Day 16: The Day My iPhone Broke

My iPhone is broken. It was perfectly fine one moment, then stone cold dead the next. I've tried everything to turn it back on. I've tried charging it, hard resetting it, even praying to it. Nothing! I've gone from holding the world's best phone to holding the world's most expensive brick in a matter of seconds.

It's ridiculously inconvenient when your phone doesn't work. What's really annoying, however, is that it has the only alarm clock that I trust to wake me up in the morning. The last time I tried to use something other than my mobile to wake me up, it was an absolute disaster.

It was the night before I had a big meeting that was due to last the whole day. I'd only been working for about four months, so I was extra keen to make a good impression. The meeting was due to start at 8.30am in Waterloo. To make it on time, I needed to set my alarm for about 6am. The problem was, my iPhone was broken at the time (it's amazing, they can put a man on the moon, but they can't make an iPhone that works).

I thought my best option was to set an alarm on my laptop. Unfortunately, it never went off. I didn't just oversleep...I didn't wake up until 10.30am. The meeting had already been running for two hours and I was still in bed. I don't think I've ever got dressed so quickly in my life. Imagine the faces of my colleagues and my director when I burst into the meeting just as they were about to break for lunch!

I wasn't taking any chances this time. I managed to hunt down as many alarm clocks as I could find in the house and spent the last five minutes before bed setting alarms on six different devices.

At 7.30am this morning I was woken up violently by a discordant orchestra of buzzes, chimes and beeps. After a few seconds, I'd managed to switch off five out of six alarms. One of them was missing...Clocky.

You see, Clocky is no ordinary alarm clock. Clocky has wheels. When 7.30am strikes, Clocky's wheels start spinning furiously. He jumps off the bedside table and rides around the bedroom looking for an obscure place to hide. This means you have to get out of bed in order to turn him off. Some call him a snoozer's worst nightmare. I call him a little sh*t.

I spent the next couple of minutes trying to work out where the beeping was coming from, until I realised that he'd managed to roll under my bed and wedge himself behind a cardboard box. At 7.35 this morning, I found myself on my hands and knees, crawling under my bed looking for an alarm clock. I emerged covered in dirt, irritable, and with a dusty cobweb clinging to my eyelids. Not a great start to the week!

The day was reasonably busy, but relatively uneventful. Within seconds of getting home, however, I managed to break something else...my shisha. For those of you who don't know, a shisha is a fruity tobacco pipe (don't worry, it's perfectly legal).

Somehow, I had knocked it off the kitchen unit, causing it to shatter on the floor. I'm gutted! The shisha and I have been through so much together. It even made a cameo appearance in one of the most memorable moments to have ever taken place in my household.

Picture the scene....a warm summer's afternoon in 2008. Family and friends are gathered in the garden to celebrate my 21st birthday. My parents are sitting at a table on the patio whilst Tamara, my friends and I are chatting on the grass, which I should add is a lot higher than the patio level. My brother is also on the grass, smoking the shisha with his friends. A peaceful, civilised scene.

After a couple of hours my grandma arrived. As I mentioned, this happened a few years ago, a time before my grandma had started making clay sculptures of my girlfriend's head. In fact, it was the first time Tamara had ever met my grandma. She walked across the patio and spotted my brother smoking the shisha. She climbed up onto the grass and walked over to him. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. I thought there was a strong chance she was going to tell him off for smoking.

And then those immortal words were uttered from my grandma's mouth, 'I love a bit of that. Let's have a puff'. I don't know what she even thought it was, but she grabbed the pipe and drew in a long deep breath. The rest of us looked on in disbelief.

For a couple of seconds, nothing really happened. My grandma then proceeded to stagger around the garden like a deer that had just been shot with a rifle. 'Ooo I feel a little bit queer', she yelped, as she accelerated towards the edge of the grass before stage-diving head first down a few rocks and onto the patio below.

The chairs parted like the Red Sea as my grandma face-planted the ground. I took Tamara by the hand, walked over to my grandma, who was lying dazed in a mangled heap on the floor and said, 'Tamara this is my grandma. Grandma, this is Tamara.'

*          *          *

I decided today that I'm going to take a break from blogging for a while. I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank everybody who's read and enjoyed the blog over the past couple of weeks. Thank you, in particular, to everyone who has commented, 'liked' and shared the blog with their friends. The praise you have all given me has been unbelievable and I appreciate it very much.

I actually can't believe how many times people have visited my blog since New Year's Day. As I write this, the site has received 170 hits today alone. And since I started the blog, I've had a total of over 1,800 hits. Considering that about 90% of these have come directly from the links that have been shared on Facebook, I have to say that it's quite frankly incredible.

I won't say that I'm stopping forever. I have no doubt that I'll be back sometime later in the year with more daily anecdotes and musings. But until then, thank you again. Matt x

Day 15: The Day I Tried Horse Riding

One of my New Year's resolutions is to try and make the most out of 2012. So when I arranged to see my friend Dan Rosen today, we decided to book ourselves onto a horse riding class. I know nothing about horses, I've never ridden one before and I've never even really had an urge to. But it was something a bit different, and I'll try anything once.

When I called up to book the lesson yesterday, the woman asked how much Rosen and I weigh. I told her my weight, and couldn't help but laugh when I told her how light Rosen was. Rosen is just over six foot tall and last time I checked, weighed in at a puny eight and a half stone. He's so thin he has to run around in the shower to get wet, and so pale that he's almost transparent like a newborn fish.

In my head I had visions of leaping onto the back of a stallion and galloping off into the woods like a scene from War Horse or Black Beauty. The reality was slightly different...a kids' group riding lesson around a small, manure infested, square pen, where Rosen and I were the oldest riders by about twenty years. We were both introduced to our horses and our leaders. Mine was a thirteen year old girl.

I was helped onto the horse by a nine year old boy who didn't seem to mind that my horse was trying to lick his head off. Within seconds my hands were painfully numb from the cold. I kept whinging to the girl who was leading my horse until she eventually gave in and leant me her pink gloves.

Rosen's horse was beautiful. A white stallion with a long flowing mane. It rode calmly and smoothly around the pen, causing Rosen little trouble whatsoever. Mine, however, looked like a cross between Camilla Parker Bowles and Boris Johnson and spent the entire lesson jerking its head up and down like a Jibba Jabba doll. 'She gets very irritated', my leader warned me. 'Someone rode her yesterday and she bucked them off'. That filled me with loads of confidence.

I'm not quite sure if I actually enjoyed the lesson or not. I had no idea what I was doing and had to put up with a middle aged female instructor shouting at me for an entire hour from the middle of the pen. 'Keep your feet in the stirrups', 'Choke down on the reins', 'Use the rhythm of the horse'. Too much for one lesson, in my opinion. I had no idea what stirrups were, I didn't know how to hold the reins, and I only just about knew what a horse was.

After about 45 minutes of going round and round the pen aimlessly, the instructor told us that we were going to try and break into a trot. 'Is that faster or slower than a gallop?', I asked my thirteen year old leader, whose hands had turned red from frostbite. She seemed shocked at my ignorance. 'Slower', she replied. 'But she's really quick, so you'll probably have to grip on really tightly with your thighs'.

I've never gripped anything with my thighs before. It's quite uncomfortable. As my horse broke into a trot, I forgot about the cold weather, I forgot about trying to stay balanced on the horse. All I could focus on was my poor testicles which spent the next few minutes being battered relentlessly against the horse's back.

The lesson finished and I was relieved to get off. I limped around the pen, numb from the cold, thighs aching and fairly convinced I was now unable to have children. That's the price I paid for trying something a bit different.

Day 14: The Day My Incompetence Was Exposed

My parents have been on holiday for about ten days now. For me, the first couple of days were lovely. No nagging, no telling me off for leaving my shoes in the hall and no having to eat my mum's cooking. The problem is, I can't cook, I can't put the washing on and I have no idea how to iron. What started off as a nice, relaxing few days home alone has turned into a daily fight for survival.

I'm ashamed to say it, but I have no idea how to do even the most basic household chores. The other day, Jake stopped me from putting a tablet in the dishwasher that was meant for the washing machine. Well, technically they're both 'washing machines' aren't they? Even my neighbours have caught on to how incompetent I am. Yesterday, I opened the front door and noticed that one kind neighbour, knowing that I'd forget, had wheeled our bins to the front of the house ready for collection.

I woke up in the middle of the night gasping for water. I went downstairs, found the biggest glass I could and filled it up from the tap. My only explanation for what happened next is that God was looking down on me and thought, 'Let's see how the incompetent child handles this one'. Half asleep, I brought the glass to my mouth, eager to quench my thirst, when the bottom of the glass just broke off and fell on the floor. I hadn't dropped the glass or even knocked it. In fact, I've never even seen this happen in the 24 years that I've inhabited Planet Earth. It just fell off. The water cascaded down onto the floor, soaking the kitchen, leaving me holding a perfect, hollow, glass cylinder.

I couldn't believe how much water there was to mop up...at 3am! I didn't even know what to use to mop it up. The first thing that came to mind was kitchen roll. The problem is, I only had about two squares left. At first I thought this might be enough. You may have seen one of those adverts for Bounty kitchen roll. A transvestite housewife accidentally spills some liquid on the kitchen table. He/she removes one square of Bounty kitchen paper from the roll and gently starts to mop up the spillage. He/she then walks over to the sink, twists the kitchen paper to remove the excess water and uses it again...and again. Then the jingle: Bounty The Strongest Soaker Upper...Absolute boll*cks! I gently placed a square of Bounty over the puddle and watched it instantly dissolve into a mushy pulp.

And then I saw the solution. Two dish cloths hanging innocently from the oven handle. I wrapped one around each foot and proceeded to skate around the kitchen floor like a poor man's version of Dancing on Ice. As I pirouetted gracefully across the tiles, I wondered if this is how Torvill and Dean also mop up their spillages.

Day 13: The Day I Was Condemned To Hell

I was sitting peacefully on the bus this morning, deeply engrossed in my copy of the Metro. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a preacher board the bus. She wore a small microphone headset and spoke with a thick Caribbean accent. She was reciting verses from the Bible loudly, looking along the bus for a victim to preach to. I kept my head down, praying she'd walk straight past me. I tried my hardest not to make direct eye contact. They can smell fear.

'You!' she bellowed. I peered slowly over the top of my newspaper only to find a long withered finger pointing in my direction. If you've ever been suddenly pounced upon during something like a stand up comedy show, you'll understand what it feels like to be paralysed with uncertainty as to what's going to happen next.

The preacher seemed to have the attention of the whole bus. The commuters were staring at us, half out of curiosity, half delighted not to be victims of the mighty wrath of the preacher. Our eyes met. She tilted her head and asked gently in her strong Caribbean accent, 'What do you think of the sweet lord Jesus Christ?' Not wanting to start a debate or cause offence, I simply uttered, 'He's alright'.

'Just alright? Just alright?' she questioned. I'd clearly offended her. 'When the sweet lord Jesus Christ looked down from the cross, do you think his people thought he was just alright?' I had no response. All I knew was that I wanted her to go away.

'Look, I'm good', I told her. I'm not sure exactly why I said this. I think I just panicked a bit. The preacher gradually moved her solemn face closer and closer towards mine. She took the newspaper from my hands. Everybody was watching. 'No!' she said slowly and deliberately, her eyes lighting up. 'You are not good! Only the sweet lord Jesus Christ is truly good! Respect the lord, or you will go to hell!' She paused for dramatic effect and then hopped off at the next stop.

I have to say, I've had many eventful journeys into work but being condemned to hell is definitely a new one.

Got home from work at about 7pm and sat in front of a pre-recorded episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show. I tend to series-link Jeremy Kyle along with Deal or No Deal and Countdown...a hangover from my student days. I'm the first to admit The Jeremy Kyle Show doesn't exactly represent the height of English intellect. In fact, it would be more suitable to describe it as a human zoo. The audience are the visitors, Jeremy is the zoo keeper, and the guests are paraded around like animals. Actually, I think many of the guests belong in cages.

The daily topics are unbelievable. 'I had a child with my brother', 'I'm having an affair with my stalker' and 'I broke up with my girlfriend because she wouldn't make me a Pot Noodle' are all common topics on The Jeremy Kyle Show. Today was 'Lie Detector: The Results'. My favourite! Two blondes, a guy and his girlfriend, sat in the chair talking to Jeremy. The girlfriend had just given birth. The guy was concerned that there was a very small chance that the baby didn't belong to him and that his girlfriend had been having an affair around the time of conception. Jeremy turned to the guy. 'What makes you think she cheated?' he asked. 'Well, she gave birth', the guy answered in a Northern accent. 'And the baby were a bit black'. No point wasting time on a lie detector test then, I thought.

I think there's only one thing more shameful than being a guest on The Jeremy Kyle Show...sitting in the audience for a live recording of The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Yes, that's me on the right of the picture having the time of my life. A few years ago, a friend of mine managed to get hold of a few tickets and asked if Marc, Adam and I wanted to come with. She didn't have to ask twice.

It was amazing. The first story was a girl who was accusing her boyfriend of cheating - a common thread on The Jeremy Kyle Show. The cameras were rolling and everybody in the audience was silent with the exception of Adam, Marc and I who were already struggling to hold back the laughter. It was one of those unbearable situations where you have to be quiet, yet you know that an uncontrollable fit of laughter could erupt at any second.

'What makes you think he was cheating?' Jeremy asked. 'Well', the girl replied very seriously. 'The other day, I went upstairs and found a pubic hair on the toilet seat. And I know it weren't mine cos I shave mine every day'. And with that, Marc, Adam and I lost it. I laughed so hard I nearly burst. From the wings, the director shouted 'Cut'. The cameras stopped rolling, Jeremy stopped talking and the producer marched over to the three of us in front of the entire studio. 'You, you and you, get up!' she commanded, and sent us to the back row of the audience, threatening to kick us out if we laughed again.

Happy Friday!

Day 12: The Day I Bought Sun Cream In January

I've been working for almost two years now and have gradually grown sick of every type of sandwich that London has to offer. Most things for lunch in the area are too boring, too expensive or too unhealthy. Usually I have to decide in my head what I'm going to eat by about 11.30am. Otherwise when 1pm comes, I start stressing about what to eat and find myself wandering around aimlessly, looking for inspiration. Today was one of those days.

A young man with a sandwich board around his neck walked past. He was advertising a new place that had opened up in the area. 'Sick of sandwiches?' the board read. 'Try Sam's Chinese Express'. Why not? I fancied a change.

Managed to find Sam's Chinese Express on the corner of the next road. It didn't look like much and I have to say, I was a bit skeptical of the name. Sam's? It's not the most Chinese name in the world. It would be like going to Dave's Sushi, or Phil's Curry House. I thought I'd try it out anyway. Stunk the whole office out with my sweet and sour chicken and rice. It would've been pretty good actually if it wasn't glowing neon orange.

I do love a Chinese takeaway. I haven't had a great record with ordering deliveries though. During Freshers' Week at uni, Marc and I made the wise decision to avoid the canteen in the halls of residence and order a Chinese delivery. About half an hour later, my mobile rang to tell me to come and collect the food from the front of the building. I left my room, walked down the corridor and spotted a Chinese guy heading towards me holding two white carrier bags.

'Are you the Chinese guy?' I asked, eyeing up the plastic bags. 'Huh'? he replied, confused and perplexed. 'The Chinese guy?' I repeated. 'Two sweet and sour chickens, two egg fried rice?' I was getting impatient. The guy looked at me, furrowed his brow and said aggressively, 'F*ck off!' It turned out he was my new next door neighbour. We never spoke again.

On the way home, the overground train was a bit delayed so I thought I'd kill some time by roaming around Boots in Euston station. I noticed that there was a buy one, get one free offer for sun cream, so I thought I might as well stock up. It may be January and I may not have a holiday booked, but I didn't want to miss out on this deal. Plus, you have to buy it at some point anyway - getting burnt is a miserable feeling.

On holiday last year, I fell asleep on my front in the sun and got terribly burnt on my back. The problem was, my front was still completely white. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I looked like one of those rhubarb and custard sweets.

I was in complete agony. Tamara did everything she could to help. 'Apparently if you apply yoghurt, it's really good for sunburn', she suggested. It sounded weird but I was ready to try anything. She took some yoghurt from the fridge, peeled back the lid and emptied the entire thing on my raw back.

It was sort of soothing, but what Tamara hadn't realised was that I needed natural yoghurt, not a Muller Fruit Corner. A few minutes passed by. 'What's that smell?', I asked, as a small chunk of pineapple slid down my back and nestled itself in between my bum cheeks. The heat from my back had caused the yoghurt to curdle and turn into cheese!

Day 11: The Day I Missed The Bin

Was running late for the train this morning. Most of the parking spaces on the residential road near the station had been taken. There's fewer spaces now than ever since about a dozen of the neighbours have started copying Number 14 by laying down traffic cones to stop people from parking.

I had no choice but to get out of the car and move some of the traffic cones. As I was doing so, I heard a front door open...a neighbour was about to confront me. 'Oi! Clear off!' he bellowed, shooing me away like a rabid dog. 'We're expecting a big delivery and if you don't move I'll scratch your car', he threatened. I didn't have time to explain how unlikely it was that 12 neighbours were all waiting for a big delivery on the same day, so I just got back in my car and drove on.

Managed to find a parking space about half a mile up the road. The problem was that the train was coming in a few minutes and I knew that I had to sprint if I wanted to make it. I was still stiff from my 3 minute run last night, so found myself hobbling like a demented crab all the way to the station.

The train seemed even busier than usual. Commuters were crammed shoulder to shoulder, some had their faces squashed against the window, and I'm pretty sure at one point my ear grazed an old man's bottom lip. The look of one passenger absolutely terrified me. He had shaved hair, which showed off the scars on his head beautifully, and was wearing a huge hooded jumper which reached his knees. He had a huge diamante earring in his ear and wore a long thick chain around his neck that looked like it had been bought from B&Q Warehouse. We were forced to stand face to face, our eyes inches apart. He had one of those faces that you might expect to see on the front page of the Metro underneath the headline 'Lunatic Murders Parents'. To make matters worse, he was one of those passengers who thinks it's acceptable to play their iPod at full volume. It wasn't long, however, before I noticed he was bopping his head to Band Aid: Do They Know It's Christmas...he no longer posed a threat.

Got into work at 9am and headed straight to the tea point to get some water. The tea point is often busy at this time and sometimes you have to squeeze past a few colleagues to get to the tap. A few weeks ago, I was trying to squeeze behind a woman who was holding a cup of hot coffee in her hand. She didn't realise I was there, stepped backwards and tripped over me. The coffee went flying through the air and landed on the head of a manager, who was kneeling down to put something in the fridge. He stood up slowly, coffee dripping from his fringe, gave me a look of death and walked off before I could say sorry. I emailed him later on to say 'So sorry about earlier. I know coffee's supposed to wake you up in the morning, but I bet you didn't have that in mind'.

Got myself into a bit of a predicament this afternoon. I had a meeting to go to and needed to get rid of my gum. I removed the chewing gum from my mouth, rolled it into a ball and went to throw it in the bin a couple of feet away. It was virtually impossible to miss. The chewing gum somersaulted through the air, bounced off the rim of the bin and landed in a manager's handbag - Chewston, we have a problem!

Luckily she wasn't at her desk at the time and no one saw. However, I was in what some might refer to as a lose-lose situation. As far as I was concerned I had two options: 1. Don't say or do anything. Walk away as though nothing has happened and let the manager find someone's chewed up gum in her handbag when she gets home tonight. Let her think that someone in the team dislikes her, and risk her reporting a hate crime to the HR department. 2. Crouch down, remove the gum and let the entire team (including the director) watch you rummage around in the manager's handbag.

It was a tough choice and I was tempted to go with the first option. For a start, I feel really uncomfortable going into women's handbags. I'm always nervous about what I could find in there. In the end, I did what I think was the right thing...a third option. I waited for her to get back and told her what I'd done. We laughed about it and she let me take the gum out.

Out of curiosity, I thought I'd check out how much the FFT (Fart Fund for Tamara) has raised over the past 11 days. Just to recap, one of my new year's resolutions was to stop farting in front of Tamara. For every fart that she hears or smells, I have to put £1 in a box. I'm ashamed to say it, but I've raised £9 so far. Tamara said that if I raise enough money, I have to take her to Nobu at the end of the year. I'm pretty convinced I'll have enough to take her to Nobu in Paris. Only time will tell.

Day 10: The Day I Started Training

The journey into work this morning was relatively smooth, aside from managing to get myself wedged in the revolving doors of the office. I'm not great with revolving doors. Last year at the Christmas party, my colleague, Rebecca, and I were walking into the building. I pushed the doors a little too hard, she tripped over, smashed her head against the glass and landed in a mangled heap on the floor. This led to a trip to hospital, several head scans and a diagnosis of concussion. Like I said, I'm not great with revolving doors.

Had a terrible headache for most of the day. Thought it might be due to dehydration, so ended up drinking litres and litres of water all morning. It wasn't long before I was bursting for the toilet. Went to wash my hands. The company have recently replaced the paper towels with hand driers in order to be more green. The problem is, they've installed those ultra powerful Dyson ones that make more noise than a rocket taking off. Since I already had a headache, I decided to dry my hands on the back of my trousers. The thing is, I was wearing light coloured jeans today and when I looked in the mirror I noticed two giant, wet handprints on my bum. I didn't want my colleagues to think I'd been groped in the toilets, so had to wait there patiently until the handprints dried.

On the way back from work, I saw a horrendous accident. A car collided with a motorbike literally 20 yards in front of me, sending the motorcyclist skidding across the road. Thought I'd be a good Samaritan and ran over to help. Luckily the motorcyclist wasn't badly hurt. He was an old guy with a ponytail and no teeth (I'm not sure if he had teeth before the accident). I was just delighted that I didn't have to give him mouth to mouth. The bike was a complete write-off though. During the accident, he had dropped hundreds of leaflets in the road, which I helped to collect. Ironically, the leaflets were advertising a motorbike sale. I highly recommend he doesn't buy another one.

Went out for a Korean meal with Tamara tonight. We go there quite often as they do really good food. As we walked in, the waiter asked if we had booked a table. 'Yes, it's for Tamara', I said. 'Tomorrow?' he replied. 'You want a table for tomorrow?' This happens every single time.

Whenever we go to the Korean restuarant they serve us some free appetisers, one of which needs to be seen to be believed.

I have no idea what it is. I don't even think the waiters are sure. Four cubes of an unidentified jelly-like substance, which the chef has tried to decorate with sliced carrot and spring onion. It glistens in the light and if you look carefully, you can even see your reflection in it. I've never eaten it. I never have and I never will. I don't trust the way it wobbles.

Thought I'd start training for the Berlin marathon tonight. I'm not a good runner. The last time I signed up for a run was a 10km race in secondary school. All the parents had come to watch and support their sons. The headmaster was there too. I didn't just come last out of 150 people. I finished about an hour later than the boy who came second last. Everyone's parents had gone home apart from mine, who I found sitting having a coffee with the headmaster.

Managed to pull together some running clothes. Well, my tracksuit bottoms had a gaping hole in the crotch area, but they were just about wearable. So off I went on my merry way, iPod in hand, testicles swinging in the breeze. I think I ran for about 3 minutes before I was panting, coughing and utterly convinced I had frostbite in my scrotum.

I wasn't prepared to run any further. 3 minutes was more than enough. Luckily, I managed to hitchhike a ride back...Jake was on his way home and happened to pull up next to me. Result!

My training for the Berlin marathon had begun.

Day 9: The Day I Tried Biltong

Got into work at about 9am. People are often going on business trips in my department and when they return, they often bring back sweets or chocolate for the rest of the team. It's quite common to find Toblerone from Switzerland, Hershey's Kisses from America or Lindt chocolate from Germany at the end of the bank of desks.

When I walked into work this morning, however, I found what I was convinced was an open bag of poo at the end of the desk. 'What is this?' I quizzed one of my colleagues. 'It's biltong', someone answered. 'It's like sticks of dried meat. Seb has bought it back from South Africa'. I thought I'd try a small piece. I broke a bit off and brought it up to my nose. I have to be honest, it smelled even worse than it looked but I was not to be deterred by the turd. I took a bite. It was delicious! Found myself going backwards and forwards from my desk to the biltong all morning.

The morning went by quickly and we were very busy. Lunchtime came and I was pretty full from all the biltong I'd been eating, so I thought I'd just grab some soup from Eat. On my way back to the office I passed one of my colleagues on the street. Now, I've been working for about two years and I'm yet to establish what the social etiquette is when encountering a colleague away from the desk. Do I smile, nod, say hi or ignore them altogether since I've only just seen them? It's an enigma that bothers me daily. What happens when you pass them in the corridor or on your way to the printer? And is it socially unacceptable to say hi to them in the toilets?

I came up with a theory recently. The further away you are from your desk when you pass your colleague, the more you should acknowledge them. This proved to be true a few weeks ago when colleagues were hugging and kissing each other at the Christmas party in Camden. They'd only been working with the same people about an hour earlier.

Was desperate for the toilet after lunch. One of the cubicles was occupied so I tried the other. For some reason there was no lock. I attempted to sit down with my foot pressed hard against the door in case someone tried to come in. I then remembered what happened the last time I tried to go to the toilet when the lock didn't work. It was on holiday a few years ago after I had been swimming. I was virtually naked on the toilet when in burst a little old Chinese woman (not the same one that pushed me into the road last week - I'm convinced that old Chinese women have it in for me). She saw everything. What she was doing in the men's toilets is beyond me! I wasn't prepared to take the same risk today so I went downstairs to try another toilet. Everything was going fine until I slipped off and landed on my knees. Toilet seat wasn't fastened down!

Went to the Emirates with Marc tonight to watch Arsenal vs Leeds. I was running a bit late so I thought I'd quickly grab a sandwich from Pret before I got on the underground. The carriage was absolutely packed with overweight, bald Arsenal fans. One stop into the journey and the train became stuck at Russell Square. I had to put up with a drunk, red faced hooligan chanting 'Thierry Henry' in my ear for 15 minutes. I was absolutely starving so decided to take out my Pret sandwich. I only had one bite before the drunk, red faced hooligan sneezed on it.

Loads of Arsenal fans were getting off the train and were talking about getting taxis to the station. I thought this was a good idea, so tried to find someone wearing an Arsenal shirt to share a cab with. I think I managed to find the only Arsenal fan on the whole train who didn't look like they could kill me at any second. I suggested to him that we shared a cab to the stadium and he seemed to be happy with the idea. Managed to get to the stadium in time.

The game was terrible for about 75 minutes. Then Thierry Henry, on his comeback game for Arsenal, scored a sublime winner causing the crowd to go wild. What a game!

Day 8: The Day I Tried To Make Poached Eggs

Had another long lie in this morning. Woke up starving at about 11am with a massive craving for poached eggs. The problem is, I've never made poached eggs before. I've actually only ever eaten them once in my entire life.

Came downstairs to find Tamara revising for her exams in the TV room. There she sat, silently reading a book on Philosophy whilst drinking a cup of tea. I left her in peace and made my way into the kitchen. I found what I can only describe as a raving lunatic. Jake was pacing around the room, talking loudly to himself and surrounded by hundreds of Post It notes and loose sheets of paper. It was as if I'd walked into a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I had no idea what he was talking about, but heard the phrase 'corporate governance' repeated several times. I figured out he must've also been revising.

I've seen Jake make poached eggs and spinach on toast before so I asked him if he could show me how to make it. He swore at me a few times for disturbing him and said no. I had no idea what I was doing. I looked in the fridge. I saw some eggs. Probably going to need them, I thought. I also saw a pack of spinach. I could tell that Jake was getting seriously annoyed at the noise I was making trying to find the right pan. Eventually, he looked up, gave me a few cryptic clues, and then carried on talking to himself. 

I really tried my hardest but clearly it wasn't good enough. I even managed to burn my finger by playing with the little hole in the saucepan lid that lets out all the excess steam. A few minutes later I sat down to my brunch. The toast was burnt, the spinach had been so overcooked that it had almost disappeared, and biting into the egg was like chewing on a dome of white rubber. 

A couple of hours later the doorbell rang. It was the neighbour to tell me that a white car was blocking his driveway. 'Oh', I said, knowing that no one in our family owns a white car. 'Do you need me to move my car?' I asked. 'No. I know it's not one of your cars', he replied. 'I'm just saying that there's a white car blocking my driveway'. And then he walked off. Completely normal behaviour.

Went to the cinema with Tamara tonight. I wanted to see The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I've read the book and we've both seen the Swedish version of the film so I really wanted to see the Hollywood remake. Tamara wasn't interested though. 'Why would you want to see exactly the same film just with different actors?', she asked. Good point. So I managed to trick her into seeing The Iron Lady by telling her that it was the sequel to Iron Man.

The last time we went to the cinema was a bit embarrassing. We walked into the busy cinema holding our ice cream and pick 'n' mix and tried to find two empty seats. For some reason, everyone was laughing at us. We sat down and started watching what we thought was a trailer. After a few minutes, Tamara whispered to me 'I think we're in the wrong screen'. She was right. Not only had we walked into the wrong screen, we had walked in during the final scene of the film. This led to us being virtually laughed out of the cinema.

Day 7: The Day I Was Out of My Comfort Zone

Had a nice lie in this morning. I was due to pick up Adam Kaye from Stanmore station at 1pm to play golf, which left me enough time to find a way of getting rid of the 10ft pole in my room. I decided that the best place to take it was the local tip.

Had quite a lot of trouble trying to load it into the car, and figured out that the only way of doing it was to open the roof. It didn't help that it was about six degrees outside. So there I was, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other holding the base of the pole, which extended about 5ft from the top of the car. It was absolutely freezing driving down the A41 and within seconds I could hardly feel my face. What was really annoying though was that at 50mph, the wind turned the plastic pole into a giant didgeridoo, making the strangest noises all the way to the tip.

The tip is quite hard to find and isn't very well signposted. For future reference, it's about half way down Allum Lane. If you reach the sign advertising 'Free Manure', you've gone too far. The queue at the tip was ridiculous. There were about 10 cars in front of me, all trying to get rid of their Christmas trees. Eventually found myself in pole position. There were gigantic bins everywhere with signs telling you which one to put your waste in. Bins for metal, bins for cardboard, bins for washing machines, even bins for hardcore and rubble...but no bins for 10ft plastic poles. I looked around. Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing apart from me. I was completely out of my comfort zone. There didn't seem to be anyone working there who could help me. I just stood there in the middle of the tip, holding my pole upright like some sort of weird Moses of the wasteland. 

Eventually, this creature emerged from in between the bins. An old, balding, Gollum-like hunchback in a fluorescent jacket. It just looked at me blankly, pointed at the pole and uttered, 'Rigid plastics'. I turned round and managed to find the correct bin. So the pole has now found its final resting place amongst video cassettes of Beavis and Butthead and tapes of Now That's What I Call Music Volume 7.

I still had about half an hour before I was due to pick up Adam so thought it would be a good opportunity to solve another problem that's been plaguing me for the last couple of weeks...the oil in my car. I think I must've been dangerously low as the oil light has been coming on every time I turn a corner. 

Got to Elstree Hill petrol station and found myself staring at shelves and shelves of different motor oils. After Googling on my mobile for about five minutes, I finally found out which oil I needed...5W-30. The problem was that I had no idea what to do with it. I was out of my comfort zone again. I asked the cashier for some help and he told me that I had to make sure I had the right level with the dipstick.

The sequence of events then went something like this:

- Trying to work out how to open the bonnet: 5 minutes

- Locating the oil cap: 2 minutes

- Googling what a dipstick is: 3 minutes

- Locating and removing the dipstick: 3 minutes

- Trying to work out where to put the dipstick back: 4 minutes

I had no idea how much oil I was supposed to put in. I started with about a shot glass amount, put the dipstick in and removed it. Nothing on the stick at all. I put a bit more in. Again, nothing on the dipstick. I ended up pouring the entire bottle in, which was immediately followed by a mild panic attack that I'd done something wrong. So I got back in the car and drove straight to Elstree Road Garage which was a couple of minutes away. I asked the guy working there if he could kindly check to see if I've put too much oil in the tank. He told me that I've put nowhere near enough in and need at least another bottle.

Drove back to Elstree Hill petrol station and bought another bottle of oil. This time, I was more confident...too confident. Flipped the bonnet up and located the oil tank within seconds. People must've thought I was a pro. Grabbed some tissues and started unscrewing the cap of the oil tank. Shit! The cap slipped out of my hand and fell into the engine. I looked underneath the car, praying that the cap had fallen all the way through. Of course, it hadn't. I went straight into the shop and told the cashier what had happened. He came out with a torch and both of us spent a good few minutes trying to find the cap, which had wedged itself somewhere amidst all the metal. 

Suddenly, the cashier became all excited and ran off back into the shop. He emerged a few seconds later with a long, thin pole, not too dissimilar to the one I had just thrown away. After bit of wangling, the cap finally dropped down beneath the car. I had been saved. I topped up the tank with the second bottle of oil, got back in the car, and still made it in time to pick up Adam from Stanmore station. Result!

Day 6: The Day I Was Nearly Assassinated

Had to wake up early this morning as my colleague, Shane, and I were due to pitch an idea to the  Creative team at 9am. I don't normally get the train at Bushey this early. The last time I did this I embarrassed myself pretty badly.

It was a really busy morning and people were queuing to get on the train. I managed to get on but found myself squashed against a commuter who was insistent on reading the Financial Times on my head. One of the women who had boarded in front of me made an announcement to the rest of the carriage. 'Excuse me everyone', she called out. 'Can someone please offer me a seat as I'm pregnant?' Immediately somebody got up and offered the lady his seat. I thought I'd try to be funny. I really wanted a seat so I made an announcement. 'Excuse me everyone. I'm also pregnant. Can someone please offer me a seat?'...Silence...Not a chuckle, not even a smirk. I guess you can't really expect more than a tut from London commuters. What made it far more embarrassing, however, is that I looked down to see the CEO of my company staring back at me. I guess he gets the same early train.

Got to Holborn at about 8.30am. On the way to the office there is a really busy road that's quite difficult to cross. I was standing on the edge of the pavement waiting for the red man to turn green. Motorbikes, cars and lorries were hurtling past. Suddenly, I felt a violent two-handed shove in my back and I stumbled into the road. Luckily I managed to get back onto the pavement pretty quickly. I turned round...little old Chinese lady. I'm reasonably convinced it was a deliberate assassination attempt.

The pitch went reasonably well and the rest of the morning was relatively uneventful. However, someone did send me an article from the BBC News website about a racing commentator who accidentally posted a message intended for his wife on the racecourse Twitter page. It said something like 'Oh and by the way, I want your hot body tonight babe'. Amazing! I do feel a bit of sympathy for him though. There have been several times when I've sent texts to the wrong person. One that springs to mind is when I sent a text that was meant for Tamara to the Rabbi telling him that I love him.

Went to grab some soup from Pret A Manger at lunchtime. As I was walking out, I noticed a man pacing towards me. He was red in the face and looked furious. He shouted 'Who do you think you are? I'm gonna f*cking nut you!' I froze. They've sent another assassin, I thought. My panic resided when I realised that he was on his phone using an earpiece.

Got home at about 6.30pm, got changed and headed straight over to Northwood. My friend, Marc, had invited me over for dinner with his family tonight as my parents are away. I tell a lie...I invited myself over there because Jake has refused to cook me any more food. After dinner, Marc and I spent the rest of the evening working on a new project. It's a bit different and we're fairly sure it hasn't been done before, which both of us are quite excited about.

(I managed to add some buttons to the blog today so that people can leave comments, share it on Facebook, or even become a follower if they have a Gmail account. So if you enjoy reading the blog, let me know what you think, and please feel free to share it with anyone you think would also like it)

Day 5: The Day I Was Electrocuted By My Umbrella

It's quite nice going to bed when it's raining outside. The patter of rain on the windows sometimes helps me get to sleep. What's not so nice, however, is being woken up repeatedly throughout the night by rain and wind pounding so relentlessly against the window, that I'm convinced it's going to smash. I don't think I slept for more than ten minutes after about 5am.

Thought it would be a good idea to take my umbrella (which I found on the train a couple of months ago) to work today. I was standing at the station minding my own business when I noticed a distinct buzzing sound coming from the metal shaft of my umbrella! Half curious, half confused, I moved my ear closer to the shaft. ZAP! My umbrella electrocuted my ear. I mean, it wasn't painful...more of a static shock. But what sort of umbrella electrocutes you when it's raining? I'm beginning to think that someone had left that umbrella on the train deliberately.

My brother, Jake, called me up at work this afternoon and asked if I could buy him a couple of pads of paper on the way home. I told him it wouldn't be a problem. He then called about twenty minutes later to ask if I could bring home a pack of Post It notes. I'm getting slightly concerned that Jake is revisiting his stationery fetish. When he was younger he developed an unnatural obsession with stationery. His main vice? The humble fountain pen. Whilst most kids were collecting Pokemon cards, Pogs and yo-yos, Jake was busy hoarding biros, rollerballs and felt tip pens.

When Jake was approaching his 12th birthday, my parents decided it was about time that they weaned him off of stationery. I remember them taking him to Toys R Us and telling him that he could go off and choose whatever he wanted in the whole store. He came back ten minutes later with an A4 refill pad. For his next birthday my parents took him to the London Graphics Centre.

I also remember a time when my dad picked up the phone to a sales woman who wanted to discuss a large purchase of pens with Jake Arnold. My dad replied, 'Are you aware that Jake Arnold is seven?' Apparently, he had placed an order for a case of office stationery that had been advertised on TV.

My parents went on holiday this morning. Before they left, my mum told me that I need to get rid of the 10ft pole that's lying in my room (not to be confused with the 5ft Pole - our cleaner Monika who often buys us strange chocolates from Eastern Europe).

I think I need to put this whole pole thing in context. About a week before Christmas, my friend Sam Roman and I decided that we would buy each other Christmas presents. The budget was £15. Obviously I wasn't going to buy him anything normal. So I went to B&Q Warehouse in search of the most obscure items I could find. I came out with a kitchen sink that had been reduced from £120 to £11 and a 10ft plastic pole. I also went to Tesco and bought him the head of a salmon, which I gift wrapped in a beautiful jewellery box (Sam later rewrapped the head and gave it to his girlfriend Carla). The problem was that there was no way of me getting the 10ft pole to Sam's house on Christmas Day. So it's currently lying in my bedroom - a burden that I'm finding impossible to get rid of.

Day 4: The Day I Left My Wallet At Home

Not a great start to the day. Had trouble parking on the residential road by Bushey station this morning. One of the neighbours, who has clearly had enough of people parking outside her house, has strategically placed two cones in the road to stop anyone from doing so. Unfortunately, there's nowhere left to park, so I pulled over, got out the car, moved the cones, then parked in the space.

As I was walking to the station, I realised I had left my wallet at home, which meant that I didn't have my travel card. Fortunately, there are no barriers at Bushey so I didn't have a problem getting on the train. The problem is that there are barriers at Euston.

The train was delayed slightly, which meant that by the time I got to Euston, I was running late for work. Didn't have time to queue up at the ticket booth so had to get through the barriers using the tried and tested WIB (willy in bum) technique.

I don't recommend this technique at all as you can get in serious trouble if you don't get it perfectly right. It also only works when it's really busy. Essentially, the WIB technique involves standing extremely close to the commuter in front as they insert their ticket into the barrier. The moment they take their ticket out, you get as close as you possibly can (until your willy is virtually up their bum) and shuffle through quickly before the barrier traps you. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The fact that I'd left my wallet at home also meant that I didn't have my bus ticket to get me from Euston to work. So I had to walk in the pouring rain for 25 minutes. I also didn't have my security card to access the work lift, which meant that I had to walk up and down five flights of stairs all day.

My work day was relatively uneventful. The highlight was probably when Tamara texted me to tell me that her mum had just asked her if it costs money to listen to her iPod abroad.

Had to walk in the pouring rain back to Euston station. I decided during my walk that I'd go for the WIB technique one last time. I eyed up an unsuspecting commuter. As he made his way towards the barrier, I kept close, waiting for him to put his ticket in the machine. The ticket popped out, I lunged forward. However, the gate didn't open! Seek assistance! The poor guy was violently crushed between my penis and the barrier.

I couldn't try it again. Too obvious. So I thought I should go up to the ticket guy and explain the situation. I told him that I'd left my wallet at home and asked kindly if he'd let me through just this one time. Like a bouncer, the ticket guy was on a massive power trip and wouldn't let me through. He told me that there was a British Transport Police office upstairs and that I needed to get a crime reference number. I tried to explain to him that no crime had been committed but he wasn't having any of it.

It took me about ten minutes to find the British Transport Police office, which was closed when I got there. I went back to the ticket guy to explain, but he wasn't interested. He told me that unless I had a crime reference number, I wasn't coming through. After about five minutes of arguing, a police officer appeared and told the ticket guy to let me through. He obliged.

Got on the train and found my wallet in my coat pocket.

Got back to my car to find a handwritten note on my windscreen, which read 'We were expecting a delivery today. You've made it very difficult. Please do not move the cones. Ring at Number 14 if you have an issue with this'. I think I might contact Number 14 tomorrow. Who goes out and buys cones to stop people parking when they're expecting a delivery?

There was a letter for me in the post today from Children with Leukaemia asking me if I wanted to take part in one of their marathons this year. I think this could be a good way of forcing me to do some exercise. The London marathon is in April, which is too soon. So I ticked that I'd be interested in running the Berlin marathon in October. Watch this space!

Day 3: The Day It Rained Upwards

First day back to work since the day before Christmas Eve. The hurricane outside didn't make it any more enjoyable to wake up. Got absolutely soaked on the way to work. Miserable start to the working year.

As a society, I think we need to come to some sort of official agreement about when we should stop wishing people Happy New Year. I think it should be 12.00am on 2nd of January. That gives you 24 hours to say Happy New Year to as many people as you like. We don't go around wishing people Merry Christmas on the 29th of December, even though it's technically still Christmas. In fact, if anyone wishes my a Happy New Year tomorrow, I'm just going to say 'Merry Christmas'.

I don't think I have ever seen rain and wind like this. I sit on the 5th floor at work and noticed it raining upwards this morning.

There was an email in my inbox from Kellogs. A few weeks ago I bought a box of Raisin Wheats, probably my favourite cereal. I went to pour the cereal into my bowl and out popped one gigantic Raisin Wheat. I was pretty excited about this at the time. However, when I bit into it, I realised that it was just a gigantic Wheat...no Raisin. It was drier than Gandhi's feet! I couldn't even swallow it. So I emailed Kellogs and explained the situation, thinking I might be offered a lifetime's supply of the cereal. The response from Kellogs was extremely apologetic but they only offered to send a £3 voucher to reimburse me for the product. The good news is that the cereal only cost me £2.50 so I'm 50p up!

Got a phone call as I was leaving work from my grandma. She wanted to know if Tamara likes her head. Let me explain...

About four or five months ago, I got a call from my grandma. She told me that she really wants to make a sculpture of a head. My grandma often makes little sculptures and figurines at her pottery class, so this was quite normal and no cause for alarm. What was not quite normal and a definite cause for alarm was that she wanted to make a sculpture of Tamara's head. I mentioned this to Tamara and she seemed to be ok with it.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, my grandma phoned Tamara relentlessly asking for photos of her head from all different angles. From the left, from the right, from above, from below, hair in a bun, hair in a ponytail...everything. Bearing in mind that Tamara doesn't like me taking photos of her at the best of times, how do you think she reacted when I told her that my grandma needed a photo from underneath her chin, looking up her nostrils?

Anyway, the photos were sent and all was forgotten about for a couple of months. A few weeks later my grandma phoned me up while I was at work. The conversation went something like this:

Grandma: Hi Matt, how are you?

Me: Fine thanks, how are you?

Grandma: Yeah fine. Listen Matt, I need to know if you're planning on getting engaged to Tamara

Me: Errrr why?

Grandma: Well I was hoping to give the head of Tamara to you as an engagement present

Me: Errrr I have no idea. I haven't planned anything

Grandma: Ok well can you let me know by Friday as I need to know whether I should get Tamara's head encased in bronze

Just a normal conversation. I managed to persuade her not to get the head encased in bronze. She told me that she was going to bake the head in the oven, paint it, then give it to me for Christmas.

I found out the next day that the head had exploded in the oven. However, the pottery teacher had helped her put it back together. Woohoo!

So as I type this blog, I am being stared at blankly by a life-size clay sculpture of my girlfriend's head. It's pretty impressive...it just doesn't look anything like her. So, to be more factually accurate, I am being stared at blankly by a life-size clay sculpture of a random girl's head.

Still, it's a great place to keep my sunglasses!

Day 2: The Day My Laughter Was Brought To A Sudden Stop Twice

Saw Adam today...not Kosky, but Kaye. I realised recently that I have two mates called Adam K. Both support Chelsea, both are obsessed with tennis and I play golf with both of them. Made me realise that if one of them gets hit by a bus, at least I have a replacement. I'm very fortunate. I bet you've never thought about getting replacements for your friends. Maybe that could be your New Year's resolution.

Thought it would be nice to play a round of golf before I go back to work tomorrow. I actually haven't properly played golf with Kaye in about a year as he has a bad foot. He slipped on the ice a couple of years ago and has never really recovered. He's had foot braces, crutches, steroids, acupuncture but it hasn't improved at all. Interestingly, it hasn't affected his golfing ability at all...he's still shit. One thing I have noticed about his golf is that he doesn't take as long over a shot anymore. He's managed to whittle it down to about 3.5 minutes now, only looking at the flag 7 times and only taking two practice swings.

We both played pretty terribly actually but it was enjoyable nonetheless (great word, 'nonetheless'. I like those words that are essentially several words squashed together over time by people who couldn't be bothered to put spaces in between them - nevertheless, insofar, notwithstanding). Do you have a favourite compound word? Maybe you could get one after you've found a replacement friend.

Drove back to mine with Kaye to watch Fulham vs Arsenal. As I was turning round in the road, I accidentally reversed into a lamppost. I parked the car and got out to see if there was any damage. We quickly scanned the back of the car and saw that there was none. I laughed. Fatal error. I then spotted quite a large dent in the corner of the car. Chipped paintwork too. First time I've been genuinely pissed off in 2012.

Sat down to watch the football. Arsenal went 1-0 up in the first half. Unfortunately, they played terribly in the second half. Fulham equalised in the 85th minute. I could see where this was going. In the 92nd minute, Adam got up to go to the toilet. He smashed his shin against the glass coffee table, collapsed on the floor and writhed in agony. I was in hysterics. The hysterics were brought to an immediate stop two seconds later when Fulham scored a winner. Second time I've been genuinely pissed off in 2012.

Day 1: The Day It All Began

Happy New Year and welcome to 2012. I haven't decided whether to call it 'two thousand and twelve' or 'twenty twelve' yet.

Last night was a nice evening. Tamara wanted us to go clubbing whereas I wanted to go out for a meal then head up to the river to watch the fireworks. I couldn't think of anything worse than clubbing on the busiest and most expensive night of the year. Luckily Kosky and Bianca were also up for going out for a meal.

Kosky had booked VillaBianca in Hampstead. The problem was that on New Year's Eve, Villa Bianca were charging £100 a head. However, Kosky told me that if we got there at 6.30pm, we could order from the a la carte menu. We got to the restaurant at 6.30pm...virtually empty apart from a table of pensioners and a family with their children.

Decided to take the tube from Hampstead to Embankment to find somewhere for dessert and drinks before the fireworks (it was 8.30pm and we had a few hours to kill). The tube was rammed and I found my face pressed against the sweaty armpit of a drunk, overweight Eastern European woman. By the time we got to Goodge Street Station, Tamara, who is mildly claustrophobic, had turned green. I could tell that she was seconds away from either throwing up or fainting. I was praying for the latter. I mean, I wasn't praying that she'd faint, I was just terrified that she'd throw up on me. We thought it would be a good idea to get off the train and walk the rest of the way. That killed a few minutes.

There was nowhere open in the whole of central London for dessert. Not one place! Couldn't even find somewhere to have a drink. We tried TGI Friday's but the waiter with a hundred thousand badges wouldn't let us in. He told us that people had been on the waiting list for hours. Who waits for a table at TGI Friday's for hours? Come to think of it, who would want to wait for a table at TGI Friday's for more than a minute?

At about 10.30pm it started raining. I suggested that we try going into a hotel. We passed this shit hole on the Strand. I think it's called The Savoy. Kosky managed to blag our way in by giving a fake name and room number. They told us that we couldn't go into the bar, but that we could go into their private fireworks viewing room. Unbelievable! What wasn't unbelievable was that for an hour and a half, I was pestered by this slightly backward, single toothed fat man who looked like a cross between Trevor McDonald and the Penguin. He told me he was famous and asked if I knew who he was. When I said I didn't recognise him, he told me he was once on Question Time. 'Were you on the panel?' I asked. 'No', he replied. 'I wath in the audienth and I athked a quethtion'. I quickly ran to the bar, asked for a pen and paper and got his autograph.

I have a few resolutions this year. Lose weight, get more money, play less Playstation and stop farting in front of Tamara. In fact, we agreed that for every fart that Tamara hears or smells, I have to put £1 in a jar. At the end of the year, Tamara will get whatever's in the jar. I think there's a strong chance I won't be able to keep this resolution. She might not have to worry about getting a job after all.

Oh and my other resolution is to start writing a blog. I don't really know what it will be about. I don't know who it's for, or if anybody will ever bother reading it. I don't actually know why I'm doing it. I'll try to keep it up though. Something must happen this year that's worth writing about.

Got back to Tamara's at about 2.30am and got straight into bed. Got out of bed two minutes later to put £1 in the jar.