DATING DISASTER
It was an inauspicious beginning to my Israeli dating career. After weeks of trans-continental e-mailing, my meeting with H came to a premature end in a cafe just yards from where Yitzchak Rabin was assassinated.

I shouldn't have been surprised, then, when the other target for my trip proved to be both unattainable and undesirable.

Hint one came just as I was leaving my brother's Stepford-esque town. I called M to tell her I was on my way. She said she was bringing a friend along, and not in a "let's have a threesome" kind of way.

We met at a cafe in a town just outside Tel Aviv. I had a milkshake and hot chocolate; she and her friend nibbled on a salad while downing capuccinos.

Hint two was anectodes about a boyfriend in South America; another guy she'd stood up the previous night; and a third one who's exact place in the pantheon of M's love-life I'd forgotten almost as soon as I'd been told.

Her friend was somewhat more perceptive. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned her fellow diners like The Terminator. "What on earth is she wearing...Who does he think he is...Hmmm. Nice."

Likewise, I only had to look at her for her to know what I was thinking about M, and for me to know that she knew what I knew and M didn't have a clue. Third time's the charm?

ONLY IN PERU
When I lived in Peru, I came face to face with a country that is not only home to the Incas, but to the bizarre, the outrageous and the downright unbelievable.

In what other country would one of the most important trials in the country's history consist of verbal-jousting between a balding, megalomaniac mute and his ex, a zebra-print-top wearing former air-hostess with Farrah-Fawcett hair and the fury of a woman scorned?

Where else would the heart-attack-prone vice-president of a nation be challenged to a swords-at-dawn duel by a rival congressman who felt his manhood had been impugned?

And tell me what other country in the world has had not one, but two (successive) presidents who have been forced to admit to being the proud parent of a bastard love-child?

To be honest, when news reached me that the silver-tongued hulk that is President Alan Garcia had owned up to part-owning a child with a woman other than his wife, I wasn't surprised. Just mildly amused. After all, our Alan probably took no little pleasure in joining the chorus of opprobrium directed at his predecessor for the exact same faux pas (Alan argues that his case is incomparable because he recognised the child from day one, compared with Alejandro Toledo's decade-long denial).

Even so, I can't help but feel sorry for Alan Jr. Being outed as a bastard must be a bitch at the best of times. But when papi is president at the same time (and the man that drove Peru to economic ruin in the 1980s) then it must be borderline intolerable. To add to the woes of the poor boy borne by Alan, as well as bearing his father's name, in Peru you also carry the mother's, in this case Cheesman. CHEESMAN!! Poor, poor child.

PERFECT DAY?
Eight am. Time to get up. Phone interview at 11. Must prepare. Why do I want the job? Why do I want to leave my current post? Think, THINK!

For three hours I stared at the computer screen, writing and rewriting my answers to the inevitable, yet still hypothetical, questions I expected to be asked.

In the bathroom, my builder was cutting tiles in half with a diamond-cut blade borrowed from an Irish hardware store up the road. I told him to pause. Five to 11, time to call...

Two minutes later it was all over. I GOT THE JOB! I felt like crying. It was the first bit of positive job news I'd received in over a year. The demoralisation, humiliation and depression of my current position would soon be over...

Within a few hours, my builder had finished the two-week job he'd begun a year earlier (all it took was a threat not to pay up). My flat was now finished with a glossy-white finish.

That evening my parents joined me for a celebratory dinner. I ordered a chilli chicken Balti. Or is it a Balti chilli chicken? Or perhaps a chicken chilli Balti, even? It was the hottest thing on the menu. I washed it down with several Cobra beers, went home and then waited for S to turn up.

It had gone 1am by the time her booty call materialised. And this time I kept the lights on.

Now I like to think that I've seen a fair few front bottoms in my time. Fluffy ones, well-groomed ones, even shaved ones. But I've never once come across a tufty one - if Hitler had been a cunt (and I'm sure most people agree he that he was history's biggest cunt) he would have looked like S's muff. In fact, now I come to think of it, looking down at me while I was going down on her, I must have looked a dead-ringer for the genocidal anti-Semite. Thank goodness I don't have a side-parting.

FESTIVAL SHAG
Synagogue has always been a pretty good hunting ground for me. I've lusted after the ladies in the women's section; exchanged numbers at the post-service buffet; and even gotten to go out with a fair few. Last night, I took things to a whole new level, and not necessarily a better one.

It was Simchat Torah - the culmination of the autumn festival-fest and noted for the copious consumption of alcohol and food that usually accompanies it.

The party began slowly. Some people came in for a quick peek - and promptly left. I feared that, despite all our efforts, it would be a disaster. But within a couple of hours, the mechitza that separated the men from the women melted away, and things began to swing. The older retired to their town-houses; a five-year old child manned the bar; and carnage began to ensue.

Target number one was a petite blondey from South Africa with a pretty face and an endearing habit of wobbling within inches of your face when she spoke. My only reservation about her is that she's mates with a twat I once shared a room with. But I pushed these doubts aside. And, after a couple of encounters, I asked her for her number. She gave me her card and I moved on to target number two.

S was a lanky literary agent with brown and pink polka dot dress. She spoke at a million miles an hour and seemed quite bonkers. I was instantly drawn to her. Come the end of the evening, I walked her home. Her hand took hold of mine. And as we walked, we kissed.

So far so normal. But then I walked her home. Once my friend had gone, we went to her room, where things proceeded at the same pace at which she spoke. Before I knew it, we were naked in her bed and she was rummaging in her draws for condoms. She found them.

So there I was, on a festival that celebrates the receiving of the Torah, shagging a girl I met in the synagogue. I can't say I was proud.

BED TROUBLE
I show my bed to most people who come to my home. I have no wish for (most of) them to hop in. I'm just proud of my bed. I gush about its Italian leather frame. And I marvel about its hydraulics which allow the slats and the mattress to lift up, revealing acres of storage space below.

But last night, my bed precipitated a nightmare. Hoisting up the mattress to allow me to pick the next day's shirt, I heard a clunking noise. After several failed attempts at shutting the contraption, I noticed a metal plate had escaped from its moorings. It now hung limply from the side of the bed.

I scrambled into action. Drafted in my allan-key. And tried - and repeatedly failed - to fix the offending bed-plate. I gave up. I mulled the sofa as that evening's companion. But sleeping in a v-shape is not my favourite. So I dragged my mattress into my living room and slept on the floor.

My bed still lies in tatters next door. I don't even have the consolation of a night's heavy humping for my woes (though I did have a fumble or three with a frizzy-haired musician seven years my senior, but more on that another time).

INCOMPLETE
It's been three weeks since my blinding job interview and still I have no idea when I'll get to meet the big boss.

It's been over a month since I pitched my genius of an Internet idea to the chief executive of a listed media firm, and still he hasn't got back to me. My other business ideas remain frozen in the back of my mind, waiting to be implemented, waiting for me to get off my arse.

But nothing happens. Nothing changes. Boredom grows. And frustration seethes out of my every pore. Today's achievements include: a quote on carpets for my stairwell; a walk to the newsagents to buy the MediaGuardian, only for me to return home empty-handed after I realised it was Tuesday rather than Monday; and two-and-a-half mind-numbing hours watching The Aviator. Now I have to ready myself for another night-shift. Arggh...