We're with the cleaners on the 5am shift, finishing up the first cup of tea of the day in the half-light of the large Victorian pub. "Better start, then," declares Maureen, unofficial leader of the three-woman team.
At King's Cross, starving and honour-bound never to buy anything from Burger King ever again (see my column from a few weeks ago), I go to the West Country Pasty Company stall and buy a sausage roll.
The spate of recent news stories about the dangers of social networking has only served to remind me how dizzyingly quickly communications have moved on since I was young - a chilling four-word phrase which, having turned 30,
I ask Razors if he still calls it the Post Office Tower. He looks almost hurt. "Of course I do."
I have always considered health clubs with deep suspicion. It comes, I think, from living in London for most of my life.
The wind whips at the figures on the hillside. The young offenders have screwed-up faces and shaved heads. One or two appear angry, but most are merely cold and probably not very bright.
Here's a statement you don't often come across when British teenage pregnancies are the subject of conversation: "Numbers of teenage mothers are relatively small." Tabloid horror headlines might suggest otherwise, but as Jane
To Balham to see my friend Ella Montclare perform a set of unbelievably good trip-hop at the Bedford.
It's a funny thing to worry about a statistics assignment after 20 years of writing columns for national newspapers.
I'm still in a deep depression over England. I was so pissed off by their display against Egypt, and even more so by the under-21s against Greece.
It is time, I have decided, to become more corrupt. Print journalism may be in a terrible state, but I still know quite a few print journalists who are getting some excellent freebies.
I sometimes wonder whether public transport in this country is secretly run by the Lord's Day Observance Society.
Conspiracy theories are articles of faith for the masses in an age of unbelief.
Time, I am told, to clear out the books from my study. After about two and a half years, it has been, I concede, long enough. Besides, not only is the ex-wife on my case, so is my daughter.
There's "probably no God", apparently. I read it on the back of a bus last year, courtesy of an advertisement paid for by the British Humanist Association.
One of the most realest meals there is in the so-called developed world is a hotel breakfast. I say this for a simple reason: no one - unless they are close to expiring - refuses it.
To A -- 's and E -- 's for dinner. They are great friends of the Woman I Love, so I am mindful of the need to be on my best behaviour.
Why do so many people buy into what you call "the cult of positive thinking"?
Rod, Frank, Gus and Stuart just get through before the doors close on Stuart's briefcase.
Visitors to the Hovel are always amused - or appalled - by its eccentric features.
Being too broke to afford even going to the pub, I am busy wasting some time on Facebook. I suddenly notice that someone suggests I become friends with L-, whom I already know well in real life.