Calling London

There's nothing like a part-time job to teach you the value of money. And after spending four weekends ringing Londoners to ask them what they think of Ken Livingstone, I've been able to say no to my breakfast smoothie at the gym. It's yummy, but it costs £3.50 and that's about 40 minutes of autodialling and being told where to stick my phone.

I've spoken to some lovely sane people (and been complimented on my accent which is always nice), but I've also had some real crackpots. One guy told me that he didn't have time to answer my questions, but then spent 10 minutes telling me how much he disliked Alex Salmond. An elderly lady was so keen to give me accurate information that she started going through her filing system to tell me exactly which funds she's currently invested in. One woman answered her phone whilst apparently having sex - "bit busy at the moment love, bit busy. Call me later love, bit later". And at least 10 people complained that I'd called them during their Sunday dinner - which begs the question: Why did they answer the phone?

The people who work there are a real mixed bunch too - old, young, space cadets, skint actors, underpaid creatives and socially-inept academics. On Saturday I was sitting next to Klyne McDougal. Klyne is 17 and tackles each call like a Nazi giving orders in English. She shouts the script in monotone verbatim. "GOOD. AFTERNOON. MY. NAME. IS. KLYNE. I'M. CALLING. TO. ASK. YOU. SOME. QUESTIONS. ABOUT. YOUR. ATTITUDES. TOWARDS. KEN. LIVINGSTONE." At first I was bemused as to why she had more people agreeing to speak to her than I did, but then I realised it was because she's terrifying. If I answered the phone to that, I'd be convinced that the owner of the voice also had me in the sights of their sniper rifle!

On Friday I drove over to Fife to interview my Grandad about his life. I decided a while back that I wanted to know more about my family history and document my grandparents' thoughts and experiences. Besides being interesting, I figure it will be useful in writing my autobiography and making future appearances on Parky.

Mog cooked me dinner on Saturday night before we headed out to the cinema to see Notes on a Scandal. Sinead had gone to see it the previous evening and texted me the following review: "Notes on a Scandal is excellent. Only comment is, Judi Dench has massive nostrils and the bath scene will give me nightmares. That arm - yuk!" As always, Sinead's no nonsense review was spot on.

My long overdue cinema-fest continued on Sunday evening with a group outing to see Babel. It, unfortunately, was not excellent. I could see what it was trying to do, but it fell far short of the mark. There were moments of genius, but ultimately I felt that Crash did it much, much better.

You may remember me ...

... I used to write a blog.

This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.

I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.

A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.

My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.

I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.

The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.

Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.

Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.