I've been having trouble stringing sentences together today. Still don't feel particularly well, to tell you the truth. At approximately 8pm this evening I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of the singer of Nirvana. After 5 minutes I got the Kurt bit, but then went around Kurt Russell, Kurt Schwitters, even Curt Smith from Tears For Fears. I ask you. Something is wrong, clearly, when ones brain is tipping favourably towards the slightly less talented members of fey 80s pop bands.

Not that Nirvana ever meant that much to me, particularly. Although I do remember dancing like a fool regularly at Syndrome (crappy indie club on Oxford Street namechecked by Blur on their first album and now home of the truly abysmal METRO venue with some of the most woolly minded / vicious bouncers in London) to “Negative Creep”. Which was Nirvana, I believe, m'lud. Also remember gorgeous Kevin Burrows, singer of The Keatons, in which I played the guitar, reacting to the death of Kurt Cobain (ok, I've remembered his name, NOW.) We were about to go onstage somewhere in East Germany – Frankfurt an der Oder, I think – when a German promoter rushed up to us breathlessly with the news. Kev took a swig of beer, sniffed and mumbled “well, it's a publicity stunt, isn't it” before wandering out of the room.

My subject line, long since created, was hospitals and inventions. I shall deal with these two subjects in that order.

Hospitals. I spent the evening in one, visiting my paid companion / partner, who goes under the knife tomorrow to remove what is known as a “ganglion” from her wrist. Just looks like she's got two wristbones at the moment, and tomorrow it'll just look like she has an enormous bandage instead. Observations about the Royal Free Hospital: 1. their Vegetable Tikka Masala had a hair in it. 2. They've installed personal TV/Radio units at every bed. You pay £2.50 for a TV card, which entitles you to a portion of TV viewing before it no doubt turns off suddenly with a sickening click, 5 minutes before the end of “CON-AIR” or whatever you've tuned into.

That's all, really. No-one likes being cut up with a scalpel, least of all me, so my thoughts are with Jenny while she lies on a ward for no real reason (other than she MIGHT get her operation done first thing in the morning) with only the prospect of a night spent listening to 3 women tossing and turning and a 6.30am alarm call to look forward to. And a morning shower with some red bottled soap. “Don't smell it”, I said. She smelt it. “Ugh. It's like alcohol.” “Campari?”

Inventions. Last night I saw an advert on TV saying “have you invented something? call this number.” Probably some shady organisation who registers the patents and creams off 96% of your earnings. Anyway, it got me thinking about inventors, and I remembered that there were such things as inventors fairs. After searching Google – for ages actually – I came upon an article in the web version of the Croydon newspaper, mentioning the “Croydon Inventors Fair” in passing, with a phone number for the organiser. I rang him up, got a press release. Nice chap. I'm going to go, two weeks time. Thursday. Should be fun. Will get to go on that wonderful tram they have down there, too. If anyone fancies coming along, apply in the usual manner.

Before I go to bed. I have vague relationships in various capacities with various members of the lovely band Spearmint. I had an email from a Spearmint fan this morning (in fact the keyboard player's brother) pointing out that there is currently a horse on Radio 4 soap “The Archers” called Spearmint. Which got me thinking of horses who share their name with famous bands. There are none, of course. None of the following are the names of horses, AND bands: Aldaniti. The Rolling Stones. Shergar. Champion. Meat Beat Manifesto. Mr Ed. The Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Night.