I’m not generally one to subscribe to fashion trends, but sometimes clothing stores offer you little option. So I – like virtually every other wearer of jeans in London – am sitting here with a semicircle of damp on the back of my trousers, the bottoms of both trouser-legs having been dragged along in puddles for the past 24 hours. It looks rubbish, and feels unpleasant. I’ve taken to putting my hands in my pockets and hoiking up both trouser-legs about six inches whenever it rains, which leaves my jeans flapping around my shins, which looks excellent, and feels marvellous. But I got sick of doing it yesterday evening along Oxford Street, and wandered into HMV, where I avoided a live appearance by some nondescript band of youngsters called Morning Runner, by going upstairs and buying a DVD of “Broadway Danny Rose” for £5.99. I later fell asleep at home in front of said film at about 10.30pm. Rock, and indeed roll.

I’m sitting here clicking “Previous” and “Next” buttons on a part of the DSA website, waiting for some unprepared driver to cancel their driving test so I, an unprepared driver, can leap in and take their slot. I did this for most of yesterday, too. It’s really, really boring. Almost as boring as this journal entry, in fact. Anyway, here’s yesterday’s Cyberman column, and there’s a glowing review on page 50 of today’s Independent of Monday’s Double G gig, which I can’t post a link to as it hasn’t appeared on their site yet.

I picked up a handwritten note stuck to the escalator at Pimlico tube yesterday afternoon, labelled enticingly with the words “TAKE ME”. It was written by someone called Katie Surridge, a fellow Tooting inhabitant, who asks: “Send me something from your life, and I’ll send you something from mine,” along with her address. I’m happy to enter into this deal, although slightly fearful of what I might get back in return. I could send Katie a Free French CD, say, and the following day find her acne-ridden teenage brother on my doorstep carrying a suitcase. Maybe I should I send her something of value, in the hope that she’ll match my gift, pound for pound. I could send her some Green Irish Tweed, perhaps, my scent of choice, a scent which transports us to the moor’s high, green grasses, a hunting dog at our heels, all our senses awakened, favoured by the likes of Cary Grant, Robert Redford and Richard Gere, spicy, sporty, original and unforgettable…

Nah, I’ll send her a Free French CD.