I have malfunctioning lights in my bathroom.

I'm not really sure what sequence of events led me to have my cleansing and exfoliating routine illuminated by a three-pronged, bendy light fitting from IKEA – I choose to blame my ex-wife, which is convenient, as she's unlikely to answer back – but the fact remains that at any particular moment, one or two of the bulbs will refuse to light up when you command them to. I haven't yet had the horror of having a heavy session of tooth flossing plunged into total darkness, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. So on Saturday, I took the tram to IKEA to get a new light fitting.

Now, when you end a paragraph with a statement like that, and rather grandly manoeuvre your way into a new paragraph, that usually means that a lengthy anecdote is about to follow. But nothing really happened at IKEA. I bought a couple of light fittings and some other stuff that, if it had been bought in a normal department store, would probably be called “giftware”. About 10 minutes ago I decided to put up the light fittings; I turned off the electricity supply, removed the fuses, hopped up on a ladder armed with a screwdriver, but when scant millimetres from unscrewing the live wire (that's the blue one, I know SOMETHING about electrics, you know) (no, hang on, it's the brown one, isn't it) I broke out into a sweat, hopped down again and went to turn the electricity supply back on, before phoning two electricians, neither of whom answered their phones. Today I feel that I'm not achieving all the things I would like to achieve.

On Saturday evening, Jenny and I were invited around to dinner at the house of a couple who have just moved into a big flat in Streatham. To lend the occasion a suitably sophisticated veneer, we went into a posh wine shop in Wimbledon and asked for recommendations. We walked out with 2 bottles of wine that cost well over a tenner each, got home, got ready and made our way to their flat – only to discover that it wasn't a cosy foursome: in fact, there were 10 people in attendance. I suddenly became extremely protective about my expensive bottle of wine, and felt unwilling to share it with a bunch of people I didn't know very well; divvying it up equally would have left me with 75 millitres of wine, which, as many of you know, rarely makes a party go with a swing. Unless it's a toddler's birthday party. I loitered in the kitchen, alone, crashing through the bottle at an alarming rate. I was caught by a girl called Ruth, who politely asked for some; I had the urge to scream “NO NO NO NO” before running into the utility room (big flat, as I say) to finish it off. By 10pm I was sprawled on the stairs sending incoherent text messages, and just after 11pm I announced: “I'm afraid I'm rather drunk and I must go home immediately.” We were given a lift by Fiona who had drunk nothing all evening – so, in fact, I would have got 83.33 millitres of wine in a divvy-up. But that's still not enough, is it. Back at my flat I crawled into the kitchen, where was assessing the state of the fridge. “I'm really drunk, but I don't want to be annoying,” I told him. “What should I do?” “Go to bed,” he replied. I did.

Sunday saw a gentle walk through the City Of London, where we stumbled upon the preparations for the Empire Awards 2005 at the Guildhall. It was 4pm and no-one famous was in attendance, unless you count me, which you don't. Then we wandered into the Museum Of London, where I was delighted to discover that Frith Street in Soho used to be called Thrift Street. I love the way language morphs because of lazy pronounciation. The whole Featherstonehaugh / Fanshawe, Woolfhardisworthy / Woolsey thing. In two hundred years time people will call London simply “Mmn”.

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I think that it's entirely appropriate, by the way, that these are called Ugh Boots.