Terry the screenwriter-turned-TV-extra ("It's for the fun, not the money, darling") waved me over, wearing his overly enthusiastic smile. The one that says: "Please save us from this bore." I had little choice but to sidle up: for once, it was so deadly dull in my favourite London bar that I was willing to be drawn even into a conversation about "life management". Along with "where to find the best yoga/Pilates class" or "the best diet for your kidneys", this has to be one of the all-time dull topics of discussion.

It was all the skinny stranger's fault. He had been badgering the journalist next to Terry into revealing intimate details of his relationship with his father.

"Have you only just realised how diseased your relationship was?" The snakelike man had just (surprise, surprise) spent his weekend and several hundred quid "reviewing his emotional life" on some American-based therapy course. He raised his voice: "Say you'll tell your father you love him tomorrow. Say it!"

The journalist sheepishly looked around for help. Perhaps other drinkers would save him by saying "shhh" or tutting. But there were no other drinkers in a three-table radius. Where is everyone? At home, watching the war?

Terry and I were leaning forward in our seats, trying not to laugh and muttering, "Yes, say it. You must, you must . . ."

"I haven't spoken to him for a year. He may find it a bit strange if I just call and say, 'Hi, father. Look, I really love you. I'm 38 and I never knew until now.'" The journalist did not sound convinced.

"Exactly," said the stranger. "You're ageing and your dad'll be dead soon. That's why you must do it. Now."

The journalist agreed to call his dad the next day to profess his undying love. Finally, the conversational leech sighed as if exhausted, and stood up shakily.

"I must leave you now. I've a friend in crisis. She wants to know how to get her boyfriend to stop sleeping around." He rolled his eyes wearily. Being an emotional superman, flying to the aid of those about to be crushed by the debris of depression or drowned beneath waves of anxiety, must be sooo trying. After he left, the journalist with the "father issues" looked confused.

"I felt really happy before tonight. I love my wife, my kids, my little life. I felt content. That guy has just spent an hour telling me I'm living a sham and am in deep denial about everything."

He wasn't as shaken as I was after an encounter I had had an hour earlier. On the way to meet Terry, I had passed a huge, wild-looking woman on the platform at Euston.

"What's that face for?" she hissed as I went past trying (subtly) to hold my breath to avoid the warm, unmistakable smell coming from her leggings. I'd failed. I pretended to search for the Tube map and hurried along the platform. She sped up, too. Glancing behind, I watched in absolute horror as she stuck a huge, filthy finger all the way up her nose, past the second knuckle. With a look of pure malice, she dug around and then with a happy "hah!" pulled out a knot of green, still attached to her nostril by thick mucus. She thrust it towards me. "Right!" she yelled. Holding the bogey-finger out like a lethal weapon, she staggered towards me.

"Aaagh!" I started trotting down the nearly empty platform. Bogey-woman chased me, waving her snotty finger. "Oh, God," I started laughing, which slowed me down. A few tourists looked as I staggered past. The image of the pair of us - a smartly dressed woman laughing madly, pursued by a fat harridan waving a bogey - made breathing difficult. By the time I reached the escalator and paused to glance back, she was gone.

In the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man may be king, but in the empty city, it's the nutters and bores who reign supreme.