The tea in the cup, is scalding, and of English origin. Black. Sans lait. And as the days minutes are recalled, I realise nothing of true significance has happened. And that's the way most good days are constructed. Liberated from routine. Most of the day filled with chores, the kind that were used to pass the summer time.

And the brown liquid is slightly spicy, sweet, dry. And in the wardrobe a collection of shirts that have not been worn for a period of time, hang, as if new; and some indeed are still attached to labels. In the back pocket of a folded pair of jeans, A Moveable Feast. The pages of which I flick through. Until four hour fall way, and retirement is imminent.

And on a hard drive I find the following image, from last September:

Tonight, two of the three courses take over an hour to reach our table. Despite a mere fourteen full tables in this thirty six tabled restaurant. And after drinking half of the bottles on the white list, it's decided, as usual that gratitude charge is defiantly null and void. And the conversation is a slur of regurgitated wine talk, largely based on bottle blurbs. As everyone is too far gone to actually think, let alone taste for them selves.

Wednesday, I am spotted having breakfast in another expensive establishment. Rather rudely I am approached, and spoken at for an awkward thirty seconds, until it's obvious that the conversation is dead. Shortly after the American waitress brings the bill. Closing my eyes, I pick a card at random and drop it into her basket.

And the rest of the week is unfortunately a blur of drawing, coffee, drawing, and expensive lunches alone. Coupled with perhaps the odd urge to make more excursions to the continent.

Tonight, having underpaid the bill, and cut the restaurant, the walk home is as equally as disappointing. The wind grazes at my face, and the spatter of the rain dampens my brown, moccasins, and the light at the crossing roses my face, and headlights race in the sky, and the dormant Christmas decorations hang, apathetically, across the street, and a man talks German into a mobile phone, and the Vodka makes my head spin, and the coffee makes me shake. And I'm left thinking. In the story of my life, on what page do I receive terrible service in a restaurant, get chatted up by a waiter in a Vodka bar, and still walk home alone? Because I really wish the editor had torn it out.

And this club I have not paid entry for. Much like the club before, and the bar before that. And whilst being solicited by a girl, sporting only a Naval captains cap, I receive a phone call. Push my way through the crowed, stained club. Reach the antechamber. Notice the carpet is the same of many chain clubs. And consider whether this is a sister establishment. Sip a complimentary drink, courtesy of my charm. And move, group in tow, to the second private floor.

Convinced that my social life may not be entirely dead, I wonder whether it perhaps should be. Many of the clientele middle age, balding office jockeys. Flustered. On this level I am propositioned by five girls. Consecutively. Dubbed Abercrombie & Fitch boy. Presented to a blonde, semi attractive girl, who in profile is hideous. Laugh as someone asks of her aspirations in life. Asked what aspirations mean, entertained. Introduce a friend. And slip away.

At 1339 I wake up, surprised I'm not dead, and more tired than I went to sleep. And I'm thinking that today I am supposed to be in London, but I'm not. And this is really quite saddening. At 0507, previously, a red fox stares through me in the street outside my apartment. Frozen with fear. And I think to myself, I've never seen so many. And as I walk past a white BMW 3 series, it disappears. And I think why here? Why not there? And somewhere between 2043 and 0331 I spend my night on the wrong side of a cocktail bar, not because I need to work, but because I want too. But really, it's pretty shit.

On Wednesday I am sick four times, and apparently the mystic that shrouds my character is dismantled by drunken conversation. Which I cannot recall. Nor piece together via text message, as none are sent or received. Leaving the bar to momentarily vomit, and then return to drink my way through.

And at 1502 I receive a phone call, regarding a voice mail I never received, and I am left wondering where my life has gone. Where my alfresco luncheons have gone. Why my social life peaked at sixteen. And I'm pretty burnt out.

On Saturday I wake from three days grace, with a possible case of Swines. Wander into the kitchen, take three brightly coloured tablets from a mother of pearl pill box that I find in my apartment, scrape and consume some burn cheese from the sandwich toaster, and slowly carry on with life.

During the week I am subjected to a tour of Bristol's gay 'Village', by a team of 'scene famous' butch lesbians. Where I choose a stance, near the bar, that suggests I am an unreasonable force, and ignore at those who I have deemed socially unacceptable. Read, everyone. I refuse to purchase a single drink. Yet, due to my boyish good looks, and out of reach attitude, end up consuming the following :

• Two double Gin and Tonics, three singles.
• Six red, cherry shots
• One Mexican beer
• Two pints of cider (mine-swept from the bar)
• and two double vodkas with soda.

I also receive free entry to two clubs, a VIP access coupon with a balding man's telephone number, a wink from a bearded transvestite, and a scalding hangover.