I think there has been a certain amount of neglect of this journal recently. Although having said that, most people would consider the mass of nonsense I've slung up here in the past week to be way, way more than enough.

But nevertheless, I'm going to redress the situation, whether it needs redressing or not.

I'm going to mull on issues of personal space on public transport. If one is going to moan about this kind of thing I'm aware one should either walk, or hire a limo, but yesterday two people irritated me profoundly on the tube, and I thought I should expose them to the world, and let the citizens of that world judge their actions, and pronounce sentence. But bear in mind that tracking them down to hand down that sentence might be tough. And enforcing the sentence might be even tougher. But we'll press on regardless.

District Line, around Southfields, Saturday, early afternoon. The carriage is more or less empty. This large woman got on and sat down right next to me, wedging herself in hard between her armrest and my body. It was absurd. I'm not the slimmest of men myself, so the spectacle of two imminent uptakers of the Atkins diet being rammed together in this tiny space must have looked rather odd. People would either suppose that we were trying to break some bizarre endurance record, or that we loved each other very much (even though the look of horror and misery on my face, and the look of boredom and nonchalance on hers, would have surely guided people gently away from the latter supposition.) Anyway, I hopped up immediately, sighing, and sat opposite her, and I took this snap. Note that her bag says “Fitness First”. She clearly did not place fitness first, however, so I generously offered her my own, more appropriate bag, which says “Sandwiches First”. She was awfully pleased.

This sourfaced harridan got on at Kentish Town on the Northern Line at about 4.50. All the seats were occupied and I was standing next to the door, with my back to that pane of toughened glass that is usually, by that time in the afternoon, smeared with all manner of natural oils that have eminated from a range of London heads. But neverthless, it's a prized spot. The undisputed heavywieght title holder of standing areas on a tube carriage. And I'd got it. She got on, and kind of tried to edge her way into my spot. Ridiculous. Like trying to edge your way into the pilot's seat of a Boeing 767, while the pilot is flying the plane. I wasn't going to let her. But she carried on moving in, millimetre by millimetre, while I looked at her incredulously, and she carried on looking straight ahead whilst chewing some foul gum. In the end I snapped, and with a vicious movement I stepped 2 feet to my left, and hurled a volley of no abuse whatsoever at her. So now she was standing in my place, looking our of the door at the fascinating spectacle of the walls of a tunnel somewhere beneath Junction Road N19. This photo will soon be used in a campaign by London Transport with the slogan “Do not give space to this woman, it only encourages her.” Or perhaps “Mind The Hag”.

Funny notion of the morning: Teacher holding a lesson about similes, with group of 7/8 year olds. “As tall as…” “A tree, sir?” “Very good. As brave as.. “A lion?” “Excellent. As blind as…” “The poxied whore of the Prince Regent, sir?”

Deadlines fill me with stress. I have one. Next Friday. That's 5 days. I'm dependent on others for it to happen. There's not a lot I can do. Except worry about it, causing spasms of panic to rampage through my body and decrease my already fast-diminishing lifespan.

I made an ill advised bus journey from Muswell Hill to Walthamstow yesterday, a 144 followed by a 230, changing at Tufnell Park. Took bloody ages. But heard the excellent phrase, delivered by a black girl to a fellow passenger who was paying too much attention to her conversation: 'Too much ears, too much eyes!” I'm planning on using this a lot in future.

It's my birthday next week, I want to have drinks somewhere on Saturday, and invite people along – mainly in order to assess whether I've still got any friends, as I've made no efforts to see most of them recently. I'd like to take over a pub which usually reverbarates to the sound of 2 men gently weeping into their pints. I used to know and frequent a lot of those, but now of course it's swanky cocktail bars and private members clubs.So if anyone has a good idea for a venue, do tell.

My feet are cold now, I must put some socks on. (a black pair, from Next.) But first, a couple of photos that have been hanging around in my phone and have been begging me to set them free:

This is the Zoltan Kodaly School For Girls, mentioned in a post this time last week…

And these were three rather unexpected words to see sweeping across the 3rd floor carpet of the Docklands Museum, while a pre-recorded tape of Tony Robinson informed me about Roman trading practices of old Londinium. I noticed last night that The Roman Empire is now referred to on TV as Tony Robinson's Roman Empire (or something similar.) I wonder if children (or indeed over-impressionable adults) will develop the notion that our lovable ex-Baldrick was somehow reponsible for the ransacking of Gaul, the building of straight roads, etc etc.

Enough.