes Torchwood and The Sarah Jane Adventures, and which I'm also behind with. Let's have that on weeknights.

Then there's the question of the other pile. That divides rather neatly into films and TV series. Let's have the TV series on weeknights and the films at weekends. There's also the limit of one film a night at weekends. I need my sleep in order to dream up bizarre choose-your-own-adventure algorithms.

6. Is the top of the pile below the level of the tape deck? If no, watch the next disc on that pile. If yes, watch the next disc from the other pile. Then go to 8.

7. Are there any New Series Doctor Who DVDs on the main pile? If yes, watch the next episodes. If no, watch the next episodes of the series on the other pile. Then go to 8.

I remember this... It's called...
something like... "outdoors".

Of course, I like to pay full attention to what I'm watching if it's a proper release, so if I've got all the way through that and it still isn't bedtime or I'm off sick or just plain lonely, there's a small pile of "other" discs, either freebies or odd, unsolicited gifts - including an Austrian coming-of-age film sent to by my mother's Bavarian penpal. So those come last.

8. Anything in the slush pile? If yes, watch that. If no, go outside and get some fresh air for Christ's sake.

Hmm, I really need a girlfriend, don't I?

The Late Fee is a Punch in the Face

No!

My bedroom is like a library. It really is starting to worry me about whether one morning I'll be woken by a fragrant old dear looking for the next Catherine Cookson. Because books and DVDs are ideal given for a media junkie whore like myself, I tend to acquire a lot. Then I have to find somewhere to put them while I work through the backlog.

There's a special shelf on one of my bookcases where all the "To Be Read" books are kept, neatly separated into fiction and non-fiction and then by author. However, there are so many crammed in that it's getting hard to work out not only where to put the next one on the pile but also what the next one out should be. Those tall books that don't fit are squeezed in elsewhere, and there's even overspill to my bedside table, where unread copies of Empire and Sight & Sound join, for some reason, three issues of the Beano, a Walkman, a pair of sunglasses and an alarm clock with no batteries.

This region, which I have started referring to as "Basingstoke", does supply a vital function. It acts as the home for my toilet books. If ever I need to make an extended visit, or pick something up to read in bed while my brain goes into standby mode, that is where I reach. Having torn through the magazines, I'm left with the comics - which I'm saving for the next time I take the tube to work in my suit - and Running Through Corridors.

...and available through this very link

This fine tome, which I cannot recommend too highly, is the first part of a three-volume saga in which Robert Shearman - award-winning author, playwright and Doctor Who scriptwriter - and his chum Toby Hadoke - actor, comedian and originator of award-winning one-man show Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf - watch the revered sci-fi series in its entirety in the course of a single year, a Sisyphean task which entails watching two episodes a day before sharing their thoughts via email, with these correspondences forming the text. It's a revelation, forcing the seasoned fan to rethink their attitudes and acting as a helpful accompaniment to a Not-We seeing the episodes for the first time. Superb.

The books I'm actually reading stay on the special shelf until they are needed, leaving a space when they venture out. At the moment I'm stumbling through Dickens's Barnaby Rudge - a historical novel even when it was written - and the first volume of J.G. Ballard's collected short stories. Fascinating, both. The rest of the shelf has a schizophrenic selection of books, including birthday and Christmas gifts stretching back almost 18 months, miraculous rare finds from Notting Hill and the pickings of a friend's pre-move clearout. Kurt Wallander and James Bond have three representatives each, while a shop-soiled copy of Olaf Stapledon's epochal Star Maker sits next to a mint condition novelisation of Dawn of the Dead, found for a pittance on the Charing Cross Road. There's even a manual for bicycle maintenance, which I really ought to look at rather than go to the Man to have my inner tube replaced, as I did at the weekend - I had run over a 5mm long piece of wire.

"You couldn't film it. You couldn't lift it." - Kubrick's producer,
remembering when the first draft of Lolita was handed in.

The stuff that won't fit on the special shelf is even more intimidating. Two unread Doctor Who annuals - What? I like to do the wordsearches - are but nought compared to the Stanley Kubrick Archives. A 300-page hardback colossus seemingly bound in concrete and lead, I used to keep it in my bed, since the sheer effort in supporting it and turning the pages during 10 minutes' read was enough to put me spark out. It now sits at the bottom of another set of shelves, sharing space with my Christmas Radio Timeses.

Although I don't for a moment regret joining my book group and the resulting enhancement of my social life, the plurality of print infesting the corners of my room do make me wonder sometimes whether or not I'd be able to bluff my way through the meetings, never reading the book at all and instead frenziedly devouring, say, Greg Bear's Eon, The Greatest Sci-Fi Movies Never Made or The Timewaster Diaries in a desperate bid to clear some damn space.

There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine

I have now owned my bike for more than half my life. That's some kind of achievement, isn't it? It's been something of a constant companion over the years, some kind of glasnost-era Tamagotchi. Now it's sitting downstairs, waiting patiently for me to take it out for a run again.

It was my 15th birthday present from my parents, and I got to go to Halfords in Cardiff to pick it out for myself. It proved handy to travel around the village and air base where we lived at the time. In the summer, I would go onto the base on my own, waving my pass at the guard, to visit the base cinema for the Thursday night show, before coming home well into the evening while it was still light.

When we moved to another base in Oxfordshire, it was my first means of commuter transport, getting me to work on the base as a dogsbody for a landscape maintaince firm in under 10 minutes. I started to feel like a grown-up, going out to work for the first time, popping home again for a quick lunch, even if I spent most of the day picking up fag ends and using an outdoor hoover.

After I moved to London, it only got an intermittent airing from my parents' garden shed until I decided to bring it up to help keep fit and save money. My initial plan was to take it back after Christmas, since I'd be travelling back in the daytime and had never had any lights, but with the amount of luggage I'd have on my back I was talked out of it. Eventually, I brought it back on a Sunday evening after Midsummer's weekend. There was a five-mile journey to the railway station and a furthe two miles through Central London at the other end, the whole thing racing against the sunset, like an episode of Top Gear at the end of the series when they've run out of money. I made it, of course, but my complaints on Facebook about the state of my arse drew some raised eyebrows.

I started off going for a circuit of the surrounding area a few times a week, but was eventually persuaded by a colleague to commute. This started, naturally, in mid-winter - the best time to start anything. Wary of the major routes, I worked out a path through backalleys and residential streets which increased my journey time by nearly a third. With practice, I became more confident and took the A-route, hiding in the bus lane. I even started using it for general journeys, saving my Oyster card for poor weather, poor health or laziness.

I've had a few accidents on it, sure, but the cyclist ploughing into me on the zebra crossing and the pedestrian shoving me over were hardly my fault. Stopping at a traffic light and missing the kerb with foot managed to be more serious than either, creating challenges out of lying down and breathing. But you'll still see me, helmet on, reflectors gleaming, lights sputtering in the dark. I've been lucky enough to find a shop that does cheap repairs, since Decathlon managed not to notice some fraying brake cabling the last time I visited. Much of the bike is still as it was on the shopfloor, with only the rear tyre, inner tubes and brake cabling wearing out.

I've stated to think of my bike as a low-maintenance pet. It goes where I go. It does what I need it to, as long as I look after it. If I'm careful with it, it'll carry on lasting me far into the future. It leaves stains on the living room floor. Even though parts of it are starting to show its age, like some sagging marmalade cloth cat, I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my old bike.

However, I haven't taken the final step into anthropomorphosis. I'm not talking about that guy who was arrested for an indiscretion - did the bike phone the police? How did they know? - but that, unlike some faithful old vehicles, my bike doesn't have a name. So here's a challenge.

Suggest a name for my bike, either by comment or email, by 10pm next Tuesday. The best suggestion will win a prize. Yes, a REAL prize. Thinking trousers on.