Almost a regular Monday

1. The disembodied female voice in Glamoursmith Bus station purrs: Bus number 367 s now boarding from gate 4. The lady clearly has higher aspirations than measly bus stations. Then, for added urban grittiness, she adds: gate 4. Yo.

2. I grab the daily free dose of utter shite that is The Metro, and peruse the article on Pete Doherty. How can a junkie look so fat? What do they cut his crack with, pork pies? I’m dumbfounded.

3. I am attending a one-day conference about my job, with 40 people who do what I do. Strangely, I feel no kinship. I’m very polite to the lady on my left, though. People don’t expect me to be polite. I like to watch their face change as they realise I’m actually quite nice.

4. I sit in the dark with my Special Lady Friend to watch Broken Flowers. At the end as we’re queuing up for the toilet, an old lady with her white hair in a bun strikes up a conversation with us about the film. She found it exceedingly slow. I enjoyed the slowness.

5. Later on we have steak so good it’s stupid in a cute little Soho restaurant. At the table next to us are sat a man in a grey suit as well as his late fifties, and a much younger transvestite in a clingy fuchsia dress and matching leg warmers, worn over turquoise high-heeled court shoes. Odd couple. We steal glances while pretending to look at the decoration, and then we hold hands over the table. If they can, we figure we can too.